Beautiful Belize

This week I think I actually found a true tropical paradise. An island with excellent scuba diving and kitesurfing, rooms on a white sand beach for less than $20, exquisite seafood, and all-day happy hours with drinks for less than $2. If the Cayes of Belize had devushki, I would never leave.

Belize, a small country in the NE of Central America, is home to the 2nd-largest Barrier Reef in the world, so I had to check this out. I took a boat to Caye Caulker, and immediately fell in love with the easy-going vibe of the place. It’s one of the few places I’ve visited that the locals seem more chilled out than the dazed backpackers who hang out there. Within 2 days my new South Dakotan mate Orion & I knew everyone on the island, and had sampled much of the delights that this wonderful place has to offer.

Caye Caulker’s sandy main street seems to have more crab than pedestrian traffic, and the only vehicles are golf carts. The houses tend to be painted in some shade of pastel (helping me recover from my El Salvadorean pastel allergy), and every second shack or makeshift restaurant offers a new variation on how to cook the local lobster, conch, or other seafood (except the damn crabs or lizards, which are everywhere). Despite the pastels & golf carts, the island has no attitude, and everyone is greeted on the street like an old friend (with permanent happy hours, pretty much everyone IS an old friend by the 3rd day).

Anyhow, back to the diving. Arguably Belize’s most famous dive site is the Blue Hole. The Blue Hole was originally an above-water limestone cavern, which was submerged over time, and then a section of the roof collapsed to create the large, perfectly circular hole in the reef that exists today. The Blue Hole is over 150m deep, but a dive to about 45m takes you into an eerie swimthrough world of giant corkscrew stalactites hanging from the roof as you are circled by schools of curious ~2m grey and hammerhead sharks. One of the world’s truly unique dives.

The next few days were filled with more of the same, punctuated by visits to other cayes and a Full Moon party, until a large piece of glass perforated my flipflop and my foot, spilling blood down the stairs of my favourite watering hole, telling me it was time to move on to Nicaragua. Apparently there is such a thing as too much paradise.

Photos are here.

Worldguide is here.

Honduras & Copan

Flush with excitement and brimming with Mayan enthusiasm from my recent Tikal experiences, I talked my remaining friends in San Salvador, Nic & Sharmila, to accompany me on a one-day mission to visit the sprawling ruin complex of Copan, in Southern Honduras. Not to be unduly unfair to Honduras (especially in comparison with the tourist Mecca of San Salvador), but there really didn’t seem to be much else interesting there to soak up a few more days.


So at 5.30 in the morning, we clambered into a minibuses with our trusty guides and headed to Honduras via Guatemala (no, we’re not sure why either).

Four hours later, we are strolling amongst the ruins of another of the great Mayan civilizations who vanished without a trace in the mid-900’s (although our guide in this instance had an Al Gore "environmental apocalypse" thing going on, which was quite inspired).

Compared to Tikal, Copan doesn’t have the scale, towering temples, the all-encompassing jungle or bird & animal life, but what it does have are many more inscriptions which help bring the whole complex and Mayan story to life. It also has some really huge giant red parrots (Macau’s?), which I thought were really cool.

After an invigorating Honduran (Mexican/Central American) lunch, it was another long drive back home. A long day, but worth it.

Photos are here.

Celina's El Salvador Wedding

Celina’s wedding in her home country of El Salvador was always going to be a glamorous extravaganza. Firstly, it’s simply not possible for Celina to do otherwise, and secondly, the combination of her worldly Salvadorean entourage and Alex’s Connecticut royalty flying into San Salvador for a week of festivities meant that no pastel-coloured stone was left unturned! As you can see from the photos, the weekend was an exercise in moderation and sobriety, so some of my recollections may be a little less accurate than usual.

The celebrations had already been in full swing for a couple of days before I swanned in from Guatemala, adding my “backpacker chic” ensemble and aroma to the pastel-&-cardigan-enrobed masses. I was fortunate to arrive in time to make the evening dinner on the hills of San Salvador, where I immediately began reacquainting myself with Celina’s extended family, my b-school classmates, and of course, several Cuba Libres (the revolutionary’s beverage of choice).

