Not being a morning person, you have to give me a pretty good reason to be getting up at 5.30am and I have three!

1.       Vomit Comet Avoidance -Getting up at 5.30am means we can catch the early ferry off Roatan when the sea is much calmer.

2.       Volcano Boarding -Staying in Leon,  rather than Comayagua, besides being in a quaint colonial city, means we will be able to tackle two additional activities... one is ‘surfing’ down an active volcano and the other is..

3.       Live Lava

Everyone has agreed to a USD30 charge to bypass the usual overnight stop and head for Leon which is not on the normal itinerary. As compensation we will be able to stay in better accommodation than anticipated and because we will be using private transport the journey should be quicker. For me, the main attraction in Leon is that it is the only place in the world where you can 'surf' an active volcano and it is the only place on this trip that we will have the possibility of seeing molten magma or 'live' lava. 

The GAP group have also opted for private transportation, to take them directly to Grenada to give them an extra night in the city. Grenada is a further 2 hours from Leon and we do not fancy 21hours in a bus just for an extra night in the city. Besides they will miss the volcano boarding and the lava!

But ours turns out to be also a long, long drive day and it’s 10.30pm when we wake the guards at the border crossing into Nicaragua and 01.30am when we eventually arrive at our hostel. Definitely not an upgrade but we’re too tired to complain. Anyway, for those of us volcano boarding , we only have 4 more hours before we have to be up again. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea after all.

Early next morning, whilst the rest enjoy a lie-in, eight of us drag ourselves out of bed for the first real adrenalin activity of the trip.. some of us even manage to open our eyes before we get there. Once out of the city, we turn up a lane and get a snapshot of country life in Nicaragua. The side road we take is more of a lane which deteriorates into a rutted, hedged alley only a fraction wider than our 4x4. Locals are not travelling in 4x4s but on horseback, or oxen and occasionally, on a motorbike. We pass villages along the way, where children, in oversized ragged clothes, are playing in the dirt, and the men  are gathered round the village well with horses or oxen towing a rope up to 100m to draw the water for the day’s needs. The women, in traditional clothing, are busy with their chores but the children run up and alongside us as we pass through, laughing and calling out. The men eye us suspiciously, until they recognise our guide, Miguel, to whom some call out a friendly greeting. When we get to the end of the lane and climb out into the chilly morning, what appears in front of us appears to be an oversized coal slag heap, with big, dark boulders scattered all around. 

This is Cerro Negro (Black Hill), Nicaragua’s youngest,  and most active volcano, standing  a mere 728m high, though it looks much bigger. The summit is out of view hidden by the light mist which covers it like a blanket.  It’s hard to see how we will scale this almost vertical slope with no clear path visible, let alone a ski-lift, to take us and our boards to the top. 

Miguel gives us the bad news. We will have to carry our own boards and protective clothing and climb the volcano surface to the top. As we set off the rain starts to fall and before long we’re a pretty soggy party staggering up the barely visible path, around and over boulders and up the slippery slope. As we climb around and up the volcano, the rain and mist start to lift and we get a greater appreciation of the volcano (which is dark and lava gravel coated) and the surrounding countryside which evidences older volcanoes covered in lush, green vegetation. Eventually we reach the lower rim of the volcano crater and can see down into the crater itself. No lava visible here but lots of red and white boulders with white steam, or is it smoke,  billowing out of many points where the crust is particularly thin. It’s like a different planet. Cerro Negro last erupted in 1999 but is closely monitored with experts predicting another large eruption very soon. We’re not daunted and a few of us manage to persuade Miguel to take us down a path into the crater. It’s not recommended, due the instability of the crater surface and the very real risk of death, so the others decide to remain on the relative safety of the rim. Down in the crater, we can feel the heat, and by the steam vents it is unbearable. There are a couple of large boulders so we decide to take some ‘jump’ photos from the boulders. As we land, we can hear a hollow echo beneath us. Time to make a quick exit! We scurry back the crater rim and start the climb to the far side where the rim is much higher. 

Then it’s time to don our fabulous green boiler suits, elbow and knee guards, eye masks and gloves. Looking gorgeous, and ready for action, I peek over the edge. It’s very steep and the jeep waiting for us at the bottom looks so small it’s difficult to make out. Well ...maybe I’ll just walk back down the way we came.  Miguel gives us a quick briefing on how to descend, how to brake and how to go faster. Faster? I don’t think so. I decide that I’ll just go down with my feet out to brake and take it easy. No shame in that. One by one the others set off, sat down on their boards like a sledge, until there’s just Dan and me left. Dan is the only one brave enough to go standing up. David has set off just in front of me and is braking hard, travelling only a few metres before coming to a slow halt. Ok. So at least I know it’s possible to have control. Courage Vicki! I set off, with my feet stretched out clear in front of me, for balance. At least I can brake quickly if I need to. Twenty metres down and I come to a halt, my board buried under the black gravel. This is no good. I’ll never get down at this rate and Dan is already catching me up. I lean back as far as I can to lift the front of the board to clear it and hold it up as I start to slide rapidly down the hill, gathering speed as I go, flying down. Wheeeeeeeee! I open my mouth to scream with exhilaration at the speed . BIG mistake. I get a mouth full of black ash and quickly close it again. As I gain momentum, the ash penetrates everywhere. I can feel it in my shoes, inside my jumpsuit, in my gloves, up my nose, in my ears, on my mouth, between my teeth and even in my eyes inside the goggles... Then, just as I’m really starting to enjoy it, I’m at the bottom, it’s all over and we’re watching Dan surf gracefully down. Looking round it’s like a Minstrels revival, with black faces and white eyes and teeth, except for Dan, who still looks squeaky clean.

We head off back down the lane, past the village where a baseball match has just kicked off. The modern baseball team kit they are wearing seems incongruous with the traditional clothing and antiquated lifestyle we witnessed earlier but baseball is a huge sport here in Nicaragua.

By the time we get back to base, we’ve only got a quick turnaround before we need to leave for the next volcano adventure, a twilight climb of Telica (Black Hole). Fortunately, there’s a great pizzeria two doors down, so we order our pizzas and grab a quick shower whilst we’re waiting.

