Six Central American countries in three weeks

 A man, a plan, a canal, Panama

The Pan-American Highway stretches an almost unbroken 30,000 kilometres from Prudhoe Bay in north-western Alaska to Ushuaia in Patagonian Argentina. Over the next three weeks, our journey will cover only a 2,000km section of this, through six different countries, albeit travelling further on the ground as we zigzag from coast to coast. The "almost"  is the notorious 105 km Darien Gap on the border between eastern Panama and Colombia, where completely impenetrable jungle is home to indigenous tribes and narco-traffickers. Our journey begins with 480 kilometres by highway bus from Panama City to David. 

But before that,the City itself. A couple of hundred kilometers west of Darien but a world away culturally. Facing out onto a broad bay in the Pacific with the queue of ships waiting for the entrance to the canal to the western end, Panama bakes in tropical heat beneath a sky full of Frigate birds and a million migrating black-headed vultures. The Americans formally moved out in 1999, handing the canal over in the process, but this still feels very much like US territory. The currency, though still  known locally as the Balboa, is effectively the dollar, impromptu baseball games spring up in the parks and on the city's tiny beach and the tower blocks are glitzy real estate. There's a Trump Tower. Everyone speaks English and passing strangers, even policemen, greet tourists with a hello and "welcome". The city feels very safe to walk around in, even alone, but no doubt there are darker corners. Like all of Latin America, Panama is the result of a chequered history.  The Spanish Conquistadors gave way to the Brits under Francis Drake and Henry Morgan, the Americans came and built the canal, then left the Panamanians more or less to it until Reagan came back under the pretext of "Just Cause" and then pulled out again having given Noriega's corrupt military dictatorship the heave ho in the late 90's (the so-called Latin Americam Crisis of the1970s and 1980s didn't make it as far as Panama, but more of that later). A quarter of Panama's four million inhabitants live in the city, but scattered beneath and between the tower blocks and flyovers are the ruins of the convents and churches of the first Spanish settlement, the graceful squares and grand buildings of the colonial years and, of course, the canal.

The statistics of the canal are perhaps more impressive than the sights: three locks up from the Pacific to the artificial Miraflores lake, then three locks back down to the Atlantic; 35 ships a day, northbound in the morning, southbound in the afternoon. Transit fees at typically $100,000 to over a million dollars account for over a tenth of the national economy. In the flesh as it were, it's all very slow and stately. The sheer size of the vessels mean that it is a very slow process, with four silver railway engines manoeuvring the ships through the locks. The international supply chain chaos caused by the container ship the Evergiven getting stuck in the Suez canal last year shows the importance of keeping these waterways moving, albeit very slowly.

After the canal, the other two "c's" of our short trip through Panama are cloudforest (and coffee) and the Caribbean. And so to the highway bus. The first four hours are a bit of a grind though roadworks, small towns and strip malls, as jungle gives way to light woods then crops and pasture. Lunch is a 20 minute pitstop at a barn-like roadside cafeteria, where a plate of chicken and rice is yours for two dollars. Then the road improves and the double-deck eight-wheeled Leviathan is eating up the miles on a new, smooth four-lane blacktop in air conditioned ease.

A quick change of buses in David and a pee stop best glossed over (think outside urinal in high winds) before a gentle climb 4,000 ft through teak forests to the first foray into cloud forest at Boquete. Home to coffee plantations and highly popular with ex-pat Americans and Europeans who have settled here to make artisansal bread and craft beer ,all still known semi-affectionately as gringos, Boquete lives up to its reputation and welcomes us with low cloud drifting through the treetops, light drizzle and a rainbow. 

Sadly, a somewhat disturbed night. The wind thundering down the valley rattled all the doors and windows, set all the town cockerels a-crowing in the dark, which in turn set off a fusillade of barking dogs, none of which stopped until the first fingers of dawn at 6am. Fortunately, the day dried bright and cloudless, ready for a short drive up through the coffee plantations (the locals in Boquete would have you believe that their Geisha beans are the best in the world - for $6,000 a pound they should be) and up to the start of a trail through the forest to a waterfall. We're on the lookout for the Resplendant Quetzales (that's a full name apparently, not an attempt at bigging up). The national bird is allegedly like that picture that did the rounds a year or two back: is the dress blue or black? A Quetzale can change from red to blue to green, depending how the light falls and the tail feathers were featured in Montezuma's headdress. 