The following morning dawned clear & bright (although FAR too early) as we stumbled onto the bus for an excursion to Lake Cotepaque, a stunning volcanic crater lake, where we spent the day sunning, drinking, waterskiing and swimming, before retreating back to San Salvador and trying to make insightful observations on the gallery’s collection of Miro.

The location played host to a plethora of speeches by people whose prose evoked apparently splendid memories of times gone by at a certain oft-mentioned college, during sailing trips, squash matches, or tennis duels in Bermuda (presumably all while still clad in the latest pastels).

As obfuscating as some of these references were, all were heartfelt, as were Celina’s family’s rejoinders, and a rollicking good time was had by all, except perhaps by those of us who attempted to party on afterwards and were subject to 8 mediocre guitarists straining vainly to find a common tune at a local bar.

The following evening was the wedding itself, and my memories of the earlier part of the evening are crystal clear. The most important part is that Celina & Alex got married, and shortly thereafter we were bussed to the reception where the Salvadoreans demonstrated that they know how to have a good time!! Amid the dining, dancing, and celebrating, my sense is that most sensory perceptions started to go downhill around the time that a giant Ice Sombrero appeared on the dancefloor, filled with Tequila shots & ringed with limes.

Shortly thereafter the photos seem to indicate that nobody present was without castanets, horns, sombreros, pigtails, and/or tequila shots.

I have it on good authority that everyone made it home safely and Celina & Alex made their flight to Australia several hours later.

Nic & I, with another day to kill in San Salvador, tried in vain to do some cultural sightseeing (does Tony Roma’s count?), but ended up drinking Long Islands and watching back-to-back films at the local mall.

Photos are here.

Guatemala: Of Mountains, Monkeys, and Maya

Guatemala packs a hell of a lot into a small country. After travelling around it for a week, I feel like I’ve been here a month! I’ve been caught in a stampede of Catholics, my friend has been robbed, I’ve fought with monkeys, had tarantulas crawl on me, climbed 70m Mayan ruins, been marooned on an island, and watched an election in Spanish.

After a 28hr transit from Moscow (nobody told me Moscow-LA was 13hrs?), I landed bleary-eyed in Guatemala City, and hightailed it to Antigua, a stunning ancient colonial city nestled between three volcanoes, one sufficiently active to regularly be sending large plumes of ash into the sky. The town is a colourful mix of plazas, cobblestone streets, and fountains, with a predominantly local Maya population (over 60% of Guatemalans are Mayan). I happened to arrive the day after “Day of the Dead”, and was witness to a massive procession of devout Catholics carrying a semi-trailer-sized coffin of Jesus & Co. through the streets for 8hrs (& I used to think my ex-girlfriend occasionally dragging me to a church was excessively pious).

I joyfully meet up with my friend Kenna, another world traveller, who I last saw in Kathmandu. Our routes had overlapped during the year, and it was great to see her again. Unfortunately, we had a taste of the omnipresent risk in Guatemala, as she had her bag slashed and wallet stolen as we watched the Catholic procession (bringing up an interesting debate as to the piousness of the perpetrators- which would add to the list the Catholic church has to answer to).

Early the next morning I wound my way through the highlands to the beauty of Lake Atitlan, who’s surrounding villages are perched on the slopes of the huge volcanoes that ring the lake. I spent a pleasant time boating my way between villages, fending off determined Mayan souvenir vendors, and eating felafel (don’t ask) before the lure of Antigua drew me back.

A day later, I was deep in the jungles of Northern Guatemala, hiking into the ruined Mayan city of Tikal. Holy sh$t this place is impressive. For my first massive Mayan complex this place is hard to beat. At least 8 structures tower over 50m above the flat forest floor, breaching the rainforest canopy and allowing extraordinary views across the complex (any of you who have seen Star Wars where the rebel force leaves the base to take on the Death Star have seen the same view).