Then it’s back in the jeeps for the 30km drive to the volcano. Once off the main road we drive up a narrow lane which gradually gets worse as we go. Our driver shifts into 4WD and we are thrown from side to side across the vehicle as he negotiates the deep ruts left by the heavy rains and climbs the hill leading to the base of the volcano.. At times it feels like the jeep will tip over on its side but eventually we reach a clearing in the woods and the jeeps come to a halt. Our hike starts here. Making sure I have water and my head torch, I regret not finding time to purchase a few snacks as it will be a long evening. The hike starts with a gentle climb up the original lane through the lowland woods, until we exit the woods and have stunning views of the surrounding volcanoscape. Many of the other slopes are covered in lush vegetation, but the lower slopes of Telica remind me of the hills I hike at home in Snowdonia, rocky outcrops, low bushes and short grass, but with a few more lava bombs or boulders. To our right it’s hard to tell whether the cloud from the crater is rain or gas but as it comes closer, the sulphur hits the back of our throats. Miguel guides us further round the slope to avoid it and I realise that, in the rush, I have also forgotten my scarf to protect me from inhaling the sulphur. As we climb the slope, the grass disappears and we are clambering up the rocks to the first ridge, where we stop for a brief rest to drink and snack and to assess the viability of accessing the crater with the possible rain cloud on one side the crater gases on the other. With a high blanket of cloud there is no possibility of any sunset either but we can feel the chill in the air as twilight approaches.  The goats nibbling at grass tufts in an old crater nearby ignore us as we ponder the options. But as dusk falls, the rain cloud dissipates and the gas cloud seems to disappear as well. We continue to climb to the rim of the main crater. It’s difficult to explain the feeling as we reach the rim. There’s no ‘Elf & Safety’ here. No steps to the top. No protective hand rail. No gas masks nor hard hats. Just nature and us, balanced precariously on the edge of a 120m vertical drop into molten rock at  1200C. In fact, the rock we are standing on juts out so we are not even on a  solid cliff edge. As the sky darkens the magma glows more brightly and, as it swells up and recedes far below us,  in the stillness of the night,  it sounds like the ocean waves on the beach.  Above us, the thunder crashes and lightning cracks the night sky but instead of the downpour we’re expecting the sky clears to reveal the twinkling stars. We could spend all night here staring into the bubbling magma but supplies of water are completely depleted and we still need a couple of hours to descend.

No moon to guide us as we make our descent over rocks and rubble, stumbling and slipping as they wobble beneath unsteady feet. Even our guide, Miguel, occasionally loses his footing and with no visible path down I stick close behind him, shadowing his footsteps with my own. It seems to take forever before we reach the main track back to the vehicles and as I head the line back through the forest, I see eyes everywhere in my torch light, and fireflies occasionally dancing off before me .The soft dampness of thread glistening with evening dew tickling my face as I break through the spider webs in the path. Once in the jeeps, we have to negotiate the deep ruts of the track descent in pitch dark. It’s even more hazardous and several times we are left wondering if our friends behind have come to grief as the headlights of their jeep behind us disappear for several minutes. Back in town we only have a few minutes to claim our rucksacks and jump on the bus to our next stop.. the oldest city in the New World, Granada

Today we were supposed to have a very early start for the long journey to Roatan Island, but David has worked his magic and joined forces with the GAP Adventure group who are mirroring our journey to hire a bright yellow chicken bus of our very own, at no extra cost, thus permitting us an extra 2 whole hours of sleep in the morning. Sorely needed after last night’s high jinks in Twisted Tanya’s. I’m not a morning person at the best of times.. and this morning is definitely not the best of times. My hammock securely strapped to my backpack I stumble off down the cobbled hill after the others to the meet point. Along with our chicken bus we seem to have acquired Honduras’s very own  Jensen Button who is intent on getting us to our destination in record time. The countryside flashes past us, lush and verdant. We fly through quaint villages, swerving around anyone or thing that blocks our way on the windy, narrow mountain roads, playing chicken with any oncoming traffic that may or may not be coming round the bend in front. It’s a hot day and the aircon is only semi-automatic. The driver controls the airflow with pressure on the accelerator and the user controls the air volume by opening or closing the window closest to them. I decide the only safe solution to any of these conundrums is to sleep.

It’s not long before we arrive in San Pedro, where we are, apparently, seeking out a tyre change. Having located a suitable merchant, we all discharge the bus seeking shade wherever we can in the scorching heat. There are tyres piled everywhere and at first it’s not clear which are new and which are old, but closer inspection gives a clue. Old tyres are generally completely bald, usually with ragged tears in them. Our bus needs 2 tyres (is that all?) changing. The company production line is ready. Four dirty guys to loosen the old wheels. Three dirty guys to jump on a lever to remove it from the wheel. Three dirty guys to fetch the new tyre. One dirty guy to paint the new  tyre with adhesive. Two dirty guys to put it on the wheel. One dirty guy to pour petrol on it. One dirty guy to set it on fire. Two dirty guys to inflate it. Two dirty guys to put it on the bus. Dirty guys and lots of rubber. ...... enough said.

All too soon Jensen Button is back on his mission to get us to the port, and we’re swerving to a hand brake halt in front of the ferry.  Now ferries are like mornings to me; I do my best to avoid them wherever possible. But I’m heartened to see this is a modern ferry with airport style boarding. I’m disheartened to see that they hand out anti nausea pills, like sweets, and little plastic sick bags to everyone. Seems this is the original Vomit Comet. I head for the outdoor seating,  and as we exit the harbour and the sea gets more and more choppy, I close my eyes and picture white sand beaches with hammocks and Caipirinha cocktails..As we dock, its already dark and I look around at all the pale, green faces around me and I’m happy to have escaped for a while.

On Roatan, David has worked his magic again, and we leave the GAP Adventure guys to find their hostel whilst we head to our upgrade hotel in West End, Posada Les Orquideas. As we pull into the potholed, dirt drive just out of town and look at the poky 2 storey building and construction work alongside, whilst waiting for the receptionist to materialise at the wooden hut called Reception, we think he must have made a mistake. But, as we are shown to our huge chalet rooms, with 2 Queen size beds, stripped oak floors and an enormous mirror to practise our salsa moves, not to mention the luxury bathroom, 2 massive fans AND aircon AND a verandah deck with hammock and outdoor seating, we are quick to appreciate his efforts. Wow. This is the life!

We head out along the dark dirt track back into town.. what more can a girl ask for. White sandy beaches? Tick. Sundowners bar for cocktails? Tick. Blue Marlin for the best  Lionfish fish fingers. Tick. Live music? Tick. Argentinian Grill for the best steaks. Tick. Hammock to lie in and read my Kindle. Tick. Kindle? Aah, yes. If I can just persuade Caroline to put down Christian Grey.......

Next day, we’re back at Sundowners, and bump into some local characters, including Captn Barry, owner of Reefrider floating bar, who regales us with his stories of flamboyant parties and his own love story with plans to sell up and come to England (duh?). Wendy has already become a permanent fixture in Sundowners and is planning  her retirement in Roatan as owner of Reefrider. We have a hard time persuading her to leave her new home and join us for the beach barbeque and karaoke night in the Blue Marlin before finishing off the evening on our verandah with a few bottles of local rum and coke, then falling asleep in the hammocks, big enough for two!