We found the tiny avocados they are supposed to feast on, but no quetzales and no clouds: just clear blue skies and perfect temperatures for hiking up through the trees, ferns and creepers to the rushing waterfall at the top of the trail. A few hummingbirds, a few LBJs in the parlance of twitchers ("little brown jobbies") but the rest of the fauna will have to wait for Costa Rica. Back down the trail over a couple of rickety bridges made of plastic piping for the afternoon drive back up to 5,000 feet, over the continental divide from the Pacific to the much lusher, greener (and therfore wetter) Caribbean. A quick pull in at the roadside to watch a sloth languishing in a treetop before the drop down to the quayside for the transfer to the backpacker haven of Bocas del Toro. The ageing boat was already pretty full as we arrived and getting all the luggage stashed under the sharp end was a bit like 3D Tetris. This didn't deter the captain from caneing it for the 30 minute charge across the channel. My gag about Donald Campbell flipping the Bluebird over on Coniston Water during a water speed record didn't go down well.

Bocas del Toro: a paradise for surfers, divers and for exploring the neighbouring archipelago of tropical paradise islands...except in the rain.  And lots of it. A boozy lunch and books under shelter by the pool was the best we could make of it. And the forecast for the coming days doesn't look great. Tomorrow, a full day's drive to Costa Rica.

(Hummingbird and sloth pictures by John Porter)

Costa Rica: earthquake - what earthquake?

A new day and up early for the first boat of the day from the island of Bocas back to the mainland at Almirante. The rain has stopped overnight, patches of blue sky are appearing and two dolphins chase the boat across the strait. A quick check at the other end to ensure the porters have put the right baggage from the boat onto the right bus and we're away. Through a small forest of banana shipping containers and onto the highway to the border.

Before which, a few words on our group. During the last ten years, we have travelled to the four corners of the globe under our own steam as it were, booking transport,hotels and even local guides where necessary via the Internet. At the time this trip was booked, Covid lockdowns were still coming and going, travel was still being disrupted and so booking an organised tour seemed a good idea. Turns out we are in a group of 19, all Brits of similar age, background and travel experience, with our dedicated guide Jessica. Dutch, fluent in Spanish, having owned a restaurant in Honduras and now living in Mexico City, Jess is confident she will keep us out of trouble. And so it is at the first border crossing where Costa Rican guards need to see proof of planned exit in the form of a plane ticket. Jess has a "dummy" ticket and persuades them that the rest of her group have similar tickets but they are in the bags on the bus. So a half hour queue for exit stamps from Panama, a walk across the river which is the physical border then a (successful) queue for entry stamps into Costa Rica and away again on a brand new bus. The only downside to this organisation is that there are unlikely to be too many incidents challenges or disasters to write about. Five days in and the social side of the group is starting to establish itself: some meals are taken together, others apart, the same with walks and excursions and there is already a WhatsApp group for swapping photos, tips and plans.

Costa Rica is the main success story of Central America: lowest crime, highest literacy and average income,booming eco-tourism and, famously, no army since the late 1940s when the then president Figueras disbanded it after a brief civil war.

The nature of the environment changes quite quickly with the density and variety of trees increasing, and mile after mile of pineapple and banana plantations, the latter with the hands of fruit wrapped in blue plastic to slow the ripening process in preparation for transportation. And pineapples don't grow on trees, but on low bushes. The volumes of both fruits account for the acres of stacked shipping containers for miles around the main port Limon, where the Chinese are building (and funding) what will be the largest refrigerated port in the world and a new four-lane highway to the capital San Jose.  Although the buildings and houses are still predominantly made of concrete and corrugated iron, there are now gardens, ornamental plants, fences and even hedges.

