La Mercè, Part One: Giants, Dragons and Goldfrapp.

As I happened to mention last time, I managed to turn up in Barcelona during the month of a great big street festival: La Mercè. Events are wide-ranging and dispersed throughout the city. In the park, there are human pyramids, and in every square, a stage. To say nothing of the free museums day, light shows, street performers, parades, dancing and general abundance of fire wherever possible. There are also, of course, plenty of crowds to get in your way. And through these crowds great leaders of our time do march, holding aloft the sacred tools of worship at any festival: beer. One might think this a difficult task, bound to annoy mostly everyone by the incessant shuffling required to let these people through, or by the raised six-pack swinging into one's head. But these merchants take a different view, and who are we to argue?

The opening procession rather sets the tone. (The tone being one of Pagan ritual sacrifice.) It seems to work as follows: there are giants, and animals which are merely large; they all march into the square; each one takes it in turn to dance around, usually with something aflame; finally, they all march out again. Much of the experience seems purposefully designed to rot the minds of small children. I mean, check out the beast below.

And he's not the only one.

Whilst all of this is going on, there are several concerts across the city, of which all, or so it appears, are free. The following night saw Goldfrapp make a stop-over in Barcelona, to play at The Forum. Now I'm sure not all of you reading this will know who Goldfrapp are, but they are a pretty big deal. And I got to see them, for free. Not only that, but we turned up a mere twenty minutes before the show began yet were nonetheless able to get right to the front of the stage. To the side, but leaning against the barrier. I don't know if that's indicative of the lackadaisical Spanish attitude to life or as a result of the sheer volume of things to do at the festival, but that's never the way of things back home. Would that it were.

Sadly the music experience has not since hit such highs, nor will it do, in all likelihood. After Goldfrapp there appeared an act by the name of Luke Abbot. English-sounding name, bad Euro-rap. Strange combination, and sadly not an enjoyable one.

There's been another day of the festival since, in which I took part in the Correfoc, or Fire Run, for which I posted the warning in my previous entry. It's going to require its own blog post later this week, but I will say this: I am alive, and unscathed. But for a while it was touch-and-go.

Adventures in Barcelona: Part One

Perhaps this is not the most inspiring beginning to a blog post, but whilst I've had a pretty good first week in Barcelona I can't say any of you readers are going to find it interesting.

...

No, wait! Come back! I'll try to be interesting. Just let me explain one thing: I'm not here to be a tourist. I am here, as much as is possible, to simply live, for a month. In the infinite blogosphere there exist myriad entries on the bog-standard minutia of life, such as "The Time We Went to That Arabic Restaurant", or "Dinner At My Friend's House". I could write both those stories right now, but they wouldn't be interesting. And the thing is, I have not been seeing the sights that would otherwise provide the sort of material you dear readers crave. I stumbled across the Sagrada Familia just yesterday, only because it happened to be where we were walking at the time. I've not been inside it, and I may not even go inside it before I leave here. Hey, it's not going anywhere any time soon.

If I have to make a single comment on Barcelona so far, surely it is this: In a city where the norm is to have dinner not before 10pm, why do the trains stop running at midnight? There are night buses which are pretty good, but they're no substitute. It's almost inevitable that any given evening will end with me missing my train home. It has already happened on one occasion despite my best efforts, or, as was the case last night, because we realised without much time to spare that the trains were about to stop, and just weren't ready to go home yet. No effort was made.

Unfortunately I'm also a bit of a sucker for a good walk, and the grid system here seems easily to fool me into thinking that any two places are much closer to each other than they actually are. It was a long walk home, and not the first this past week. I actually had to take painkillers during the night such was my belief that my knees were about to disconnect as a result of the cumulative mileage under my belt. Today, I'm staying indoors.

Anyway, fear not, my adoring public. I am, in part, holding out on you. I have not, for example, told you about the language exchanges I attended, and will continue to attend. I'm saving that for later, when hopefully I'll have a better handle on the matter. It also transpires that I've accidentally rolled into Barcelona during the occasion of its biggest annual street festival, which commences this Thursday. So, there should be plenty to write about for my next entry. Here's a snippet of text from the festival guide regarding one of the events, the Correfoc [Fire Run], to whet your appetites.

Whoever wants to watch the Correfoc must be aware, above all, that it involves a certain level of danger, so the greatest care must be taken and a number of rules need to be respected. Those attending should cover up as much as possible to avoid burns. We recommend you wear long-sleeved clothes, avoid shorts and use a cap and scarf to cover your neck. Wear clothes made of cotton rather than sintethic [sic] materials. Above all, never throw water on the devils, as damp gunpowder is dangerous.