We have three nights and two full days to explore on Roatan. Next morning, others head out to swim with dolphins and dive with the sharks, but for once I’m feeling kinda chilled and happy just to hang out, taking an occasional dip in the water from our private jetty, and topping up my tan. We’re all a bit reluctant to leave this little piece of paradise and even more reluctant to get back on the Vomit Comet..

It’s with a heavy heart that we rise on Monday morning and head to Fernando's for our final breakfast. And it’s with heavy backpacks, our hammocks strapped to the side, that we climb into the bus that will take us across our next border to Honduras today.

After erupting nearly 10 days prior,El Fuego, the Fire volcano is still puffing smoke into the clear blue sky as we pull away from Antigua and climb through the beautiful Guatemalan mountains. Our driver appears to be a little heavy footed too, as he brakes hard as vehicles pull out in front of us or a road hump ‘suddenly’ appears before a village school. Each time we are thrown forward against the seat in front and we are convinced that it won’t be long before he leaves it just a little too late and we crash. A few hours in and we are on a road hugging the side of mountain staring at the severe drop on the other side of the road, when the driver mentions that he thinks we have a flat tyre and will need to pull over when he has an opportunity. We drive on a couple of miles passing several ‘opportunities’ on our side of the road in the shade of the mountain when he suddenly swerves across oncoming traffic on a blind hairpin bend to a patch of gravel on the opposite side. We can hear the metal of the wheel rim churning up the road and it’s several seconds before we all start breathing again. We clamber out into the searing heat of the sun to inspect the damage. What is left of the tyre is evidence that there had been no tread left on it. Fortunately, and unexpectedly, we do have a spare. Unfortunately, despite all efforts, the driver and several helpers are unsuccessful at loosening the bolts holding the wheel on. We wander off in search of shade while they work out what to do next. A passerby on a scooter stops to offer his help and with his assistance and brute strength eventually the wheel is successfully replaced.

Interestingly, the remainder of the journey is muuuch smoother. Dusk is falling as we arrive in Copan town and head up the steep hill to our accommodation in Calle Real, a lodge set into the hillside. After the heat and exertions of the day, I am hot and sticky and looking forward to a refreshing shower but , just as we’re offloading the luggage, the power goes out in the village. No problem, this is a frequent event in Honduras and I have my trusty head torch to hand.  Before long we also have candles in  our room and have confirmed that dinner will still be available. Time for a shower beforehand and I'm worried the power outage may affect the water supply.  Graciously I suggest that Caroline goes first.  While she is in I unpack and quickly undress ready to nip in when she’s finished. I hear the shower sputter and Caroline mutters under her breath.  Grr. The water has obviously run out, as I suspected. I start to put my dusty, sweaty clothes back on. No point in putting clean clothes on a sweaty body.  Caroline comes out and smiles sweetly when I ask how it was. ‘Lovely, powerful and warm’ she says. I glower back. Powerful and warm have been very elusive in our showers so far.  But she can’t contain herself any longer and starts laughing. ‘It’s working perfectly’ she grins. Quick as flash, I’m in there. A shower by candlelight is definitely to be recommended.

Despite the shower and stuffed pancakes for dinner, I’m a bit bleary eyed the next morning. Torrential rain, then an early cockerel, supported by what sounded like a whale in pain meant I didn’t get much sleep. Over breakfast we plan our revenge on the cockerel. The ‘whale in pain’ is apparently a group member, who will remain nameless, but knows who they are! It’s not too far to walk to Copan Ruins, the most southerly Mayan city in Central America, with an estimated population of 25 000 at its peak. Now a World Heritage Site only a quarter of the settlement has been uncovered from the jungle and excavations and restoration continues as funding allows. Most famous on this site is the Hieroglyphic Stairway and Ballcourt in the Acropolis, as shown on the Honduran 1 Lempira note. This site is also a sanctuary for the Scarlet Macaw, a splendid bird with fantastic plumage which can be easily spotted as we wander around the ruins. In the afternoon we have scheduled a horse ride in the mountains. I feel sorry for the skinny little runt that will have to carry me but Don Gallo is insistent that she is strong and used to heavy loads! Like his horses, Don Gallo is small and skinny, but strong as an ox, and every inch a gentleman, concerned for our welfare and comfort as we climb the very steep mountain track to reach his village at the top. While the horses have a well deserved rest from their exertions, Don Gallo gives us a tour of the village, of which he is fiercely proud, supported by dozens of local kids who gather round, keen to promote the straw dolls they have made. He shows us his modest, straw roofed cottage and the vegetable patch with coffee plants in his garden, and offers us a cup of home grown coffee. The views over the valley are spectacular and tucked down a little lane is a small weaving cooperative selling cotton scarves made by the local women. All too soon it’s time to clamber back on the horses and head back down to town before the threatening clouds let loose their deluge. There’s just time for another candlelit shower before we head back into town for nachos at Casa de Todos  followed by some very special Rum Punch at the famous Twisted Tanyas.

Dance till you drop in Antigua

After the homestay it’s back to Antigua and our hotel from home, Casa Familia for 2 nights. Here, we say goodbye to old friends; Aussies, Penny & Lach are off to start a new chapter in Canada; Barbara will return to Santander in Spain; Swiss Roland will continue his Central American adventure without us. Ernie will also be abandoning us to return home.

But we also have reason to celebrate, as both Wendy and Barbara have birthdays, so there is a surprise birthday party to organise.

First things first, I need to post my hammock so it’s off to the post office. Yes, no problem to post it, she says, as long as it is <1m. Unfortunately, mine is 1.05m. Posting is out of the question. Oh no!

As I head back to the hotel, the heavens open, as if to confirm my misery at the thought of lugging my hammock all over Central America. At least I won’t want for a bed at night!

But I can’t be downhearted for long, as Martin has taken on the impossible task of teaching us how to sizzle at salsa so we can hit the nightclubs of Antigua. We gather in his garage  which has a full width mirror pinned to the wall. The door is open so that passersby can participate in the fun. There are 5 of us girls and Roland, ready and eager. Martin smiles sweetly and swivels his hips as he executes a perfect pivot on one foot to demonstrate how easy it is. ‘Uno, dos, tres, quattro’ he chimes, slinking sexily forward, smiling indulgently at our reflections in the mirror. We stumble after him, shuffling madly and falling into each other as we go, unsure whether to glare our feet into action or look in the mirror, inevitably mixing our left & rights. Two hours later we’re ready for our night on the town!