As you wander from temple to temple, monkeys chase each other through the canopy, coutis, agoutis, anteaters and god knows what else (we saw fresh jaguar tracks) charge through the undergrowth, and toucans & parrots flit through the ruins. The wildlife was almost as enthralling as the (seriously impressive) ruins. I was less enthused when a large tarantula made an appearance, but I eventually let him take a stroll up my arm.

Much of the site is yet to be uncovered, which gives a visitor a real feel for how the last Mayans or early explorers would have seen them. The absence of visitors or security allows you to clamber and explore as far as the wildlife will let you, and the mood and colours of the site change markedly with the time of day.

Arising before sunrise the next morning (you know how enthused about something I have to be to get me out of bed that early), I was sorely tempted to join in the noisy poop fight between two howler monkeys that had been keeping me awake much of the night, but I figured I’d already need the extra shower later, as I had many more kilometres of ruins to explore in the jungle humidity.

That night, I returned to Flores- Guatemala’s answer to Venice, a tiny, heavily populated island joined by a causeway in the middle of a lake. Like Venice, the island’s sole mission seems to be in fleecing tourists, as it’s apparently only occupied by hotels, bars, and Internet cafes, but with permanent happy hours of Cuba Libres for $1, I figured it was pointless to complain, and therefore my duty to help the local economy as best I could.

The next morning, only a seat by the lake with tacos and guacamole, Coke from a glass bottle, my laptop & free wireless could soothe my pounding head (damn that cheap rum), as I solved the world’s problems over Skype, and awaited my flight to El Salvador.

Photos are here.

Worldguide is here.

Russian Bureaucracy Lesson #724: Don't Get Your Car Towed

If you have the careless misfortune to have your car towed in Moscow, the good news is that the maximum fine is only 300RUB (~$12). In central Moscow, this is hardly a deterrent to would-be serial mis-parkers, so the police have become highly creative in their recovery policies, perverting further the already twisted beauracracy.

Last week this scenario occured to Diana, a friend of mine. Having had a delightful late-evening catchup, we left a cafe around 1am to find the street where she had parked devoid of cars. We quickly ruled out the most likely Moscow scenario- theft, as either a particularly efficient gang of car theives had an unusually long list of beaten up 1974 Lada's to steal along with Diana's car, else it was more likely the work of the police.

After calling the mystery number for non-emergency police calls, we were directed to an address on the outskirts of Moscow, in the shadow of a large nuclear power station. Our destination was a temporary construction shed, sandwiched between two derelict factories. Inquiries of the police standing guard resulted in the enlightened response that it had been placed there, because "that's where it was built".

An hour wait later, Diana found she also had a couple of unpaid speeding fines, and so only an additional "fine" of several thousand rubles slipped between her passport pages would "persuade" the officer to allow her to collect her car. Having paid the actual fine (a surprisingly technological process), we were told to head to another derelict lot on the outskirts of Moscow.

Upon arrival, we were faced with a large corrugated iron gate, and a rickety fenced off lot. Some banging and paper exchanges later, we had to proceed to a dacha-like structure, where Diana negotiated the flower and vegetable patch to confer with the sleepy attendant inside.

Some more posturing, much more paperwork, and finally 3 hours later, we were free to find our way back to Moscow.

Road Trip Part 3: Wales & England

Our last couple of days on the road with Albie the Astra (our car) and DJ TT were spent hurtling through Wales (which is a shame really, since it's such a pretty country, with 13 billion sheep), a debaucherous night out in Cardiff (scary), a detour via Stonehenge, and back to London- all hopefully without a speeding ticket! (time will tell).

Upon arrival in Holyhead, Wales, we found Welsh even more unintelligible than Irish, so had to rely on DJ TT to get us safely to Cardiff, at the other end of the country. This is lucky, since although Wales is pretty small, there doesn't seem to be many roads larger than a goat track.

Cardiff, at first glance, seemed to lack the historical charm of Edinburgh or Dublin, although the Lonely Planet assured us it's a "Confident, energetic city welcoming the new Millennium". Whatever.