Marvellous.

My kingdom for The Apocalypse!

The Apocalypse, were it to happen, would have benefits twofold. First, it would provide a reasonable excuse for my monumental failure to populate this here blog for two whole years. (Plus a bit.) Second, it would certainly provide some interesting material, assuming that neither myself nor my laptop had been incinerated during the pyrotechnical events, and that there remained at least one person left on Planet Earth to read the subsequent blog entry.

At this point, I'd kill for even one reader.

I'm sure I had some, way back when, but they've all vanished, and I have only myself to blame. But hey, my life, I suppose, is quite simply not interesting except during such times as I am traversing continents and sampling assorted pancakes.

Well, the joke is on you, doubters one and all! One week tomorrow, a new adventure begins, and this blog will be reborn, regaling you with stories from Barcelona over a period one month in length. I suppose this entry may in itself count as a rebirth, but I'm really just poking little ol' Mr. Bloggie (first name: Joe) with a pointy stick, to check he's still alive. I think that he is, and has a shiny new design to boot.

It occurred to me that with a gap of over two years, my soon-to-be and formally loyal readers may feel they've been short-changed somewhat, as there must surely have been something worth writing about in all that time. I maintain that there was nothing. However, here's a summary: I moved house, twice; several close friends are now either married or engaged; I have a niece; my primary venue of employment has turned into a daily, 7.5 hour-long episode of The Office (turns out it's not so funny when you're actually in it); the second moving of house involved buying a place of my own; my mother is on Facebook *shudder*; I am, technically, the director of a one-man company and have proven to be a harsh taskmaster. I may very well quit from myself.

Numerous things remain the same, of course. I remain so utterly rubbish that I laugh at the jokes I typed on this very blog two years ago, and had since forgotten. I also retain an intriguing scar across my left wrist, where Lucky The Sheepdog once bit me. Having read the old entries, I may well impose the following quest on my blog as a means of perpetuating its existence: get back to Guatemala. The damage caused by a tropical storm in May has been compounded by recent heavy rain, so I'm guessing there is an even greater need for volunteers than before.

I'd also like to reacquaint myself with Lucky. Just to show her that there are no hard feelings. Especially in my wrist, where now I feel nothing at all.

Texas, hold 'em!

With only one day of the trip left after my last entry, you'd think I'd be running a little low on material. Thank heavens for Continental Airlines, who consistently find a way to imbue my blog with the sort of vomit-inducing, roller coaster excitement one would usually assume is best avoided on intercontinental plane journeys.

But before that, the last day. The last day happened, of that I am certain, but not a lot happened in it. There was the breakfast bitch (don't ask), a long journey on yet another crowded bus (though mercifully not of the chicken breed) and the last night of alcohol-related destruction and love quadrangles. Those involved in either or both know to whom I am referring. I'm too polite to gossip. (Those aware of how much of a lie that was can stop their guffawing right now.)

And so the following day the group made like a moldy, decaying bath sponge, and gradually separated. I left at midday for the airport, supposedly to arrive home for 2.05pm the next day. Continental Airlines however, in a bout of prescient generosity, thought that a final blog entry of a mere three paragraphs would be unfortunate in the extreme, and kindly decided to make my final journey interesting.

The problems started when I was informed that my flight from San Jose to Houston was delayed three hours. As I had less than three hours between the original landing time and my flight from Houston to London, I was obviously going to miss my last flight home. At the point this became clear during check-in I was handed a boarding pass for a new flight to London the following day, and was told to expect someone from Continental to find me once the plane landed at Houston to arrange for me to placed in a hotel for the night. That was annoying, but at least it was simple. I would have been home a day later, but I knew where I stood.

There I was waiting at San Jose airport, gate 16, when I was called over to the desk. The same woman who checked me in was standing there, and told me that the flight was still late, but not quite as late as they originally thought. Supposedly I would have one hour to catch my next flight and this, she assured me, was doable, adding 'all flights from Houston are delayed'. In light of this, she had arranged for my luggage to be transferred and printed me a new boarding pass for my original flight, which included a green sticker with a 'T' on it, the lack of which so almost screwed me over the first time.

Having been through Houston once and finding it surprisingly quick I was cautiously optimistic, but then I had also heard horror stories about the same airport and insistences on my good fortune in avoiding such dramas. An hour, I thought, was doable. However as the plane left San Jose the time of arrival had been revised again, leaving me with just twenty five minutes! I sat nervously, waiting until one hour before our supposed landing time before I started asking the cabin crew what on Earth I should do, and whether I could be sped through the airport.