A birthday piñata has been acquired in honour of Barbara & Wendy’s birthday. A what? Well, for anyone not in the know (which included me) a piñata is a papier mache dressed cartoon character which is filled with presents(usually sweets). They come in various sizes but ours is about a metre tall, not something you can hide in your handbag. Pinatas are normally suspended from the ceiling and the guest of honour has to take a symbolic hammer and hit the piñata until the it splits and the sweets fall out for the other guests to collect. Our mission, should we choose to accept it, is it to get the piñata to the birthday venue and dress the table before the other guests and birthday girls get there. Caroline, Katja & I take our job seriously & decide the only way to do this is by tuk tuk. Unfortunately, the cobbled and potholed streets of Antigua were not designed with tuk tuks in mind, and tuk tuks were not designed to take 3 people and a huge piñata. By the time we reach the Rainbow Cafe I swear every pothole and cobble is etched by a bruise on my arse. We get the table set with party hats and glitter just in time for the others arriving. Each of the birthday girls has a special birthday tiara. Barbara and Wendy are overwhelmed and close to tears. Wendy makes her speech of appreciation “It’s a thousand times more than I expected from any of you” she gushes. Hmmm..... After dinner we set off in search of a salsa bar to show off our new expertise. Well, actually we set off to the Irish bar but that is too packed so we move to the salsa bar next door. It all looks very professional but we refuse to be fazed by it. Caroline and Roland decide to kick off on the main dance floor. Two minutes later they are back looking completely dejected... Laughed off the dance floor by the locals. We move on to another club which also appears to packed and find a space at the back. At least we recognise the music.. and the locals aren’t laughing at us. It’s time to dance the night away....

Sunday is our last day with Ernie. Barbara, Katja, Manu, Penny & Lach are also leaving us. After the hilarity of the night before, it’s a fairly subdued morning. Caroline & I miss breakfast at Fernandos and decide to go looking for Bistrot Cinqo, as recommended in the bible, Lonely PLanet. Wandering around the town on a Sunday is not an unpleasant experience. All the locals are out in their finery, heading for church. It’s an interesting city tour, but 2 hours later we are starving and no closer to locating our target eatery. We ask a policeman who tells us ‘Two blocks on the left”. Two blocks on the left later, we find another policeman ‘Never heard of it but the street you want is two blocks further back”. Two blocks further back, we find ourselves in front of the hospital where a policewoman is attending a man who has obviously just come off his motorbike and hurt his arm. There is the wail of a siren and an ambulance screeches to a halt, followed by a couple of policemen on motorbikes. I’m almost certain it would have been quicker and easier for him to walk across the road to the hospital but who knows... We walk on and find another policewoman. “Ah yes” she says ,”Two blocks on the right” BY now, we are dying of starvation and dehydration. But this time, we find it. In fact we have been circling around it for the past 2 hours. A quick look at the menu, tells us this place should not be in LP’s Guide to Central America on a Shoestring, but in their Blow the Budget’ alternative, but we are too hungry to start looking for something else. Fortunately the Eggs Florentine is to die for... we nearly did.

That evening we are to  meet our new guide, David, and our new travel companions, Lucy, Louise, Amanda, Nathalie, Pum and Rowan. David is a sharp contrast to the extrovert and wacky Ernie. Quiet and reserved, he starts off by telling us how dangerous the trip will be, and that we should expect to be robbed at every opportunity. He explains that his only role is to get us from A to B and provide a hotel. We should not expect anything more. It’s such a change from Ernie, who could not do enough to make our holiday fun, comfortable and entertaining. After terrifying several of the girls David offers to take us to a typical restaurant, frequented by locals. Restaurant Typico is not particularly welcoming. A tv on the wall is blaring out mindless music and the waiter seems a little reluctant to take our orders. There is little on the menu that is tempting but Caroline decides to try local ‘chipperones’, supposedly a sort of pork scratchings and I order the liver and onions. By the time everyone else has had their meal, I’m kind of glad mine hasn’t turned up. The chipperones turned out to be just fat, and several of the others have left in disgust to go to Mac Donalds for something they can eat. David, is unhelpful and unapologetic for not explaining in advance what to expect. We head back to Rainbow Cafe where at least I know I can get something good to eat and as soon as we are there he disappears. It’s not a good start for the group.

Nearly everyone is a bit nervous in the morning as we breakfast at Fernandos. Even if they have done an Intrepid ‘ home stay’ before there is still that fear of not being able to communicate and how to fill the time whilst in someone else’s home. What will the sleeping arrangements be like? Will they have a toilet? A shower? Hot water? What will we eat? Will they have kids? How many? How old? What presents should we take?  All of us, except Barbara (who runs a language school in Spain!), wish we’d spent a bit more time practising Spanish.

Before we get to meet the families we head to Chichicastenaga, famous for its market, where we can get souvenir bargains and also purchase some grocery items for our families by way of thank you.

For those of us who had spent the previous night out on the town in Antigua, Chichi presents more of a challenge than others. The narrow streets are packed with vendors, locals and tourists. Vendors peddling their wares, calling out their special offers at the top of their voices. We hide out in a first floor cafe overlooking the market before determining our strategy. Caroline & Ernie decide that a snooze is required before any further action can be taken and head to a couple of benches at the back of the cafe, but I am determined to take the bull by the horns and launch myself into the fray. Immediately, I am surrounded by diminutive, indigenous women & children trying to peddle their scarves,  table cloths, worry dolls, jewellery, ANYTHING! Aha! I am an old hand at this thing. I’ve travelled through India, Asia and Africa and long ago learnt the techniques to avoid this harassment.

1.       Ignore them

2.       Say ‘No thank you’ politely

3.       Repeat in local language

4.       Repeat 2& 3 more forcefully

5.       Never, ever, EVER, ask a price

6.       Never, ever, EVER, show any interest

But it doesn’t seem to be working here. A little entourage accumulates around me, swelling and receding as I wander round the artisan market, endeavouring to look at nothing in particular. My friends wander ahead laughing, unencumbered by the persistent cries of ‘1 dollar’, ‘nearly free’, ‘good price for you’, ‘maybe later’, as each vendor plants themself in my path, anxious to secure a sale. My friends look at items on sale, negotiate pricing undisturbed, make purchases! Still my little entourage continues until I am forced to seek a final escape in the veg market, slipping through a narrow archway & leaving them behind to attack some other poor, unsuspecting tourist.

After a morning in the markets we set off to Panajachel for a couple of hours respite before meeting our hosts in San Jorge. Panajachel sits on the edge of Lake Atitlan with stunning views of the volcanoes. The local lads are swimming in never decreasing circles in a makeshift pool in the lake at increasing speed. It seems triathlon is a big sport here. As we walk back up the high street towards the meet point the rain starts and gets increasingly heavy until the high street itself is a virtual river running down towards the lake. We hop from shop front to shop front but it seems there is no avoiding getting drenched. Then, our hero, Ernie, is running towards us down the centre of the street, in his bare feet, the bus behind him, collecting us from our little island refuges.