So four days of eco-tourism, two in the Sarapiqui rain forest, two in the Monteverde cloud forest. And in the rain forest, it rained: boy, did it rain. Despite the deluge, a river boat trip yielded capuchin monkeys, a crocodile and a wide variety of brightly coloured birds. A guided night walk through the forest by torchlight discovered several species of the brightly coloured frogs for which Costa Rica is famous, a tree boa, a tarantula and a pit viper. This last was actually in the middle of the path and though only about a foot long was venomous enough to be lethal within two hours. The thing showed no signs of moving as we gingerly stepped round it. Personally the worst bit was crossing a 750 foot suspension bridge in the dark, swaying and rocking over the swirling river far below. The guide clearly knew what he was looking for and where to find it: in a few hours of downtime outside our "eco-lodge" in the forest in the rain, not a single bit of wildlife was apparent. Later, nearly 10:00 o'clock at night, absolutely pitch black in our rainforest Lodge and maybe three layers of sound. In the far distance carried by the breeze, heavy trucks, presumably laden with pineapples or bananas, labour up and down through the gears; nearer the crash of the Sarapiqui river which we crossed on foot to get to the lodge and nearby, the hum, buzz and whine of a million insects.

From rain forest up 1,300 metres to the clouds, passing the Arenal volcano and lake on the way, with a brief stop to watch a family of Coati Mundi strolling on the roadside. No clouds in the cloud forest, though: clear blue skies but a ferocious wind which must be gusting at 50mph puts paid to most activities. The Papagayo blows across the continental divide from Caribbean to Pacific and is at its strongest now. A morning walk with two guides reveals countless hummingbirds, lots of other brightly coloured local species, an armadillo and a glimpse of the Resplendant Quetzale, but only through the guides' scope (does that count?). An afternoon walk higher still over hanging bridges in the cloud canopy and we see a family of large black monkeys in a treetop (no guide, so no name) and more hummingbirds. The wind is now getting seriously irritating so back to lower levels for the crossing into Nicaragua.

And the earthquake: 5.5 on the Richter scale lasting 60 seconds at 2:20 am yesterday morning and just 41 km away. Didn't feel a thing.

Nicaragua: a border, some bikes and into the Ring of Fire

The island of Ometepe has two volcanoes, Concepcion and Maderas, one active and one dormant, but both are shrouded in clouds as we arrive as the unseasonable weather continues. The following day and clear skies, less wind and the promise of a beautiful day. Three of us hire bikes and set off to explore. A mixture of good block-paved roads and dry tracks with a very loose surface, but despite erratic gears, inadequate brakes and several dropped chains, no major mishaps. We pass through plantations of bananas and plantains (bigger, less sweet and need cooking), loose dogs, cattle and horses on the road and loads of kids on their way to school in their smart white and black uniforms. After two hours of seriously undulating roads, with the gears never quite up to the downs or the ups, we are on serious need of refreshment. A local directs us 1.5km down an unmade road then another 300 metres down a track and we come upon the perfect clichéd backpacker shack under the trees looking out over the lake towards Concepcion, which is now not in the clouds. Welcome to Nicaragua.

The actual arrival was anything but welcoming, administratively at least. Without going into all the details, off the bus to queue to pay the $10 Costa Rican exit tax, back on the bus for a few hundred yards to queue again for the exit stamp. Retrieve the baggage fron the bus for the walk across the border: two separate Covid passport checks then queue again for the entry stamp and more importantly the 90-day visa for the four CA-4 countries (Nicaragua, El Salvador, Honduras and Guatemala). Finally get the bags x-rayed and find and board a new bus. Back onto the Pan-American Highway and away we go.

The CA-4 countries are also those which carry the preconceptions and doubts lingering on from the so-called Central American Crisis of the 1970s and 1980s, in which the US propped up various unsavoury governments in the face of protest and even civil war fomented by socialist uprisings. In Nicaragua, the Sandinistas led by Daniel Ortega defeated the US-backed Contras in 1981. Ortega was defeated in an election in 1990 but was reelected four times in the new century and is now effectively president for life. For better or for worse? This area is Ortega country, so we haven't found anyone who will tell us yet, but we will persevere.