I was told that 'usually' they'll arrange for such persons in my position to be taken aside and escorted to the next plane, because 'they know' who's in such a predicament. Do you think I received such a service? Of course not. However I was moved as far forward on the plane as I could be without actually stepping into first class territory, and when it landed I had in fact forty five minutes before the plane was due to depart. I tried to avoid thinking about how long before this time the gate would be shut.

I can safely say one thing: nobody in the history of the world has been through an airport quicker than I bolted through Houston. I managed it in thirty minutes, running like a madman, occasionally in the wrong direction. I want to ask the following question: having been through the USA six weeks earlier, was it really necessary to take my picture and fingerprints again? I mean I understand I might have a new haircut, but new fingers? Come on! The USA is security mad. Possibly just mad.

With the gate about to shut I made it to my seat, sweaty and feeling like I was about to throw up. It must have been a very unpleasant experience for the poor guy sitting next to me. I'm sorry, but at least I made it. Half an hour, not bad at all! If only my luggage could have moved as quickly. That's right, my bag got left at Houston, as if to punish me for scuppering its plans to get lost the first time. At least they know where it is though.

And so my children, that is the end. Or is it? I intend to keep this blog going, though what shall make up its contents remains to be seen. As my good friend Ben recently observed, 'You can keep on blogging you know, it just won't be as interesting'. The man has at least half a point. I shall indeed continue to blog, and damn hell it shall be interesting!

For now I am going to continue to sit at home on the promise from Continental that my luggage will arrive here today, though that remains to be seen. That's probably for the best; it's good to end on a cliffhanger...

Every cloud has a silver zip-lining

You can all consider yourselves warned after this. Never, ever, under any circumstances, not even if your life depended on it, not even if there were a pot of gold, irresistible kitten or lifetime supply of snickers bars on the other side, never attempt to cross the Nicaragua-Costa Rica border by foot. Well OK, perhaps that is an overreaction. You can do it, just set aside about half a day or so. The problem lies with the Costa Rica immigration/emigration procedure. Here is the procedure: A large queue is formed for people wishing to enter the country. A second large queue is formed for people aspiring to leave the country. The first queue is funnelled into a very small office. The same small office also receives the second queue. And in the middle, where these two marches meet and exchange pleasantries regarding their forthcoming/recently terminated stay in Costa Rica, is a bank.

This must surely be the most inconveniently located bank in the world, unless there happens to be an HSBC teetering atop Mount Everest. And what this means, for those that haven`t realised it already, is that there is in fact a third queue for people intent on visiting the bank. And for the really cunning, what would be a nifty way of skipping the immigration queue which takes a good couple of hours? Well of course, you make like you`re simply going to the bank, secretly - or not, as it turned out - concealing your passport beneath your jacket. It`s utter madness.

With that ordeal out of the way however, we continued our journey to Monteverde, a town high up in the mountains and accessible only via dirt roads because the town is too afraid of the increased numbers of already numerous tourists that paving the roads might bring. However I`m about to piss them off immensely, as I recommend that you all go. If nothing else, the drive up to the top is worth the effort alone. And there`s plenty to do once you're there, such as exploring the cloud forest. Via a zip-line.

This will surely go down as one of the highlights of my trip. We first spent a couple of hours being led through part of the forest by a guide, who explained the myriad flora and fauna and took us over suspension bridges spanning vast expanses of forest below. Following that was the canopy tour, which essentially involved zip-lining through the trees over increasingly large distances, to the point where we actually crossed from one mountain to the other, sailing through the clouds. It was such an incredible experience I was worried I was becoming so distracted by the view that I wouldn't`t see the end-of-line tree hurtling towards me. Of course by the end, the rain meant that I literally could not see the tree coming towards me. Well, not until I was almost a part of it. Do you have any idea how much harder it is to brake in the rain? Fear not however, I managed. Others were not so fortunate.

Yesterday we left Monteverde for La Fortuna. And to be honest, not much else happened for myself that day, who elected to do very little rather than go to the hot springs - and I maintain that the three hour afternoon nap was entirely worth the sacrifice. Today was really the last day for doing something big, as tomorrow we travel to San Jose and then the following day it`s trip over. And so I am delighted to report that today was spent very wisely indeed: white-water rafting is terrific fun. It`s especially fun when half of your fellow rafters fall out, and you are not one of them. Even more so when the only reason that two particular people were removed was because of a third person hurtling towards them.