San Jorge is only a few minutes drive along the ridge to the next harbour. We have had no advance information about our families, or where we will be, or whether they speak any English or even Spanish. Caroline and I are pointed towards Rosa and we follow behind as she leads us up a steep narrow roadway towards her home. Fortunately, its not too far up the hill, as we are already puffing after a few metres. Home is a modest affair made up several single storey  concrete huts with a tin roof, shanty style. Our room is clean and has 2 beds, a window (no glass) with a wooden shutter. There is an outside sink next to the toilet/shower hut. The kitchen has a concrete range, wood fired and is pretty dark. Inside Estephanie, the youngest daughter, aged 10 and Gladys(26) are waiting. Estaphanie is happy to show off her knowledge of English by counting from 1 to 100, in full! The Welsh flag pencils and Welsh map tea towel I have brought as gifts are proudly shown to everyone. We are treated to a cup of hibiscus tea before heading off for the group orientation. Once back, Gladys and Rosa are busy making tortillas and we are invited to help. Despite carefully following the instructions and demonstration, this proves to be much more difficult than anticipated and pretty soon I am covered in flour with bits of pastry stuck everywhere, all of which causes great hilarity with Rosa, Gladys and Estephanie. Even Grandma pops in to see what all the fuss is about. After half an hour Caroline and I have managed 2 miserly, paltry efforts each , whilst Gladys & Rosa have already made about 30. That said, they have had plenty of practice, as tortillas form the staple of every meal, breakfast, lunch and dinner! Rosa has pulled out all the stops for our visit and, when her husband Joaquin, returns from his shift in a local hotel at 7.30, we are treated to a special dinner of beefsteak, rice(made with a delicious consommé), mixed vegetables(also cooked in consommé & served with a little mayo stirred thru) and, of course, a huge pile of tortillas. After dinner, I chat in my limited Spanish with Gladys, who has set up a little evening stall at the front entrance, selling single portion servings of sliced fruit and coconut milk. Joaquin is determined to teach us some of the local dialect and has a crib sheet just for the purpose. Dutifully, we repeat each word or phrase after him, but by the end of the evening we have just about mastered, thank you. Eventually, son Julio, comes home late from school and, the other married daughter, Yolande, pops round to meet us. We opt for an early night and are sad to miss saying goodbye to Estephanie who starts school early in the morning.

Next morning, tortillas and scrambled eggs for breakfast with beans and rice and we say our goodbyes and  head back to Panajachel.

As the weather has improved, we decide to hire a boat for the day and head across the lake over to San Marcos and Santiago for the day to get a view of other villages living on the side of a volcano overlooking the lake. The lake waters sit in the centre of several volcanoes. An earthquake sealed the natural drainage system and since then the lake waters have continued to rise with rainfall until many of the homes around the lake have found themselves underwater. As we pull into the jetty at San Marcos, we float past an underwater gallery. Here, we climb the steep hill to visit a women’s cooperative where they take cotton and silk threads, dye them and weave them into garments, pictures, scarves and hammocks. I picture myself lazing in one of the hammocks across the decking in my garden and without thinking, make an offer. Before I know it I am the proud owner of one handmade hammock with wooden batons. Err. How am I going to get this home?

It’s a long bus day from Rio Dulce to Antigua, but it starts well on good quality public transport.  There’s no aircon but the through draft is good and there’s a good movie on the screen. Fortunately you don’t need to understand the dialogue to get The Hunger Games. The scenery changes as we head to the Highlands and we see lots of agriculture. There’s  a marked reduction in the temperature and we all appreciate the cooler, fresher air until we get to Guatemala City.

Dirty but dramatic, with its shanty towns hanging off the river cliffs and its own Suicide Bridge, it’s clear that gun law rules here and many of the men are carrying guns of one sort or another clearly visible. I am grateful that we only have a bus change here before heading out to the old capital of Antigua.

Antigua itself is a World Heritage Site and most of the authentic and quaint Spanish facades have been retained or restored. Indeed, in some cases, only the facade has been retained and a glance through non existent windows reveal there is no building behind. Even MacDonalds has not been allowed to impose their familiar landmark logo, even if they have been allowed to establish an outlet there.

Our hotel is hidden down a back street with no indication that a hotel lurks behind the double garage doors in the wall. Casa Familia is exactly that and it feels wonderfully at home, with small staircases leading to an upstairs loggia, a sort of inside/outside style of living with rooms around it. We head out for dinner near the main square. Tienda La Canche (The Blonde Shop), is a tiny shop where you disappear behind the shop counter into a little back room with two tables surrounded by shop stock – nappies, water, toilet tissue, etc.  The ‘Blonde’ is now about 160yrs old but she’s as sharp as a knife and in few minutes we are all tucking into her specialty, ‘Pepian de pollo’, a delicious and substantial chicken soup.

After that, some head for home as we have another long day ahead but a few of us move on to the Rainbow Cafe where it’s ‘Open Mic Night’. The music is great, with interesting covers of some old & new favourites, from Pink Floyd to Ed Sheeran. It occurs to me that wherever we have heard live music on this trip someone has tried to cover Pink Floyd, not always recogniseably. Those poor goldfish must be quite dizzy by now. When the Rainbow Cafe finally closes at 1am we are leaving with the staff who invite us to join them on a bar tour. But Antigua is not the most lively place on a Wednesday night and at 3am we find ourselves sharing street tacos and a beer with locals before hitting the sack.

Will and his uncle will drive us the 3.5hrs to Rio Dulce in 2 minibuses and it is noticeable that we divide naturally into ‘couples’ and ‘singles’.  We decide to get the party started with a few beers and games to while away the hours as we drive through the beautiful  Guatemalan countryside. The volcanic mountains are impressive and the fields as green and lush as any at home. Horses and cows are left to graze at the side of the road and we are grateful for the skill of our driver dodging oncoming traffic as we wind our way through the mountains and valleys.

By lunchtime we have arrived at Rio Dulce and there’s just time for a quick bite to eat before the hotel lancha will pick us up. We trundle along the narrow boardwalk to wait as a dark cloud looms in the distance. Ernie looks up and decides there is little time to be wasted before the storm hits, so he heads off up the road to the main water taxi terminal with us scurrying behind. 50m from the covered area the heavens open and by the time I reach it I am completely drenched.  We are treated to a half hour lightening and torrential rain show, with the local children taking the opportunity to dive from the river bank into the choppy waters, before the skies clear and we can board our launch to the hotel.

Ernie has already forewarned us that all the single ladies will have to share accommodation at this hotel and so we are ready for the rustic wooden shack on stilts by the water’s edge that greets us on arrival at Hotel Tortugal. Encumbered with our backpacks we follow the manager down the narrow boardwalk, past all the luxurious yachts and motor boats, famously moored here to avoid the Caribbean tropical storm season and dodging overhead mangrove branches to what seems like the end of the world. As he opens the door to our cabin on stilts we squeal in delight.  Our ‘cabin’ has 5 bedrooms on 2 floors and 2 bathrooms. It sits on stilts, shaded by mangroves with no external walls, only mosquito netting between us and the jungle or river. There is a large lounge area and an external dining area. Beyond it, the boardwalk leads to a private sundeck overlooking the river. It’s love at first sight.