One thing Cardiff does NOT lack, however, is nightlife. Please remember that in this particular case, I'm defining nightlife as "hordes of people of all shapes and sizes looking to get indiscriminately drunk wherever and however possible", as opposed to a more rigorous definition that I might apply in a city like, say, Moscow.

Similar to the "popcorn theory" of Russia, for anthropological reasons I had been curious to determine how it is that such an aesthetically challenged race of people as the English could overcome this handicap to procreate as much as they have. My careful research has led me to the conclusion that it has something to do with obscene drunkenness, as well as a penchant to dress up as ladybugs or other insects and troll for bait down the high street.

Seriously, Cardiff must be the global capitol for Hens Parties (Bachelorette Parties). We witnessed hordes of deranged women roaming the streets looking for alcohol, men, and good times. Many were dressed with massively lettered "D&G- Drunk & Gorgeous" t-shirts, often stenciled (ironically (we hope), and misleadingly) with their names, such as "Raunchy Rhonda, Dirty Debbie, and Sexy Susan".

A few hours into the evening, we found ourselves cutting loose in an 80's nightclub, with 1GBP drinks and already a sea of carnage on the dancefloor. Several hours later, our photos show a river of people in all states pouring onto the streets and draining the Atlantic Ocean and OPEC to produce vast quantities of Fish & Chips, the national food of the UK.

Social experiment over, we staggered home, and as soon as our blood alcohol would let us, hightailed it out of there to seek higher cultural enlightenment.

Thankfully, on the expressway a few miles later, we found it. Ice Cream and Diet Coke. Cam was happy.

Our next mission was Stonehenge, conveniently located within five metres of the highway (what were they thinking?) Apart from this deficiency, we were very impressed (not least because it had stopped raining), and determined that this 5,000 year-old pile of rocks was really worth the trip.

Several hours later, tired and eager to get out of the car, we arrived back in London at the completion of our 4,000km odyssey around the British & Irish Isles. A wonderful trip, amazing sights, delicious food, and a deeper appreciation into these cultures which have been so instrumental to modern Australian and American history.

Photos are here.

Worldguide is here.

Road Trip Part 2: Emerald Ireland

Rolling off the ferry into Northern Ireland in the (once again) somewhat damp conditions, we were disappointed to leave haggis behind, but found ourselves surrounded by a friendly but bizarre local people speaking some strange language that we later realised was English.

DJ TT, momentarily disoriented by our arrival in a new land, quickly got himself together and was enthralled by the prospect of fewer speed cameras.

Belfast was a gripping experience. With my only previous exposure while growing up through news coverage of the violence, it was fascinating to visit the now (mostly) quiet Republican (Catholic) and Unionist (Protestant) neighbourhoods bearing the scars of decades of conflict.

The separation fences, bullet holes and strident murals recalled another intractable conflict in the Middle East, but it’s colder and wetter here, and the hummus is terrible.

Recent history aside, Belfast had its share of attractions, and KY & I both had the chance to meet some locals and receive some earnest (& frankly terrifying) propositions, however if anyone has contacts with the casting directors of either "Neighbours" or "Home & Away" (horrible Aussie soap operas beloved in the UK), we have some eager prospects for you.

The next day we planned to hit the road and see the countryside. Unfortunately, we couldn’t see sh$t. The weather was so bad, we at times couldn’t see the sea we were driving next to, but did get some quintessential Misty Ireland photos.

As the weather lifted, we began to see why they call this place the Emerald Isle. Literally every square centimetre of the country more than 2cm from the sea is covered in bright green grass. It’s like some deranged Leprechaun got the mega-discounted volume pack of Astroturf from Wal-Mart & couldn’t find anywhere else to use it. Those poor ba$tards must have been really disappointed when they were deported to Australia in the days before they invented surfing & bikinis.

We also found our first experience of what was to become a familiar issue of grade-inflation of tourist attractions. For the record, the rope bridge thing is not that exciting. What we did think was fun was the Giant’s Causeway, a natural phenomenon that really looks like a badly paved road leading into the water (Trust me, it does look more interesting than it sounds).


