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...