Next morning, the sun blinking through the leaves wakes me up to my view of the river. Today we are to take a motor launch down river to the town of Livingston, a Garifuna town unconnected by road from the rest of the country. It’s a long journey across the lake and down river but along the way we spot indigenous shanty homes on stilts alongside luxurious residences (American tourists or maybe local drug barons?), with dugout canoes alongside luxury yachts and motor launches. On the way, we pull over into a small jetty where we can go and see community handicrafts being made. Lots of coconut shell earrings but some interesting embroidered blouses and traditionally woven bags. Further along, there is a wide gorge with local fishermen in their dugout canoes fishing in the shade of the towering cliffs

Livingston itself, turns out to be somewhat of a disappointment. Lots of tourist shops selling locally produced handicrafts and their Chinese imitations, often side by side in the same shop. We stop at a stall to purchase a sample of the local moonshine, known as garifiti (or graffiti to me).  Famous for its medicinal properties, combining local rum and a selection of herbs and spices, this liquor is said to cure all ills and either make you laugh hysterically or sob inconsolably.  We decide to defer our initiation until later in the day.

The wait at the restaurant is worth it for the delicious seafood soup which is a meal to last the whole day filled with fresh local prawns, a whole crab and other local fish. Then it’s back in the boat for the return journey to our luxury residence. On the way back, we stop off at the Aguas Calientes or Hot Springs. No big touristic, commercial venture here. Just low underwater, wall of rocks, separating  a 10m pool from the rest of the river with some old wooden steps in and out from the jetty. A bar at the end means we can enjoy some liquid refreshment whilst  partaking of the waters. Gingerly , I slide down the slippery steps into the water. Ouch. It’s scalding hot.  I swirl the water mixing the scalding hot with the not quite so hot. There is no ‘cool’ tap here. The faint whiff of sulphur hangs in the air and we sip our beers as the fish provide a free pedicure, occasionally nipping or ankles by mistake. It’s very relaxing and it seems far too soon we are back in our boat home. By the time we are back, plans for a night out on the town in Rio Dulce, have been modified to a Girls Night In. No-one wants to leave the next day.

It’s not far in the Jungle Bus to the border with Guatemala and with open sides we manage to avoid getting hot and sticky, for once. At least,  until we are standing in the blazing sun. We pay our 37.50 to exit Belize, and USD3 to enter Guatemala and cross the border with ease. Caroline’s personal porter is carrying her backpack and so she elegantly trails 2 small wheelie bags behind her as the rest of us hoist our packs onto our sweaty backs and stagger in the heat towards the waiting minibuses on the other side.  As the driver comes to meet us, he immediately offers Princess Caroline assistance with the tiny bags she is trailing. The rest of us just stare in wonder. It’s a brief 2.5hrs to Flores through the beautiful countryside and we are soon crossing the bridge to the island with its quaint, colourful houses and cobbled streets. The EcoGreen Hotel overlooks the lake and has attractive lime green walls to give you nightmares when you sleep. Our bijou little cell offers extensive views over the corridor and a working fan, for which we are extremely grateful. Water from the shower is an optional extra and the exclusive acoustic sound system enables you to enjoy everyone’s conversation from the comfort of your own bed.  The air humidity ensures you have a constant stream of cooling water running down your back eliminating the need to get undressed to get wet. Furthermore, the daily afternoon torrential downpour serves to wash both you and your clothes at no extra charge.

Guatemala is also celebrating its independence and so the streets are lively with families enjoying the sultry weather and opportunity to take a dip in the cool lake waters.  At night there is a small street market at the lake side where family run stalls offer home cooked traditional tacos, nachos and tamarind juice for 5 quetzales ( <1USD).

It feels like we have hardly gone to bed when the alarm goes off next morning. We have a 4.15am start for the trip to Tikal, an ancient Mayan site that predates Chichen Itza. Bleary eyed we are introduced to our local Guide, Juan, who happens to be an ex Intrepid tour leader. He is knowledgeable on all aspects of Mayan culture and  amusing in his delivery. I love this site more than Chicken Pizza, as it has a real sense of a thriving city, but the majority of it is still in the clutches of the jungle and there are virtually no other visitors apart from ourselves.

As we wander round the temples and pyramids we spot the spider monkeys and listen to the howler monkeys cry. We even spot another tarantula hiding in its hole in the ground. Climbing the steep steps of Temple 4 we are able to see the true extent of the jungle enclosing the site.

Back at our exclusive residence we just have time to change for dinner before heading off to Villa del Chef on the lake side for some beautiful white bass, a speciality of the area.

When I wake next morning, it’s light outside but dark inside. I need the loo and I’m hot. Trying not to wake Caroline I carefully put one foot on the floor. It feels wet. Maybe its just my sweaty feet? I put the other foot down. Yep. Definitely wet. I slosh my way to the bathroom, ankle deep in water.

We step outside to dry off and head over to the other side of the island for breakfast at the famous ‘Cool Beans’ where we enjoy the stunning views and amazing fresh fruit, yoghurt, granola and pancakes, before packing our bags into the 2minibuses Ernie has organised to take us to our next stop, thus avoiding the chicken bus and saving hours on the journey.

Our boat journey to Belize city is more comfortable and we have a short minibus ride through the hectic  city streets from the port to the bus station where we will take, what for some of us will be, our first ‘chicken’ bus. As it pulls into the station, there’s a mad scramble and we head to the back, where Ernesto has told us we will load our bags into the bus before boarding from the front. It’s a packed bus but we are all lucky enough to find seats for the 3hr journey to San Ignacio. Many others are left to stand in the aisle. Street vendors also board selling drinks and food. Ernie has tipped us off  regarding the lemon and coconut tarts and he is not wrong. They are fresh and delicious and fill a little space for the long journey.

The change in scenery as we go is quite stunning as we see lush greenery and orange orchards along the way. Occasionally, a shout rings out and the bus lurches to the side of the road. Eventually, we arrive in San Ignacio, our tour leader’s home town.  The bus heaves into the market square and all our backpacks are offloaded. Somehow, we stagger, fully loaded, (except for Caroline, who has already  effortlessly acquired her own personal baggage handler)  up the hill to our hotel, Hotel Venus, where steep steps to the reception above the shops await. We are allocated the 3rd floor. There is no lift. I drag myself up the stairs and flop onto the bed , still attached to my backpack, stranded like an upturned turtle. Caroline’s personal porter delivers her backpack to the room. The rooms are basic and compact but we have  a double aspect, allowing any breath of air to supplement the fan, which actually works. We spot the decrepit aircon unit hiding in the corner behind the ancient tv  & turn to each other grinning. Gingerly, we flick the switch. There’s a clunk and I glance out of the window to see if I can spot the helicopter which I’m sure is about to take off. But there is no helicopter, only an aircon unit. And it works!

