Cowgirl king of the rodeo...

Spent the last week or so on a little Pacific beach tour (seven beaches in eight days) many a day was filled, cavorting in the waves as the white horses galloped down behind us - sometimes we dived under, sometimes trying to surf them, sometimes facing them head on with Woody on shoulders and sometimes just throwing her straight over the top... On one visit to Playa Grande, which can be reached on foot from Tamarindo where we stayed, the black sands were filled with thousands of the little spiral shells. We waded there like a couple of soldiers with our books and T-shirts over our heads - a river estuary separates Playa Tamarindo from Grande. We kicked around on the beach and saw the tide come in, and looked across at the estuary which had now become unwadeable. Or unwadeable to most normal, God-fearing individuals. So, up to our necks in it once again, we bounced and splashed our way to the other side. Rumours circulate that there are crocodiles in that there river, but our limbs survive to tell a different tale...

We met some brilliant people in Tamarindo - including our first great Scot: Jamie, a young Andrew Nelson lookalike from Oban. Another Celtic connection was found in an Irish girl, Elaine, a tin-whistle playing teacher from Dublin, and the dictionary definition of Irish Craic. Joined by Aussie Ben we drank Costa Rican Imperial and danced in a reggae club by the beach. The next night, before hitting a salsa club to dazzle with our new found Latin flavour we made our way out of town to Villarreal and the Fiesta del Toro Rodeo. We had an appointment to keep with some rather sizeable bulls who have busy schedules and don't like to be kept waiting...

Sitting in a rickety old wooden grandstand, we surveyed the ring below us. Costa Ricans began climbing the fence to get a good view of the festivities. The first bull was released to gasps of excitement and squeals of delight from the crowd. It threw the ragdoll rider within seconds, at which point the dozen Ticos in the ring began running thisaway and that, distracting it as it charged and swung it's mighty noggin trying to gore these tormentors. Curiously they didn't look much like experts - many held beers in their hand as they scooted and darted around. After about five minutes of this japery out charged three Guanacastian cowboys on mighty steeds, expertly roping the bull as they flew past - eventually the bull retreated to the shacky wooden gate from which it bolted.

After a few of these bulls had run, thrown their riders, been captured and retreated, I noticed a few more people in the ring and started to get all jittery. The best thing I could think of to rid myself of this restlessness was to go down to the ring and jump in for the next round. Previously Woody had made me promise not to go, but it was already in my head and I was halfway down the stairs. Too good a chance to miss. Barefooted (too risky to be slowed down by my flippin' flip flops) I jumped off the fence and into the ring waiting for the release of the beast. "¿Quizas es muy peligroso, no?" Around me most people seemed pretty relaxed but I bounced around on the balls of my feet like a flyweight waiting for the bout. In my little head it was reminiscent of a scene from Gladiator as I looked up and surveyed the grandstand in a circle, my loincloth blowing in the breeze. Among the tiny faces I could see the ravishing Miss Woodward. She was standing up, gesticulating madly and mouthing something I couldn't quite make out, but I could tell she was happy. She was saying I was 'number one', raising the third finger on each hand in my direction - "Number one! Number one!"

At the last minute I was joined by Aussie Ben who also didn't want to miss out. The gate flew open and the beast reared it's powerful head, flicking the hind legs to dismount the rider - which it promptly did. Now faced with the bull, we scattered like a shoal of small-fry avoiding a shark as it careered towards us. The black bull would stop abruptly and quickly throw it's hind legs in 180 degrees. In a split second it changed direction, charging back at those who tried to run up and smack it on the be-hind. Moments later here comes the cavalry, lassooing away like crazy. As the bull was roped it had one final attempt at freedom, pushing the small fry back a step or two. As I trotted back I felt the gentle nudge of a horse's flank as it trotted into my shoulder. Hit by the wrong animal!

The bull disappeared and as me and Ben congratulated each other I heard a familiar, husky voice. She wasn't.....she was! Woody had skipped into the ring, along with Elaine and Jamie. With a defiant look gleaming in her eye "how do YOU like it?" we stood awaiting the next majestic beast. Glad that we were all participating but suddenly quite fearful given the injury-prone nature of the company. All five of us took on the toro. It came crashing out and we sidestepped and made forward-backward runs until once again it was captured. Rachel and Elaine were the only females brave enough to enter the ring, among the macho cowboys of Costa Rica. All smiles and relief, we retreated to the dodgems. They had dodgems at the rodeo.

And so we fly tomorrow back to Miami for festive merriment and Christmas cheer abound. The first three months have been a whirlwind, and we approach the New Year's travelling with gusto and enthusiasm. Much love to clans various. Glad tidings to you and all your kings....of the rodeo. Good time to roll on!

"Propina voluntario" Aye, you're at it sunshine...

We quit San Juan del Sur in high spirits having soaked up a load of sun, surf and cerveza. Trucking on back up the road to Granada like a couple of seasoned pros, batting taxi drivers away right, left and centre like an old episode of Batman - BOFF! POW! SOK! KABLAM!