An afternoon walk along the coast road (slowly, because of the heat and pausing at a roadside bar on the way for quesedillas, where a children's birthday party is in full swing and where sea eagles are swooping and gliding overhead) to the Ojo de Agua swimming pools, fed by run off from the volcanoes. Swimming in cool, fresh water beneath the tree canopy with parakeets screeching in the trees and the occasional kingfisher diving for fish. A vendor sells Coco Loco: a coconut emptied of its water and filled with a mix of white rum, dark rum and cream. Yours for $3. He allegedly has 47 children from 18 wives so Coco Loco doesn't appear to have done him any harm.

The former Spanish colonial city of Granada is less than fifty miles from Ometepe as the crow flies, but concrete and corrugated iron, forest and dusty tracks have been replaced by a city grid of multi-coloured low rise Spanish buildings. Low rise because we are now firmly on the Pacific Ring of Fire, the string of volcanoes and seismic  activity which encircles the ocean. Pretty much the only cars on Omitepe were the tiny microcars built by Indian manufacturer Bajaj: Granada has plenty of traffic but not much congestion. Nicaraguan drivers are conspicuously polite: if a pedestrian even vaguely looks like they want to cross a road, drivers will stop and wave them across. There are dogs everywhere, seemingly strays, maybe not, but they are no trouble at all. If one follows you, it seems like they just want someone to walk with.

Nicaraguan politics update: we spoke to someone (at this point Wikipedia would say "citation needed" - no chance) who was the son of an ex-Sandinista General who fled the country for America. The son came back and behaved himself until he and two friends made a short film for the BBC. The other two were arrested and sentenced to seventeen years, he was luckily away in Costa Rica where he stayed to avoid arrest. When the Red Cross negotiated the release of political prisoners, he came back and despite being vocal against the government in private, has managed to avoid hassle. His brief summary is that at best, the Sandinistas were incompetent and trashed the country's infrastructure and then later corrupt, rigging election results to the extent that nobody bothers voting anywhere and puts up with government not representing them.

The fumigation team are in in town. Mosquitoes are a big annoyance on this mainland side of the lake. We arrive at San Juan de Oriente, on the way up to the rim of a live volcano, at the same time as the team. Three men in sinister looking PPE brandish shoulder-mounted diesel-powered smoke throwers and fill each house in turn with a rank smelling cloud as the inhabitants stand around outside helpless. Two doses a year are required to keep down Dengue fever, so presumably a price worth paying.

Smoke of a different and even more foul smelling kind from the top of the crater of Masaya volcano. Visitors are only allowed at the top for 10 minutes to minimise the risk of being caught out in an explosion. The last serious alarm was in 2016 and the surrounding lava fields from major eruption in 1772 spread for miles.  The chain of volcanoes continues along the tectonic join into our next destination, El Salvador.

El Salvador: the bloodiest legacy

The left-hand lane of this new two-lane highway is blocked by five miles of nose to tail trucks, queuing for the border into Nicaragua. Having cleared the border, the bus is speeding along the right lane at a legal 80kph when a huge eighteen wheeler comes round the bend ahead pursued by two pick-up trucks, all on the wrong side of the road, charging for the border. There is nowhere to go. None of the vehicles drops speed and breaths are held for a few tense seconds then the truck and pickups swerve onto the hard shoulder and squeeze past with inches to spare. The left-lane queue can  take two weeks to get through but sufficient cash buys a quick route past (or this was just some guys chancing it?). This is Honduras. Earlier we had seen sunset and sunrise on the same night: sunset with a cocktail looking out over the glistening Pacific from Suyapa beach near Leon, the latter as the first rays of light from the east turn the volcanoes of Casitas, Telicas and San Cristobal into a riot of greens and browns. A languid plume of smoke coils from the open crater of San Cristobal, the tallest of the three. A short photo stop after which the driver tells us the adjacent field was full of rattlesnakes.
The early start was for the first of two four-border days: out of Nicaragua, briefly into and then out of Honduras and finally into El Salvador. Getting out of Nicaragua was as tedious as getting in, Honduras was better. The rumoured inbound Covid checks turned out to be the issue of pre-completed chits confirming a temperature of 36.7 degrees, with no thermometer in sight. El Salvador was even quicker and the four crossings were achieved in about two and a half hours, separated by a two-hour blast across Honduras, itself punctuated by two police roadblocks, where armed officers asked to see all passports, " because they can". The landscape changes rapidly, with the sudden drop in rainfall reflected in a dry, dusty landscape  and the lack of infrastructure for waste collection quickly apparent in the piles of trash across the roadside and surrounding countryside some of it (but not much) smouldering.