Heading into the Republic of Ireland (we think, visibility was still difficult), we spent the next few days meandering southwards along the country's stunning West Coast. We had memorable meals in Sligo and Galway, hair-raising driving in Connemara, saw the hauntingly beautiful Doolough Valley, and then a couple of days later found ourselves in beautiful and quaint Dingle.

Dingle's quaint pubs, cute houses, and a studiously preserved traditional Irish atmosphere combined with the incredible natural beauty of the Dingle Peninsula (the "Ring of Dingle") was the highlight of our Ireland trip. For the record, the Ring of Dingle is way more interesting than the Ring of Kerry.

The following night found us in Cork, Ireland's second largest city. While Cork is no doubt a lovely place, we were a bit Irish'ed out at that point, and sought refuge in pizza and DVD's, which was a very satisfying evening in its own right.

The world-famous Blarney Stone is said to give you magical powers of conversation and persuasion (or at least the ability to avoid an issue), and while Kristen & I don't seem to be in great need of this, we figured that it was better safe than sorry! What's generally not well-explained, however, is that to kiss this damn rock, you have to climb to the top of a (really impressive) 15th Century castle, and then bend backwards over the parapets to plant your lips (or in KY's case- her nose) on the well-loved rock.

Once completed & appropriately disinfected, we headed to Dublin, home to a lot of pubs, music, and of course Guinness. To attempt to be properly Irish, Cam tried Guinness on several occasions, but it definitely hasn't grown on me. Next morning, we boarded a ferry and headed back to the UK- next stop Wales!

Photos are here.

Worldguide is here.

Deadly Perfume Baths?

We interrupt our regularly scheduled travel programming to bring the attention of my loyal readers to another "Only in Russia" story.

Apparently one (or more) of some oligarch's wives or girlfriends was taken to hospital after she had purchased several dozen bottles of expensive perfume and taken a perfume bath.

For some unknown (but not difficult to imagine) reason, this is actually really bad for you and could kill you.

Does anyone have any more credible information on this phenomenon? I can just imagine the new cigarette-style labels on Chanel No. 5, "Not to be used for bathing".

Road Trip Part 1: England & Scotland: Smile for the camera!

I'm absolutely certain that Britons are the most-watched people on the planet. Despite the well-reported teeth issue, questionable aesthetics, and camera-unfriendly weather, the passion in this country for reality TV has reached such heights that the police have CCTV cameras on every corner, and speed cameras on every street (no, I'm not kidding). I counted eight speed and red-light cameras within 2 kilometres on my way out of London.

My alternate theory is that the Metropolitan Police are so poorly funded that they've taken to filming ad-hoc reality TV segments and long-distance paparazzi shots to help finance their fight against crime (that may account for the increasingly grainy B&W images with boxes over their eyes in British tabloids).

Until I stepped behind the wheel of my mighty Astra for a two-week road trip around the UK & Ireland, I was unaware of this fetish for vehicular voyeurism. Thankfully, I was armed with my little Tom-Tom (satnav system), which helpfully (but occasionally inaccurately) beeped maniacally at me whenever I approached one of these infernal devices. The ludicrous frequency of cameras meant that my Tom-Tom's tone matched the rapid beat of the Russian Club Music CD's I'd put in the player, so it quickly won the label DJ TomTom.

Undeterred, I headed north from the London suburbs towards my rendezvous with Aussie friend and fellow adventurous traveller Kristen, who I was to meet in Edinburgh three days hence. This meant I had a lot of ground to cover in little time.

My first stop was the ancient and prestigious town of Oxford, home to one of the world's most famous universities. The first of many of the puzzles that were to bemuse me on this trip was listed on the roadsign as I entered the town: "Welcome to Oxford, sister city of Perm, Russia". Now, I've been to Perm, and while I'd be the first to defend it as a pleasant Western Siberian town, but even Wikipedia claims it to be an administrative, industrial and scientific centre, whose main industries include machinery, defense and oil production & refining. What on earth does it have in common with the ancient educational centre of Oxford?