The thing with the taxi drivers is that they're so flippin' persistent. First there's the obligatory "Taxi, chico?"/ "No gracias" encounter. At which point instead of leaving well alone they start to reel off a list of possible destinations "Rivas, Frontera, Remanso, Maderas..." as if by doing this somehow you'll change your mind: "Oh, well I only said 'no' because I'd never dreamed you'd take me all the way to Rivas. Now that you've confirmed that as one of many potential destinations, I change my answer - and I change it to an emphatic 'yes!'" These exchanges can prove to be tiresome, especially when you have to pass the same taxi driver twice in as many minutes because you were only going out to buy a bottle of water. At one point I became sure that one guy was just asking us to wind me up, every time with a smile on his cheeky little face and a brand new list of destinations. When he asked us on our last day, revenge was served cold as we pointed to the bus with our own cheeky smiles. Take THAT, taxi man!

The Nicaraguan buses became a hugely enjoyable experience as soon as we worked them out. Crowded, noisy and uncomfortable we grew to love the chickenbuses and their strange charm. There is no such thing as a 'full bus' as we found on our way to the border. Over 100 people were crammed on this bus, as well as a 5ft high Winnie the Pooh pinata, and a sleepy man with a few hundred bags of candy floss on a stick which landed on my head everytime he nodded off. Woody was in hysterics, as was half the bus (it was great, my hair smelled delicious). There was also an old lady whose chest was just at the right height for Woody to rest her sleepy little head on. Everybody needs a bosom for a pillow as they say...

Best thing about the buses is that it's impossible to miss one. On several occassions, we've been ambling along, a good two streets and a few corners away from our bus, only for the driver's assistant to come puffing down the road: "Rivasrivasrivas?" before ushering us through the crowds and on to the back of the bus. It's as if they have a Spidey-sense for dawdling tourists. Hats off to the bus men, they work hard and make you feel like the luckiest travellers in the country.

Before this, our last day in Granada I think was our best. We visited Dona Elba Cigars and were lucky enough to meet the owner. The cigar workshop is in his beautiful old colonial house - it's a completely tranquil place, with tobacco leaves drying in the garden and the only sound coming from the rolling of cigars. He even let us have a go, rolling, cutting and pressing our own cigars. He also dug us out a spare Verdadero Organic, which at one time was the number one cigar in the world (not in sales, but in quality - apparently there's even a league table for that!) So we sat smoking our cigars in his amazing walled garden as he told us about his family, his upbringing and his dreams for Granada. Sr. Reyes is a very positive man, his pride for his hometown and his country shine through in the way he speaks. He stands against the Nicaraguan idea of relying on handouts, instead insisting that they do it for themselves, working hard to achieve the things they want. Maybe that's easier said than done, but he believes it and talks with such passion that it's difficult not to get on board. He also has a parrot.

That afternoon we went to a mosaic class which was great fun. Me and Woody sat like a couple of schoolkids in the instructor's open-air kitchen as she baked cakes and her children played in the garden. We were surrounded by paintings and sculptures in this exquisite colonial courtyard as we quietly cut our tiles and glued them down. This kind of quiet activity and the smell of chocolate cake filled the air, bringing back memories of doing various crafts in family kitchens as youngsters. It was all Woody could do not to start eating the glue, and I think in my creative daze I almost called the instructor 'mum'.

We headed out that evening to have a wee meal and a few Victoria Frosts to say a fond farewell to Nicaragua. Despite knowing that we had to be up at 5am the next morning for our border bus, we had one too many with our new friend Spencer - a Beatles nut from L.A. Trying to walk over the Nicaraguan border with our packs, the heat and a slow-burner of a hangover is not to be recommended...

As soon as we got off the bus at the border, the scammers tried to get their hooks in - 'selling' you immigration forms, guiding you along for a 'propina voluntario' (a voluntary tip, which doesn't seem to be very voluntary) and generally trying to squeeze every last Cordoba out of you. Luckily our Kiwi friend Jeff had given us prior warning, so with steely gazes and confident steps we battled on through the scammers. I had just bought a new pair of sunglasses so my steely gaze was probably at an all time high. After one scam attempt too many, young Woody had enough and proceeded to give one unlucky soul a telling off. He shuffled his feet nervously, looking like a chastized child. Although I had also been fixing him with my steely gaze at the same time, so who knows...

So here we are back in Costa Rica, and the familiar sights, sounds and smells thereof. I think one of the most familiar things about being back here is the pocket change, and how cumbersome it is. For example the 500 Colones piece - worth about 50p, it looks and feels like a huge gold dubloon . When your shorts are a little on the loose side you can imagine how inconvenient it is to have two kilos of metal in your pocket that's only worth about 3 quid.

Our first stop this side of the border was Liberia (although no sign of Georgie Weah, world footballer of the year 1995). We visited an old, deserted prison there, which spookily had blood spatters on the walls and bats in the solitary confinement cells. Liberia is a very Western looking city, so we stayed a night then headed to the beautiful beach of Playa Hermosa - sunsets, big waves and a relaxed atmosphere. Currently we're staying in a little apartment in Playa del Coco run by a kind-hearted lady called Olga. 36 degrees outside - no sign of winter yet...

Is that a Salsa, or a Merengue? No you're right - it's a Salsa...

With so much music and passion in the air here in San Juan del Sur, me and Woody decided to 'get our gay on' and make a bold foray into the world of Latin dancing - the learning thereof. This began as we peeked our heads round the door of an empty Nicaraguan bar which looked like it was closing up for the night. "Salsa lessons?"....."Oh, yeah, well we were just closing up for the night but yeah, go on then". Tables were quickly moved to one side, as me and Woody stood making shifty eyes at each other on the makeshift dancefloor. Our instructors, a huge Nicarag-man and a tiny little American girl, proceeded then to argue about how best to teach us the intricacies and finer points of this fusion of a dance...