Hot and sticky (I think there’s a theme for this trip!), it’s time to test the shower. Turning the taps creates a splutter and a trickle of water falls from the shower head. It’s scalding hot. I look for the temperature control and it appears to be on the shower head. Reaching up I try to flick it to cool. A blue spark leaps out and the shock runs from my fingers to my toes. As I jump back, there is a squoooshing noise, like a coffee machine, and the shower head is hissing with billows of steam puffing out. I’m sure it’s about to explode and briefly picture the newspaper headlines back home. “It’s UnBelizeable. Brits get blown up after getting hot and steamy”.

It takes several Cuba Libres to calm me down before dinner.

Next morning, we are up early for the cave tubing and head to the Han-Na’s for breakfast. It has hardly arrived when we notice the time. We are already late!. Stuffing as much as we can into our faces we rush to the meet point..... where we wait 45mins whilst the rest of participants enjoy a leisurely breakfast.

Its an hour and a half to the location from where we have to hike 45 mins through the jungle with our tubes and head torches to the start point. Caroline’s personal porter is on the case again. On the way our guide points out the plants and wildlife. As we move round a bend in the track, we steady ourselves against a tree. Just then there is a movement as something large and furry casually saunters around the trunk at arm height. It’s a large tarantula. Now, I’m not saying that I’m arachnophobic, but I do believe that there should always be a healthy distance between me and spiders, for our mutual protection. And I also believe that the distance should always include a fixed barrier, preferably a wall. But here I am, following the guide’s lead and reaching out to gently encourage the spider to crawl onto my hand, whilst everyone else looks on, aghast. But this one is quite shy and decides discretion is the better part of valour, creeping high up out of reach. A wise decision I think, in retrospect.

Moving on, the guide identifies various plants and fruits and encourages us to try them, which most of us do with some trepidation. He taps on a termite mound attached to a tree and tells us these little ants are 80% protein and taste of mint with an aftertaste of carrots. He pops a few in his mouth and asks if anyone wants to try. Everyone else backs away slowly but in for a penny, I step up and he pushes a few into the palm of my hand. As they scurry around I lick a few up. I can feel them running over my tongue in a panic an try to trap them between my teeth, but they are so tiny they manage to escape. Eventually, I feel the satisfying crunch between my teeth followed by the strong flavour of carrots. Hmmm ‘Termites, the tasty snack between meals that won’t ruin your appetite’. For the next ten minutes I am chasing them around my mouth with my tongue.

The start pool is 5m below us and somewhere between the termites, tarantula and the start point my courage has deserted me. I’m no Tom Daley. I peer over the edge.  Everyone else has jumped and is staring up, offering encouragement and advice. It’s not helping. With an enormous effort I grit my teeth and plunge into the crystal waters, my feet and bum gently touch the bottom and a I bounce up to the surface again. Clambering onto the tube proves an even greater challenge but it’s not long before we’re gently bobbing along  and entering the dark caves, where we switch on our head torches. The current is quite gentle so we supplement it by paddling along as best we can using our feet and arms. All of us that is, except Caroline, who has somehow acquired her own guide who gently pushes her along the river into the caves. I had expected the water in the caves to be cooler, but it is warm and soothing until we reach some mini waterfalls which bring cool water in to meet us.  The time in the caves passes quickly as we move from cavern to cavern, negotiating shallow rapids in the dark as we go and all to soon we are at the finish point. As I struggle to get out of my tube the current picks up and I find myself entering another rapid, being carried away from the rest of the group. Frantically, I scramble out of my tube and stumble clumsily to the water’s edge, failing to notice that my camera has continued its journey. Fortunately for me the guide has spotted it and chases it downstream, retrieving it before it is carried away completely.

This year, San Ignacio will host its first ever ‘Block Party’ as part of their Independence celebrations.  The DJ is revved up and the street bar is ready to rave. We are all dressed up in our party clothes and head down to the square where it’s all happening. There is supposed to be a Dance off competition but everyone stands around whilst  one man and his dog (literally) cut some shapes on the street. Two local girls join them. They’ve been practising their Shakira moves and do some impressive contortions  in the street that should really be reserved for the bedroom. Jonathan and Sarah step up for Team Intrepid and the game is on. Jonathan’s eclectic style is impressive and the dog decides to change partners, but eventually they are both eliminated leaving Sarah and a local girl in the final. The local girl looks Sarah up and down and obviously decides she offers little competition. She then tells the DJ to crank up the tunes and looks scornfully over at Sarah. They both start to move to the music. A minute in, Sarah’s proved her point and the girl stops in disgust and  horror. She takes a deep breath and pulls out all the stops but the crowd is going wild for the Intrepid Ozzie who takes the crown. Sarah steps up to take her cash prize.. 7USD and free beers for the night. Some of the locals are not too impressed and we decide to make an early exit to the karaoke bar. When that closes, the staff tell us they are heading to a local club for the after party so we decide to join them.

Next morning I am woken by the banging in my head. Oh no. My first hangover, I think glumly, but as I come round, I realise that the banging is very real and belongs to the construction site outside our double aspect windows. Today, we head for Flores and taking us to the border will be the Jungle Bus, an open sided truck, so we can enjoy the views on the way. At least we will get some air.

We catch an early bus to Chetulum which will take about 2.5hrs, where we will have an 1.5hr wait before catching a boat to the island of Caye Caulker in our next country of Belize. We have voted to pay the additional USD10 to catch the boat which will save us 3hrs against a 2nd bus.  Our bus is even more comfortable than the previous, with spacious seats and an onboard toilet and film (today it is Twilight.. in Spanish).  At the port, we have to pay an exit fee of 294Pesos and then discover there is an additional port charge of 50Pesos.

Now, I’m not a boat person, but I spot immediately that this is not likely to be the most comfortable crossing. Most of us have to go inside the bowels where it feels like the boat jumps from rock to rock as it skims over the waves. Our lovely trolley dolly is camp as Christmas and nimbly moves down the cabin delivering home made Belizean cookies and small plastic cups of coke without spilling a drop. A real skill, the rest of us discover, as we take the cup and promptly bounce most of it over ourselves. He is anxious that we should enjoy our short trip but even the distraction of passing Leonardo di  Caprio’s own Belizean island does not prevent one of group from having a panic attack  & many of the others from feeling just a fraction queasy. I’m just grateful it’s not me!