And essentially, that`s pretty much it. There shall be at least be one more post about this holiday, but the end is very much in sight. Personally, I`m starting to formulate a plan to be executed upon my return. The question you should be asking yourselves is what on Earth will you read when this blog is over? Don`t panic just yet though, there`s still a couple of days to go.

Rainy season

Once again I find myself in the position of having passed through a whole other country between blog posts. However I am happy to say that, unlike last time, I quite enjoyed this one.

Our first stop in Nicaragua was Granada, where mammoth LCD screens in the town centre display an infinite loop of Coronation Street reruns. Being the third Spanish colonial town of its kind that we have visited, I was beginning to notice a pattern: the streets are as a grid, and if followed to the centre one will find a park, with a fountain, next to a cathedral. This is not a bad blueprint by any means.

Aside from a brief visit to a nearby market I personally spent my time wandering around the town, and sampling the delights of the Chocolate Cafe which, I´m disappointed to inform, only serves chocolate based products and is not in fact made of chocolate itself. Granada is a town which I´m sure is worth spending more time in, but of course that´s just not the way we roll; after barely two days, we moved on to Ometepe.

Ometepe is an island in the middle of a lake, with two dormant volcanoes. One of the activities it is possible for one to participate in is climbing one of these volcanoes. At this point, I should mention that May is officially the start of the rainy season in this part of the world. It took a few weeks, but ever since Utila there has been some kind of terrific downpour every day, usually at night. The rest of the time it is of course still hot and humid. But obviously Thor was feeling particularly humorous/vindictive at 6am that day, and created a lovely thunderstorm just at the point at which we started the drive to the volcano. We waited it out for a while, and it did actually stop. Then we climbed, and it started again.

I remember that whilst we were waiting to go up Guy said to me that he hoped it wouldn´t get any wetter. To which I replied, how could it possibly get any wetter? So in a way, it`s kind of my fault. We made it about halfway up before the slippery ground and tropical storm convinced us to turn back. And you know, I´m pretty damn sure that in descending we crossed a river that wasn´t there on the way up. We returned all as drowned rats, and with ruined everything.

I sit now in Costa Rica with more to tell, but without the time. More posting shall be forthcoming. For now though, I am going to take the opportunity to wish a public happy birthday to my dad. Happy birthday! Your present is that I´m going to be home soon. I bet you can´t wait.

Honduras

The title should say it all, really. I´m about to do an entire country a huge disservice by glossing over it in but a few short paragraphs. But you know, there really isn´t much to say except, and I´m a little afraid of the retribution that may be forthcoming, my reaction to Honduras has essentially been ´meh´.

This is nothing but a sign of my growing snobbery and familiarity with the once unfamiliar. Honduras is a lovely place, but a combination of only a few days stay in the country and the fact that I´m still pining for Guatemala has left Honduras with an uphill battle to win me over. Copan though was fun; you can´t beat a large selection of parrots, toucans and red vs yellow tuctuc racing through some jungleside streets. The trouble is that in that other town, which I love, one finds it hard to distinguish between the tourism and the lives of the people that actually live there; Antigua´s beauty permeates, and in the majority of cases actually is its day-to-day life. Whereas in Copan, you have some great Mayan ruins, a beautiful exotic bird sanctuary, and a central plaza that looks as if was manufactured in plastic using a case mould and plonked in the middle of this remote little town.

After Copan we set sail for Utila, which is a lovely island famous for its diving opportunities. Does this sound familiar to anyone? Yes, I´m afraid despite its larger size, or perhaps as a consequence of it, after visiting Caye Caulker the island of Utila comes across as a little... bland? (Surely he didn´t just refer to a tropical island with crabs, watersports and an ocean as blue as Blind Willie McTell as ´bland´did he? What an arse!) But it is! The snorkelling opportunities are not as interesting; there is a lot more hustle and I dare say a fair bit more bustle; and there are less places to chill out on an island that is supposedly significantly larger. I apologise to Honduras, but Belize wins the fight for best island in Central America thus far.

So after doing remarkably little on Utila for three days, I find myself in a town for which I do not know the name, and in all honesty I have no desire to find out. We´re only here for one night, because if we weren´t the journey to Nicaragua would be impossibly long. (It has already been seven and a half hours today, and continues tomorrow with a further fourteen hours traversing six different chicken buses!)

And so Honduras, I am sorry. I´m sure that given a bit more time and fewer encounters with fast food chains I would come to admire this country as much as the others. As it is, you have one more night to wow me before it´s too late. I´ll say this though: considering there is only powdered milk on Utila, Mermaids does a pretty decent cup of coffee. For that, you should be applauded.