To me there seemed to be a lot of step forward, step back - moves I executed with the precision and co-ordination of a tranquilized monkey, all the while looking at my trusty sidekick for guidance. Fleet-footed and dainty, she skipped around the place to the rythm of the music with a huge smile on her face. Alesha Dixon eat your heart out. So after an awkward half hour of what you might call 'salsa' (if you had no notion of what salsa, or dancing, or indeed rythm was. And if you were visually impaired) we moved onto the Merengue. As my mouth watered at the prospect of a sweet delight made of whipped egg whites and sugar, the music started and our instructors, guided by the bar staff and generally any Nicaraguan with a passing interest showed us how to Merengue. It seemed that the only difference between Salsa and Merengue is that our teachers just argue less when it's Merengue. Me and Woody were really just waiting for the bell to go so we could unleash our dancing on the streets of San Juan del Sur.

We retreated to The Pier, a bar where a few nights previous we'd been with Kiwi couples Tony 'n' Rachel, and Jeff 'n' Kat. It was a fantastic full moon party with a beach bonfire and more rum and cokes than you can drunkenly shake a stick at. The night was filled with great chat, mostly revolving around great Kiwis - Jonah Lomu, Neil Finn of Crowded House, and 'double All-Black' Jeff Wilson - each accompanied by an enthusiastic but wholly inaccurate New Zealand accent. The resultant mess was a strange and severe fuzzy-headed sensation, all preceded by an airborne Woodward falling from the skies in an alcohol fuelled attempt to reach the bathroom from the top bunk in record time... Her bruised legs and foot tell the story better than I can.

The beaches in San Juan del Sur are phenomenal, the blistering sun and perfect Pacific waves drawing crowds of surfers. With the spirit of Keanu Reeves and Patrick Swayze in our hearts we hired a board and headed for the Point Break. There began a day of popping-up, dropping-in, and generally hanging loose. All in all it was a successful day, I think most of what we did counts as surfing in one way or another...

We had a very interesting morning today. A few days ago we met an old Californian lady called BJ who was out walking her pet spider monkey. As we approached her, the monkey took our hands and jumped around, pulling packets of crisps and sweets off the shelves of a nearby shop, climbing the doorframe and tormenting the owner's puppy. Rachel saw a fantastic opportunity to make a photographic portrait of this amazing looking woman with her pet. She invited us to her house this morning and told us stories as the monkey clambered all over her, the house, and us. Snap happy, Woody took hundreds of photographs as me and the monkey climbed a tree and hung around. Cue jokes about monkey business, monkeying around. I'd like to point out there was absolutely no spanking of the monkey. Good times...

I'm Matthew Pinsent, you're Sir Steven Redgrave...

Ignore the last sentence of the previous blog. Our combined restlessness left us on the horns of a dilemma - painful. With so many amazing things to see and do we're finding it really difficult to commit to being in just one place for any length of time. Granada has truly been a fantastic place to see. We hitch-hiked to the crater lake of Laguna Apoyo with Horus Heavens and his girlfriend Amber, whizzing down the valley in the back of pickup trucks towards the cool waters and drunk people at the lakeside. Next day we daytripped to the bustling market town of Masaya - perhaps the only place on earth where you can buy a whole pig's head at one stall, and Christmas decorations at the very next. We really explored the city and it's been wonderful to be there for a few days.

During that time we found that using the Nicaraguan buses is an experience in itself. The bus stops are a very intense and noisy place. It seems to be a heavily competitive industry, bus drivers arguing over who gets to take you to your destination. The bus driver's assistants are constantly shouting place names: Managua and Granada become ¨Manawamanawamanawa¨ and Granaragranaragranara¨ respectively. They barely stop, as the assistants push you by your ass onto the old yellow schoolbuses. If your bag (or indeed your ass) is too big for the back of the bus, it'll be thrown on the roof with the tyres and bicycles. Chicken buses, Nicaraguan style!

Our explorations of Granada have uncovered a few amazing buildings: in the north of the town lies Fortaleza La Polvora, which is a beautifully maintained old lookout and prison, where we climbed the turrets and strolled the gardens. There is also an amazing old hospital, San Juan del Dios, where we walked through the ruins and Rachel went slightly dizzy with her camera. There we met the old security guard who showed us the morgue, children's unit, and maternity ward. He then clutched his stomach saying he was hungry. Found it disconcerting when a man with a uniform, handcuffs and a nightstick begs you for money (although that's a standard Saturday night for Woody). It really shows the poverty level of the country, especially when you think that the average monthly wage is $100 - a figure that some people would piss away after work on a Friday. With that in mind, we went and bought the guard a bag of oranges and a hand of plantains, thinking he could at least take them home to his family. But when we returned he had mysteriously disappeared altogether...

Bus-taxi-boat-bus-bus brings us to the volcanic island of Ometepe, in the middle of Lake Nicaragua. The best way to see around the island is by canoe, Rachel's extremely childish and immature jokes about 'coxless pairs' aside... We paddled to the Rio Istian, which is a swampy river lying on the isthmus of the island. We gently cruised through the mangroves, seeing loads of different birds, insects and the odd swish in the water, which we think were caiman crocs. The only sounds were those of our paddles as we stealthily drifted with the current, quietly observing our natural surroundings. Where better, then, to re-create the epic Olympic effort of our gold medal winning rowers of years gone by? Plenty of strange looks from the women washing their clothes on the stones in the river, and the odd admiring glance from the men wading with their fish nets (again, a standard Saturday night for Woody).

