It was on the way back through the cave that the fever started. I was attempting to abseil down a waterfall in the dark, which sounds really daring and exciting but in reality involved a shivering Scotsman banging his elbows on rocks and repeating, “oh god, oh god.” The hostel we were at had sent about 30 of us in there with candles, asking us to sign a waver before entry that denied all responsibility for death or injury. I just came out with a fever. Turns out a mosquito had probably given me Chikungunya (thanks internet) at some point beforehand – which involves lots of joint pains and headaches, plus the obligatory hot/cold rollercoaster a fever provides. So the next day was spent in bed. Rock star.
Of course, staying in bed in a hostel is in itself a bit of a rollercoaster, especially when you’re steeped in the gringo trail of Central America. I awoke at 2am to the stampede of drunk teenagers from somewhere Australian, returning from the local club that looked and sounded like Snoop Dog’s shed. While one of them threw up in the bathroom, their hurls so traumatic it sounded like an exorcism, the others giddily chatted away in the middle of the dorm until someone told them to shut up. Then the bloke of the group got into bed and started munching on some crisps and plonking around on his ipad. After some considerable eating time the guy in my top bunk eventually snapped – “Are you seriously going to eat nachos for 30 minutes before bed and not turn the clicking off on your fucking ipad? You fucking idiot!” There was a deafening silence in the dark dormitory. No-one moved, awaiting for either an apology or an inebriated retaliation from Nacho Man. Then, very deliberately, there was a defiant crunch as Nacho Man slowly bit down on another corn snack. His methodical munching echoed round the room like a call to arms. I thought it was going to all kick off but Pissed Off Sweary Man seemed dumbstruck. Nacho Man had won! The night passed without further incident.
It’s a strange thing being on the gringo trail, especially as Gina allowed us such easy diversions away from it whenever we wanted. Central America is rather narrow though, and there is a definite passage of towns and hot spots that you are almost inevitably funnelled down. Towns like Flores and Antigua seem more like university campuses and everybody knows each other from previous encounters “rope swinging in Semuc” or “from the sunset tour to Tikal.” In some ways the familiarity is nice and comforting but in many other ways it’s pretty disheartening. Seeing the same guy from Leicester with his ‘Beer Lao vest’ suntan in every new town you go is like being orbited by a very annoying comet. Tourists hating tourists, there’s a surprise. What’s wrong with Benidorm though, seriously?
I guess it’s even trickier getting off the beaten track now as WE SOLD GINA. Cue orchestral music and angels crying. Yes, poor Gina was getting battered by Guatemala. The dirt tracks and hills were bad enough but the mountainous motorways seemed to be even worse as she had to maintain a certain speed to keep with the flux of traffic. This she could not do. It was like forcing Steve Cram to re-enter the Olympics. On top of this, G is going home shortly (more on this later) and with just his name on the title deeds it’s impossible for me (short of forking out several thousand Quetzals) to drive her unaccompanied across any border. So the decision was made. Red-tape and mountains were to be her undoing. After a couple of days we found a jeep specialist in Guatemala City who’d take her off our trembling hands for a fair price. Before this we gave her a proper send-off, parking her up in Antigua and hosting a party of nine in her spacious innards – swapping Gina memories over bottles of booze while locals pressed their noses against the windows. In all she’d driven 12,000 miles through the snows of Alaska, the yellow vastness of the Yukon forests and the regal redwoods of California, the arid deserts of Baja, the jagged hills of Guanajuato, the humid and humpy Oaxaca coastline, the wide-open spaces of the Yucutan peninsula and the many villages of Belize and Guatemala. The old girl done well. All we have now is her Alaska number plate, ‘The Last Frontier’ emblazoned proudly on the bottom. It goes without saying that we miss her immeasurably but just as Michael Johnson says, it’s important to go out on the top, and that’s exactly what she did. Adios my dear! Adios.
And so now we get about on the bus. Like everybody else. With G now planning his imminent departure (work and girlfriend) we decided a good cap to our adventures together would be to climb the highest peak in Central America – Volcan Tajumulco, a not too modest 4220 metres high. We got a guide and a couple of other likeminded volcano bashers along for the ride. One was a 45 year-old Texan military retiree with a terrible haircut, the other was a young German chap who had never climbed a hill before. The poor lad seemed a little out his depth. He turned up for the days climb wearing skinny jeans and a pair of skateboard shoes. With him he had a plastic bag with a loaf of bread in it. He looked more like he was off to drink behind a bus stop than scale a mountain. But scale it he did, at a worryingly slow but steady pace. At the top he promptly fell asleep and we had to summon him quite forcibly so we could descend in time for the last bus home. Despite this heart-warming coming-of-age tale, the views at the top were sublime. The crater to our backs and several horizons worth of other volcanic peaks in the distance, one defiantly smoking away with the air of Nacho Man back in the dormitory. With G going and Gina gone, it’s a new dawn for me and a definite realisation I won’t be getting anywhere near Argentina. With views this good though, what’s the rush?
Here’s some old gina pics…