Putting aside this most vexing of life's great mysteries, I continued north to Stratford-upon-Avon, birthplace of the legendary poet William Shakespeare. Refrains of "Midsummer Night's Dream" flitted through my mind as I flew north under not-so-sunny skies, before my thoughts turned to "Richard III" as I sat in yet another interminable traffic jam on the highway. Stratford itself was pleasant enough, and I mused upon the ability for so many fake (or real) Tudor cottages to be bolstered against each other and sell vast amounts of meaningless tourist junk.

Heading north once more, I arrived at my destination for the evening, the bustling city of Manchester. Lonely Planet describes Manchester as a "modern metropolis embracing change", "the UK's answer to Barcelona", with "literally something for every palate", and a "terrific club scene". For the record, this is complete bullsh*t. Arriving in town around 8pm, the "vast range" of restaurants were all closed (Barcelona? Are you kidding? People are still having breakfast in Barcelona at 8pm!).

I was reduced to eating at the Hard Rock Cafe, which thankfully served until after 10pm. As for the "terrific" club scene, I managed to uncover a bunch of shirtless university students doing 1GBP shots at a bar playing 2003 club mixes stolen from a third-rate DJ from Ohio. While in Russia, this may still become a good scene, these (male) students were constantly on the verge of brawling while being egged on by girls who in some cases were twice their size! I limped home, keen to see what the next day held in store.

I arose early, although unfortunately not early enough to beat the "change-embracing" traffic police, who had already seen fit to issue me with a ticket. As I headed for the city limits as fast as the speed cameras would let me, I couldn't get Manchester in my rear vision window fast enough. More exciting destinations awaited- Liverpool!

Liverpool, the home of the Beatles, was also principally uninspiring, and I didn't figure out until I got there that the legendary Abbey Road is actually in London (yes, it has a speed camera on it too).

I made a beeline for York, home to a beautiful cathedral, and then headed Northwest, to the Lakes District and Hadrian's Wall, the massive Roman fortifications which marked the northern frontier of the Roman Empire. This massive 2,000yo undertaking is still impressive, with segments of the wall, various wiers, and several of the protective berms and watchtowers surviving to this day (much to the amusement of local livestock). The area was beautiful, with rolling hills, ancient farmhouses, lakes, and so much of the green landscape that was to follow me north, and especially through Ireland. That evening I crossed the border and crawled into the ancient capital of Scotland- Edinburgh.

Edinburgh is a beautiful and lively Scottish town, with all the great food and nightlife that Manchester was missing. My first evening there I befriended some Polish travellers and we were persuaded by our bartender that my historical aversion to Scotch whiskey may merely be a result of drinking the wrong Scotch! She produced a Scotch tasting map (my consultant readers will be salivating), as well as a Scotch tasting menu. My favourite was a Macallan which apparently had "an attractive honeyed thread that weaves through the oak and grape, some beautiful marmalade off-cuts toy with a ghostly peatiness, with touches of creamy butter and vanilla". Hats off to the dude who came up with that cr*p, but no matter how many marmalade off-cuts there were, I still don't like Scotch (neither did my head the next morning).

Not to be outdone by the Scotch, the next morning I headed yet further north to unravel the mysteries of Loch Ness. 300km later, the most exciting part of the day was that I witnessed rays of sunshine breaking through heavy cloud cover for the first time since arriving in the UK! Oh yes, there was also a large, dark lake reputed to be infested with dinosaurs, but since they didn't see fit to expose themselves to me, I can only say it was a delightful lake with a pretty castle.

I hightailed it back to Edinburgh to meet up with my long-suffering friend and travel companion Kristen, and we threw ourselves into Edinburgh nightlife with gusto!

15 minutes later, we downed a couple of shots and headed back to the hotel...

The next morning, it was time to head (indirectly) to Northern Ireland. We confirmed there is in fact, nothing to see in Glasgow, and then risked life & limb (not to mention those bloody speed cameras) to make it to the ferry to Belfast.

Photos are here.

Worldguide is here.