We spent the day paddling, visiting Monkey Island where little capuchins and spider monkeys stare at you from the branches as you coast round. Drifting on Lake Nicaragua, the two huge volcanoes on either side, blue sky and scorching sun above, and monkeys swinging and playing only feet away. Life is good...

Pop quiz asshole...

Two days and two 10-hour bus journeys bring us from Panama to the Nicaraguan border. Scruffy characters walk through the crowds waving huge wads of Nicaraguan currency, offering you ¨good exchange price¨, the temperature reaches a thousand degrees, and even a soldier with a gun can't control the queue as fat women with elbows and old men with black eyes crush to get through immigration on the Costa Rican side. On the Nicaraguan side our bus driver collects everyone's passport in a plastic bag, along with a few dollars, disappears for twenty minutes and bingo! Welcome to Nicaragua...

Border-based mayhem aside, so far Nicaragua has been amazing. Looking out of the window as the bus cruised north we saw Lake Nicaragua and the two island volcanoes in the middle of it. A delicate ring of low cloud circled the volcano summits.....as if gentle Jesus was blowing his smoke rings down from the heavens!

Inside the bus the film 'Speed' (yep, bomb on a bus) blared at full volume. Woody and me have come to the conclusion that the drivers want to make their passengers as uneasy as possible. Our bus films so far have included Ice Cube chopping an anaconda in the head with an axe, a trumpet player being shot in the neck in Vietnam (in super slow motion), and a little boy being run over by a combine harvester. And Chris Klein. It's all very surreal, but when the window views are this good, they could show anything. Maybe that's why they do...

We rolled into Granada as the sun set and we were blown away. It's an absolutely beautiful old colonial town. Brightly painted buildings, exquisitely crafted churches on almost every corner, and horse drawn carriages clattering up and down the cobbled streets. Costa Rica and Panama are breathtakingly beautiful countries, but because it's so old, it feels like the beauty of Granada has just a bit more depth and personality and soul. I think that's why it's so instantly likeable.

When the two favourite sports of a nation are boxing and baseball, maybe you'd have a feeling that it's a nation that revels in violence (like if someone can't punch you to death, they can always go and get their baseball bat). Combine that with a difficult, violent past and high levels of poverty and perhaps you'd get the impression that these things would be reflected in the people. We've found the Nicaraguans to be a friendly, smiley, helpful nation, maybe even slightly shy compared to the more outgoing Costa Rican Ticos...

Last night we had a few beers on Calle La Calzada - kind of like Barcelona's La Rambla but with more dogs. We met some interesting people - like Horus Heavens who passed his guitar around and played and sang songs, or Tommy O'Shea (you couldn't make it up) the owner of an Irish bar, or this old Catalonian guy who used to be a musician until he had his fingers chopped off by General Franco.

It was here that we had our first encounter with the Nicaraguan street kids. They sell sweets, chewing gum and cigarettes, and if you're not careful you'll give them everything you've got. One little girl shyly came over to where we were sitting, quietly said hello and fumbled a wee pack of chewing gum onto our table to see if we wanted to buy it. She was barely the height of the table, and her wide brown eyes made it impossible to say no. It was very scary to think that she was just a little girl and was out on the streets after dark selling these things. You could probably go mental going over the various permutations of why she has to do this, where she sleeps at night and who looks after her.

The boys are much more boisterous - breakdancing in the street, jumping into our photos, and hugging Rachel. We spoke to one wee guy, Miguelangel, who asked us about Scotland and giggled as he tried to pronounce our names (although he did better than our bus driver - ¨Rash el Wood Hard¨ and ¨Tot a Lan Weh Teh For¨...) We had no change after the little girl, but Miguelangel took two sweets out of his wee basket and gave them to us anyway. At the risk of sounding like a cock, it is a humbling experience. It's strange how the kind act of a little kid can make you feel so bad...

With that in mind myself and the Universal Crowd Pleaser that is Woodward have a meeting on Monday with a woman to see if there's a possibility of volunteering in a kid's shelter. Granada might keep us for a while...

Super Mini Fuk...

Many a cheap laugh to be had in these parts, especially when the language barrier comes into play. One of the most amusing things I like to think of is the improper use of a foreign language. Although in the longrun it may be a backward step in the learning of Spanish, I think it's funny to get hold of a Spanish phrase e.g: ¨quezas es muy peligroso¨ - ¨maybe it's very dangerous¨ and use it as many times as possible, at various volumes, regardless of context or appropriateness. For example if we're speaking to a taxi driver about a certain area of town: ¨Maybe it's very dangerous?¨, or if we're talking about some strange Central American bug: ¨Maybe it's very dangerous?¨. Similarily, when ordering another beer: ¨Maybe it's very dangerous!¨, or if people ask if me and Woody are a couple: ¨Maybe it's very dangerous!!!¨. Hours of fun at a low low price...

Equally the translation from Spanish to English on notice boards can be entaçertaining in itself. The obligatory ¨Thanks for don't smoke¨, tour companies promising to ¨came back your moneys¨ if your tour is rained off. I think the best is hostel owners urging you to ¨Clean please your dishes for avoid to have dirty in the kitchen.¨

As with most foreign countries you can get a good laugh from the shop names. The current top 3 are the newsagents ¨RAMINIT¨, San Jose's number one laundrette ¨Lavanderia Fanny¨, and the family friendly corner shop - ¨Super Mini Fuk¨...