1.5hrs later and we arrive at San Pedro, where we need to complete immigration and customs before taking another boat to our destination. With a half hour to spare we all head for the quay side bar to sip margueritas as the sun starts to dip behind the houses. Although our next boat is only short trip our skipper struggles to avoid grounding the boat as he navigates the narrow channel and several times the engines grind to a halt as we watch the sun slide over the horizon and imagine ourselves stranded overnight.

Nick is waiting with his trusty golf cart to take our luggage to Tom’s hotel, our home for the next couple of days. The island feels relaxed and welcoming as we wander down the unmade roads between the wooden shacks on stilts, painted in bright Caribbean colours of lemon, green, peach and pale blue. Tom’s hotel is right on the beach front, however, is not a quaint shack or beach hut but a concrete assembly of basic sweatboxes, with 2 toilets for 10 rooms. We try switching on the fan to move the air, but even the fan is hot and lethargic. I peel off my clothes and head for the shower,  which is marginally cooler than the air. Back in the room, it’s impossible to get dry in the humidity. I towel myself down several times before giving up.

It’s a group dinner at Rose’ s tonight. Famous for their fresh grilled lobster, which is currently in season, most choose this for their main course and are not disappointed. After dinner, a few of us head up to the hotel roof to discuss the meaning of life over a few nightcaps before heading back to our personal saunas for the night. In the night I dream of my next holiday ....the Artic circle’s looking good from where I lie bathed in sweat!

Next morning we have the chance to cool off after breakfast. Most of us have opted for the snorkelling on Belize’s own ‘Great Barrier Reef’. Although I’m looking forward to the snorkelling part I am less than enthusiastic at the thought of spending 6 hours in the baking sun on a boat.

Captain Kevin & Able Seaman Robert, welcome us aboard the Ragga King. Kevin is like a Rasta Keith Lemmon on speed but he is passionate and knowledgeable about the reef and its wildlife. The trip will take us to the Coral Gardens where we will be able to see all the coral and lots of tropical fish, then we will head for Shark and Ray Alley, where we will be able to see.. well, the clue’s in the name, then the highlight will be Hoy Chan. We pull out of the harbour and as he head out to sea, we hoist the mainsail (or is it splice the mainbrace?). He lays a few ground rules. Don’t touch the coral or you will be keelhauled. Anyone seen with their legs anywhere other than parallel to the surface will be made to walk the plank. Anyone suspected of not enjoying themselves will be hung from the Crow’s Nest. I shiver me timbers. Although the trip is promoted as an opportunity to see turtles, we had heard a rumour that manatees (or sea-cows) had been spotted on the reef the previous day. These  endangered and gracious animals are not common to the waters but are known to come here in the breeding season.  Kevin is elusive and damning on the subject. Yes, they have been spotted but  crazy tourists had got too close and scared them off.  Even if we are lucky enough to spot them at a distance we should not expect to get close to them. Even we are lucky enough to get close anyone seen getting too close will be hung, drawn, quartered, keelhauled and fed to the sharks. No-one who is not a strong swimmer should be anywhere near them.  We all nod in nervous acquiescence. It’s unthinkable that any of us would risk breaking any rules

As we approach our anchor point off the Coral Garden, he points far off in the distance where he has spotted a manatee breaking the surface.  Not far away, a couple of swimmers are furiously paddling towards it and the reef edge. Kevin is disparaging. “They will scare it away, man” he says in his thick Caribbean accent. We are just grateful to have had the opportunity to have seen one from distance.

We drop anchor, don our fetching masks, snorkels and fins (NOT flippers!), jump into the warm Caribbean ocean, split into 2 groups and head towards the reef to look at the coral and colourful tropical fish. The current is quite strong and there is more than just a ripple on the water’s surface. It takes me a while to adjust and as we are in a group, we keep bumping into each other, depending on our proficiency (or lack of it). Before we get to the reef, I suddenly realise everyone has come to a halt. What? Why? I push Katja’s feet out of my face (or maybe it’s the other way round ) and strain to look past those in front of me to see what’s happened. There, less than 10m in front of us, is a manatee, slowly gliding under the surface. She (I’m not an expert in sexing manatees) is curious and apparently, unperturbed by our presence. We try to keep a respectful distance and watch her in awe for ages, as she observes us unconcerned, occasionally swimming away only to turn back towards us.  It is with great reluctance that we allow Robert to guide us away, anxious that our presence will attract other tourists, who may not be as considerate as us.  We spend another 30 minutes in the water looking at the other beautiful fish and coral that inhabit these water before heading back to the Ragga King. Some are already back there, highly excited. A couple of manatees had actually swum under and around the boat. It’s hard to imagine anything could top the excitement of seeing the manatee and I am a little nervous of being in Shark Alley, especially when Kevin throws some bait in the water before jumping in himself. Discretion being the better part of valour I decide to enter the water from the opposite side of the boat and assess the situation from a distance. I watch the sharks swim under the boat and then jump in. What on earth I think I’m going to do if they decide I’d make a more satisfying dinner than conch bait, I have no idea, but the only way out of the water now is past the sharks. As I head round to the other side of the boat a stingray glides below me, uninterested. Several sharks go past. For some reason I don’t feel threatened. Round the other side, Kevin is introducing everyone to his special friend. In his arms is a 2m nurse shark. He loves having his tummy tickled. Sure enough, as I tickle his tummy, the shark turns over on his back for better access.  The sharks and rays weave in between us and tempting though it is, most of us refrain from stroking them until Kevin indicates a safe approach. A ray glides up to him and appears to be held in his hands. This one is used to contact and has no barb, even it is starting to grow back. Gingerly I reach out to touch it. All to soon it’s time to board the boat again, and head for our final destination. The sun is fierce and there is little shade on board. Anyone attempting to seek shade below deck has to face the choice of regurgitating their lunch or frying on deck. We are all grateful for a chance to cool off in the water. This part of the reef has  a dramatic cliff and as we approach we spot an eagle ray and the protected tarpons way below. The beautiful coral is surprisingly close to the surface as we glide over the top and the optics in the water make it hard to assess how much safety margin we have. There are many beautiful fish to see here too but I am wondering if we have missed our opportunity to see turtles. We head back off the reef towards the boat with a slight (only ever so slight) tinge of disappointment. At that precise moment, someone points a few metres ahead where a turtle has broken the surface for air. I dip back under and spot something moving in the distance. The current is carrying us towards it and it’s hard to keep a safe distance as we approach the turtle as it glides back up towards the surface again for more air.

Back on board, Kevin continues to regale us with his stories as we try to avoid the sun’s intense rays and reflect on the excitement of the day as we head back to dry land. I don’t think he’s paused for breath the entire day.

Heat and humidity get the better of us and we’re all a little subdued at dinner in Bambooze that night.

All too soon it’s time to depart and there’s just enough time after breakfast the following morning, for Nick to give us a quick tour of the island in his trusty golf cart before we have to board the boat for our next stop....