After weeks of either mountain towns or beach towns, we hit El Ciudad de Panama - Panama City at the start of the week. The main area is much like any big city in the U.S - shiny skyscrapers, wide roads and lots of traffic. In stark contrast, the old town of Casco Viejo is really where we felt like we were in a proper colonial town. There were beautiful buildings (even though some were in a bit of a state), narrow streets and not a McDonalds in sight. With sea views on three sides, Woody's camera was snapping ten to the dozen, and it was great to finally see what we'd both expected from the city.

We also visited the Miraflores Locks of Panama Canal - an amazing feat of engineering. We saw two enormous ships go through, their crews waving and taking pictures as we did the same. To be honest, if the ships hadn't been there the most interesting thing about our canal trip would have been the fact that our fairly reckless taxi driver was pulled over by the Policia on the way there.

We quit El Ciudad and headed for the highlands, hiking and nature reserve of El Valle (not to be confused with Marty McFly's home town of Hill Valley). Many a great walk, waterfalls, monkeys and kinkajous and all sorts of wildlife. The people there are friendly, but there's plenty of 'stare in the community', especially when your asking about the square trees that are there and asking if we can 'do a bus to Chitre'. We came to the conclusion that they don't get many tourists around there. We also had rats in our roof...

Sun even shines on a dog's ass some days...

After a couple of days watching brass bands parade the streets of Bocas Del Toro for Panamain Independence day (November 3rd), we bussed it south to David and asked ourselves ''What is your goddamn problem, David? Although it is a fairly inoffensive city, that might be why we felt that there was very little to keep us there. So, with that said we move north to Boquete - a small mountain town full of culture and charm. As the schoolbus we were on drove down into town, it was so green and mountainous it could have been Scotland (imagine Kinlochleven full of Ngobe Bugle Indians and you're halfway there).

The Ngobe Bugle are a native people based in the Chiriqui province of Panama. The women are all brilliantly turned out in brightly coloured long dresses, and their presence seems to light up the streets as they go about their days.

As we arrived at our hostel we were greeted by two big boisterous dogs, who subsequently made good their escape when the owner turned his back. What followed was a calamitous chasing of dogs through the streets of Boquete in the pouring rain. Rachel, calling upon her best Kenneth Hutch impression, grabbed one of the mutts with a soggy dog treat, while my David Starsky flip-flopped along holding the other dog by the scruff.

The hostel owner rewarded us with a trip to the hot springs of Caldera. Other than a few strategically placed rocks, the springs are completely natural, and are surrounded by viscous 'quick mud'. As the rain poured down, we sat in the hot water hearing tales of Ngobe Bugle Indians who had sunk in the mud - from time to time their dead bodies rising to the surface as the consistency of the mud changed with the weather. Negotiating the hike back to the jeep with these horrors in our heads and a carton of wine in our stomachs was definitely an interesting affair...

Yesterday we hiked up to El Mirador (the lookout) and the wildlife refuge that sits atop the hill. As young Woods fell in love with a pink parrot called Sam (Allo!), I was able to recruit a new addition to 'Toddy's Top 5 Favourite Animals' - Geoffroy's Tamarin monkeys. Think of a 12 inch tall old man, with a white mohican. Amazingly, they achieve a state of grumpiness and playfulness simultaneously. Could have watched those little fellows for hours, and nearly did as Rachel fed a wee damaged capuchin monkey called Monty, who held her hands as he ate his cranberries.

Today we aimed to head up to a crazy garden called 'Mi Jardin es su Jardin', and some of the best coffee in the world at Cafe Ruiz. As a warm up, we decided it would be a great idea to take Sonny and Papito for a quick morning walk. Sonny is a big orange boxer dog, and Papito is basically a bear with a collar. They are young dogs and very excitable, a fact that became apparent when Sonny pulled so hard on the lead that Rachel split both her sandal and her toe open. What followed was a quick display of Panamain kindness as an elderly lady shuffled out of her doorway with a bottle of iodine, a plaster and a new pair of flip flops patching little Woods up with equal measures of care and roughness. Papito obviously felt this wasn't enough excitement for one day, and proceeded to get himself in a fight with a dog even bigger than himself. As the two bit and scratched each other I tried to wrestle them apart with the leash, but they are so strong that it is near impossible. As the other dog limped away, Papito and Sonny pulled us up the hill and stopped to drink at a perfect place for us to get a view of the whole town... As these brutes pulled us home, we got the distinct feeling that they'd taken us for a walk, not the other way around...

Tomorrow we hit the old dusty trail back to David, then quickly on to our next destination - currently unknown...

Woody and Tink: Colon explorers...

November, and we find ourselves on a new island, in a new town, in a new country. Welcome to Bocas Del Toro, Panama. After a border crossing which involved two buses, a boat and a rather ropey walk over a disused old railway bridge, we arrived on the island to the sounds of a brass band and the sights of the Panamain Halloween preamble. Bocas Del Toro is made up of a group of islands: there's Bastimentos, Carenero, Zapatillas.... personally I take great delight in the fact that our island is called 'Isla Colon'... We really are fully fledged Colon explorers!

On our first day in town, we went out for a wee walksy around and a wee explore. Bocas Del Toro is an interesting mix. The buildings are very American - simple wooden affairs, something you might see in a Jack Daniels advert. Combine this with a laid back Carribbean feel, everyone boating around and relaxing and Bocas becomes a place that is very easy to like.

It was on this walksy around that we met Joe. Joe is on a road trip from Texas and he is hunting the Chupacabra. For those unfamiliar with the name, El Chupacabra is like the Bigfoot of Latin America - a possibly mythical beast (although not if you ask Joe) about the size of a small bear, that feeds on the blood of goats. To fund his trip, he and his friends make promotional films for restaurants and hotels as they go along... Cue myself and Woody being roped into a short cameo in one of his films! So we spent the afternoon sitting in an empty bar being filmed 'having fun'. To be honest it wasn't a difficult role to get into, considering they had a cool box full of beers and the free food was in no short supply. Our fellow cast members were mostly backpackers as well, so it was great to meet more travellers and exchange stories.

After the film was wrapped (yeah, that's filmy talk) we went in search of Joe's Chupacabra Mobile - he'd forgotten where he left it! A minute down the road we stumbled 'pon his vehicle - a 15 foot camper van, hand painted with tribal images. ¨Oh, there she is¨, Joe turned round, bemused and pleased in equal measure...

On the boat back to the other island we made plans to go to a Halloween party at El Toro Loco (the crazy bull). With limited budget, Woody constructed herself a cheeky little number out of a Scotland flag and a $2 tiara, while I made a face mask from my Lion Rampant and shaved myself a nice handlebar moustache. (much to Rachel's delight the handlebars will be with us for the whole of Mo'vember.)

A Panamain Halloween is very similar to a Scottish one - basically a lot of booze, fake blood and scantily clad policewomen... with the exception that you go to the club in a boat, and people do backflips off the roof of the club into the sea. That's the only real difference. Suitably fuzzy headed yesterday, we avoided the raging thunderstorm outside - although this evening there seems to be another approaching...

Would you like some grapefruit? Would you like some drugs?

As we rolled into the sleepy reggae town of Cahuita on the Caribbean coast I had something on my mind... Does Cahuita have a pie shop? And if so, do they weigh the pies there? And when they weigh the pies, do all the pies weigh the same, or do they weigh different amounts? Indeed, I was keen to find out about the Pie Weights of the Caribbean... (It took a while to think that one up, but it seems to be taking even longer to work it into conversation.)

Cahuita is just what you expect from a small Caribbean town - reggae music fills the street at night, the beach is picture perfect, and there's no such thing as a 'rush' - everyone goes at their own, ambling pace. My favourite thing about Cahuita, however, is the drug dealers. They have an almost childlike innocence about them, a lovely naive quality. They'll ask you if you want some of their drugs, and if you say no they'll still come back a wee while later just to see if you've changed your mind - they're nice like that. Drug dealers in Cahuita also have a brilliant opening gambit, which mostly involves offering you some fruit before moving onto the harder stuff: "Hey brother, you want some grapefruit? You want some drugs?" We've just started telling them we once overdosed on papaya - they know what that's like. Don't get high off your own supply. At least they're eager to see we're getting our '5-a-day'...

As things stand we've changed our plans, skipping the expensive and somewhat innaccessible Tortuguero for the South Caribbean coast. Last night we had a bit of indoor camping at Rocking J's and a bit of nightswimming with some crazy Americans. At time of writing, Woody and me have hired what must be the two girliest bikes in Puerto Viejo (pink, with baskets) to cycle to Manzanillo to check what Punta Mona are saying to it, and also to do some snorkeling... Word.

Mother nature - 0 Woody and Tink - 1...

Most people are familiar with the riddle about the farmer who is on one side of the river, and needs to get himself, his hen, his bag of corn, and his fox over to the other side. Nobody ever questions why he has a fox with him in the first place - is it a pet? Has he kidnapped this fox and holds it for ransom so the other foxes will stop bothering his hens? Who knows.

Imagine that the hen in this case is Miss Woodward, the corn is a sack of wet clothes, and the fox is in actual fact a bag containing cameras, passports, wallet and plane tickets. And the river is a river. A big one... Where riddles meet reality, I love it.

The precursor to all this river-based malarky is two days living in a cabin in the middle of the rainforest - La Bolita. Just outside of Dos Brazos del Rio Tigre, the cabin is surrounded by a series of trails, some of which lead sneakily over the border into Corcovado National Park.

Myself and young Woody had arrived here after a rollercoaster boat ride from Golfito, over the Golfo Dulce into Puerto Jimenez, or Port Jim. We hopped on the collectivo bus to Dos Brazos and then hiked up to the cabin - through the aforementioned river - in the lashing rain. This rain would persist for the next 12 hours, and swell the river considerably...

The cabin living was great - it felt like real `into the wild´ stuff, cooking before darkness falls because there was no power, lighting candles, then searching our surroundings for wild animals. Particularly exciting for me were the two rather sizeable machetes in the kitchen... `I AM SAVAGE MAN, I CHOP TREES, I MAKE FIRE, I HAVE SOUP AND PASTA TWIRLS FOR MY TEA´.

Among our discoveries along the trails were parrots, poison dart frogs, big spiders, a wee snake and a couple of hari kari toucans - so called because of the red circle they have on their stomachs. Not to mention a giant bat that smacked Woods in the face as it flew by. As the rain drove down, our thoughts then turned to the growing river - potentially cutting us off from Dos Brazos and our eventual passage back to San Jose. While it was great to be completely on our own in the rainforest, the feeling of isolation would become much stronger if we were trapped there by the forces of nature...

Having walked the trails all day, we decided to head for the river and cross while there was a break in the weather. We arrived at the bottom of a very long trail, faced by the beast which was now waist deep and flowing fast. The choice here was to go all the way back up the trail and try and make a crossing elsewhere, or just batter in and hope for the best.

I always think that when you intend to `batter in´ somewhere, it pays to do it sensibly and responsibly. So, priorities being as they are, the camera, passports and tickets were transported slowly but surely over the flowing rapids. Then, upon the next journey the two of us held hands and waded across in a more or less diagonal fashion with the flow. Victory, and with it many a congratulatory smack on the ass...

The collectivo bus back to Port Jim was great fun. How many places on Earth can three pregnant women can sit side by side with a machete weilding, toothless 90-year old man and it seems completely natural. The collectivo may be the only one..

While we dried our sodden kit out back in Port Jim, we went strolling. Strolling straight into a mangrove filled with crocs, waiting for birds to land and then trying to munch them. We relaxed with a few travelling companions and a few beers before emerging for the 5am bus to San Jose; a ten hour journey. Next stop: Tortuguero, on the Caribbean coast, where the turtles lay their little egglingtons on the beach. Much love...

In-flight entertainment...

When the Nicaraguan Contras were fighting the Sandinista regime in the 1980's, they purchased a load of military equipment from the US, under the Reagan administration. Among their purchases were two fairchild C-123 cargo planes; one of which was shot down over Nicaragua. The other was left abandoned at San Jose airport until 1990 when it was taken to pieces, hauled up a mountain, reassembled, and turned into a bar. It's one of the most surreal experiences to be sitting atop a mountain, drinking one or two Costa Rican Imperials with our new friends, inside a cargo plane looking out to sea as the rain lashes down at sunset. Rachel left her socks in the cockpit.

Once again we've moved down the Pacific coast to the small town of Quepos, which is the jumping-off point for visits to Parque Nacional de Manuel Antonio - home to some of the most exotic wildlife Costa rica has to offer. We saw crocodiles, capuchin monkeys, agoutis, raccoons, little red crabs, and even a wee friendly deer who met us on our arrival!

In sports... The previous night we'd suffered heartbreak to the extreme. After holding a 2-0 lead until the very last minute, Costa Rica could only manage a draw with the USA, meaning that the nation's hopes of World Cup football lie in a crucial playoff with Uruguay. The football was great though - so good that the kitchen of the bar we were in caught fire.
To me this kind of sums up the difference in attitudes between Costa Rica and the UK. Imagine a pub filling with smoke in Britain - it'd be everyone out onto the street, call the fire brigade and generally ruin everybody's football party. So it was brilliant to see the barmaid come from the kitchen, fire extinguisher in hand, laughing and waving "It's OK - this happens every night!" Pura Vida!

At the time of writing we're in the sleepy surfer's town of Dominical. It's about a million degrees outside...

Stop! Hammock time....

At the time of writing, I have to say it's been a good day, but also a challenging one. Firstly Woody and me awoke obscenely early to get the 4.45am bus from Montezuma back to San Jose. Which didn't arrive. A quick change of plans led us to a later bus at 5.30am, then a ferry, and another bus back to Costa Rica's capital. The journey was smooth - we didn't have to wait anywhere for more than 15 minutes and we seemed to have got over our initial bus-based speedbump with flying colours - arriving much earlier and much more cheaply than we'd anticipated...

We stepped off at the bus station to get a taxi to the hostel, and were immediately faced with various different scrappy young men trying to hail taxis for us and generally doing a lot of moving around behind us and in our peripherals. Normally that wouldn't be a problem, but when you've got a heavy rucksack on your back, a bag on your front containing passport and tickets, and one hand on the wallet in your pocket it can be a frustrating experience. Especially when you've got both eyes on the wee Woodward (although she can probably handle this type of crowdy mess better than I can).

With the backpacks front and back, I imagine we're like beached turtles, and in this scenario the scruffy taxi men were like baying hounds. When we eventually got in a taxi, it was all I could do not to scream "DRIVE! DRIVE! DRIVE!" at the driver. Although this would have been completely useless as he spoke no english, and the drama of the situation would definitely have been lost as I rummaged for the Spanish-English dictionary.

Our lack of coherent Spanish led to the following: Despite being given an address which included the neccessary street number, avenue number, name of the place and surrounding landmarks (and at one point a fairly accurate compass bearing), our driver had no clue where he was going.

With our broken Spanish, and general lack of more information, he must've been tempted just to stop the cab, take our bags out of the boot and tell us to get another taxi. He must've been tempted, because that's exactly what he did... Papped out of a cab in the middle of San Jose. He's just lucky I don't know what the Spanish is for 'bawbag'. Yeah.

For two people who have only visited San Jose once before, we found our hostel with ease, before being told we hadn't paid when we already had. In addition to the taxi debacle, this confusion was just generally frustrating. And one of my flip flops is broken. Yeah, life's difficult Toddy.

Prior to today me and Woody have had a fantastic 3 days in the beach town of Montezuma. Our room was at the front of a beach hut, and the only thing between us and the Pacific was a row of palm trees with hammocks swinging in the breeze. Every night we sat in the hammocks with a few beers watching the electrical storms out at sea, until last night we were hit by one. It caused a powercut along the whole beach, but it was cool to sit in a hammock in the complete darkness watching the lightning flicker all over the place as the winds raged and the warm rain splashed down.

Yesterday we trekked up to a waterfall for a wee swim and a wee jump-off-the-rocks which was brilliant. The highlight of the trek was on the way back down, we looked into the trees and were met with the cheeky face of a 'Caro Blanco' (whiteface) monkey... not just one, but a whole family including one with a monkey child clinging to it's back as it jumped from tree to tree. Amazing. That trek is also how I broke one of my flip flops....

No need to ask - he's a tour operator...

Our last day in Miami was amazing - we've met loads of brilliant people, who hopefully we will rendezvous with in various South American countries... We partied at Club Nikki Beach with our friends Javier, Gabriela and Nicola. The club was cool, on the beach with huge mattresses and sofas, although it was $14 for one drink. In true Scottish style we got a few bottles of wine and sat further down the beach, listening to the music. Stayed up all night to watch the sun come up over South Beach, only for sleepyhead Woodward to fall asleep at the last moment! Was incredible to see a place that's usually so crowded, totally empty... except for a wee man with a metal detector looking for lost jewellery and change.

We arrived in San Jose early in the morning, and went for an initial explore to get our bearings. Save for a few nice cafés and a market or two, it was a city like any other. So, after a quick team meeting we decided to change our plans and head North for the volcanic region of Arenal, via the wood carving town of Sarchi. We stopped off to do a zipline over the rainforest at San Luiz which was amazing. Very few times in my life have I felt like James Bond and Tarzan at the same time, and the views were unbelievable.

We stopped for 'las comidas tipicas', wherupon our guide Arturo pointed up to one of the tall trees by the roadside exclaiming 'slut, slut'... I know what you're thinking - the South American sex industry isn't what it used to be - but when we looked up the 'slut' in question was covered in long hair, had claws and was clinging onto a branch with its eyes closed. So our first ever sighting of a sloth at lunchtime on day one! When we turned around we were pointed to another tree, which had an orange and black iguana the size of a deckchair, its long tail drooping down like a snake. Needless to say Rachel pissed herself and dived for her camera, with eyes and smile as wide as each other...

Arturo drove us up to a hot springs, passing papaya plantations, sugar cane fields and coffee farms on the way. On arrival Woody and me were straight into the water and remained there the rest of the day - hot springs under a volcano in Costa Rica. Life is good.

Yesterday we had a good adventure, travelling from La Fortuna (where the rain is as heavy as in Scotland, but as warm as a shower) to Monteverde. We used what the locals call JeepBoatJeep, self explanatory really. The boat was great, and the final section driving was fun over the roughest, steepest roads I've ever seen. You know it's a bumpy ride when the driver takes one hand off the steering wheel to hold onto a handle!

The Costa Rican football team (Los Ticos - so called because Costa Ricans always use a diminutive way of speaking. For example a Colombian would say 'poquito', which means small. A Costa Rican would say 'poquititico', which I imagine means 'wee small') are playing tomorrow, so hopefully we can find a bar in the hippy town of Montezuma and absorb the Latin passion for football...

Bienvenido a Miami...

The adventure has finally begun!

So far Miami Beach has been magic... Started off with a beer, a burrito and a walk down Miami Beach at sundown, then a classic diner breakfast the next morning. Walked around South Beach, the marina, and Ocean Drive which is vibrant with music, fancy cars and lots of beautiful people asking you to eat in their restaurants... The weather is hot, but the people are cool - very relaxed and sure of themselves as they go from place to place.

Of course we've been on the beach, swimming in the sea trying to avoid sunburn and pelicans in equal measure. The pelicans are huge and crash into the sea trying to catch the small fish that nibble your feet if you stay still too long... Just waiting for a pelican to crash land on Rachel's head - I'll have my camera ready!

We've met some good people, namely our room-mates Javier y Gabriela - Colombians who have moved to Miami to find work. During the afternoons we sit outside the hostel talking to Javier (who has no english), in the most broken Spanish ever heard! With our respective phrasebooks, somehow we manage to get along...

Had a great night with people from the hostel, playing pool with Javier, a Californian named Tony, and a big drunk black guy called Nate who insisted on finishing every sentence with 'and shit' and describing Rach and Gabriela as 'pretty ass girls'. Found it hilarious to be complimented with the phrase "you raw as fuck!". A lifetime ambition achieved on day two...

From there we went to Automatic Slim's, a bar where the barmaids look like playboy bunnies, wear leather bikinis and pour booze into your mouth from the bar. Glad to say that I was able to play it really cool, didn't bat an eye. I absolutely was not clapping my hands in delight and screaming "I want some," while pushing my way past Javier to the bar. That absolutely did NOT happen, because that wouldn't have been cool at all...

....preamble

Much love. T-minus 40 hours until blast off...

The round of goodbyes is pretty much done, so all that remains is to say a big thankyou to everyone who has been so supportive and encouraging during these preparatory weeks. It has been great going around the country visiting people who have been forthcoming with inspiration, enthusiasm and general greatness on many levels... It's a great feeling to know how brilliant your friends and family really are.

In other news - the first challenge of the adventure has already been conquered. To cut a long story short the two plane tickets out of Chile were for the wrong date -about 6 weeks too early - and have been changed. They are now winging their way from Manchester in a helicopter to be picked up tomorrow.... Great success!

Onwards, see you on the other side....

Woody and Tink