Back to Honduras later, but first to El Salvador, the country most ravaged by the uprisings and revolutions of the 1980s. This was actually second time around: in the 1930s some 95% of the indigenous population were killed in a scorched earth policy by landowners to prevent an alleged spread of revolution from Mexico. Later, the civil war of the 1980s turned into the bloodiest of the Central American uprisings. Economic demonstrations in the early 1980s were brutally put down by the government, led by Duarte. In response, the FMLN  rebels armed themselves and declared civil war

Government death squads carried out massacres in rebel araeas until the UN finally brokered peace negotiations in the early 1990s, by which time 80,000 were dead and over 10,000 missing. We're in Suchitoto, which was a rebel stronghold and the colonial buildings in the pretty cobbled streets still bear the scars. Bulletholes have been left unrepaired as a reminder of those dark days. Now it's gang warfare rather than civil war underpinning the tension: every petrol station, hotel and restaurant appears to have an armed guard,: one, when asked if he had ever had to use his gun in anger said yes, but not recently. Authorities have used emergency powers to round up 40,000 suspected dangerous members, mainly on the basis of having the "right" tatoos and locked them up in a new purpose-built jail. This has made things much better, he says. 

The long journey across El Salvador in six words: hot, dusty, forested, mountainous, congested, littered. After 13 hours a comedy moment: hotel located and bags unloaded, the driver has got his bus wedged under the hotel's entrance arch. Would we all please rejoin the bus, together with the entire staff of the hotel and a few random bags, in an attempt to lower the bus' suspension. It worked: just and the rooftop aircon unit lives to fight another day.

Lake Suchitlan was created in the 1980s by the damming of three rivers and now provides 40% of El Salvador's power via a hydro-electric scheme. It stretches in a long curving valley below the town of Suchitoto from where there are numerous lookouts out over the water and past the scrubby hillsides to the line of mountains  beyond, partly shrouded in a plume of volcanic smoke. The surrounding hillsides are teeming with life and natural beauties. Ask a bunch of 60- and 70-sonething year old blokes if they'd rather go exploring in an air-conditioned bus or stood in the back of a Toyota pick-up truck like a bunch of kids, there are plenty of spare seats on the bus. A tour of a few sights ends with a celebratory shot of chappal, a hooch distilled from corn and eased down with a suck of lime.

Later, tried to buy a sample of the same drink in the busy bottle store just off the main square. Found something which was not chapparo but still "the national drink". In for a penny, in for a pound. Or more accurately, in for $1.25. Unlocking the door to the hotel room out in the gardens, there is a massive crash a few inches to the left. Having sorted itself it, a five inch long green locust is sat atop the light fitting. Apparently common here, but not yet at plague numbers, you wouldn't want to argue with one.

The next day dawns bright and clear over Suchitlan lake. After a bit of a collective low towards the end of the first week, mainly brought on by the rain in Bocas del Toro and Sarapiqui and the slightly disappointing hotel at the latter, the mood is getting better with each new country. Our (very) brief stay in El Salvador has left everyone in a good mood, apart from whoever is today's victim of the minor stomach lurgy doing the rounds. The Salvadorean scenery is stunning, the people we have met have been friendly and we have eaten and drunk well. Apparently, National Geographic have just made the first TV documentary about wildlife un the country which hopefully will halp put it rightly on the tourist map.

Honduras a second time: I, me, Mayan

Another four border day: because of El Salvador's small size and shape, we have to pass into and out of Guatemala to get back into Honduras. After the day from hell two days ago, if such a thing is possible in an air-conditioned coach, today has been much slicker. A few phone calls from our guide to coordinate and the bus pulls into a shop forecourt to meet a delivery van carrying an individually named lunch and hot drink for all of us, saving hours of faff at a service station. At the swanky new El Salvador exit post, a very polite guard in a crisply pressed uniform boards the bus, takes all our passports and returns with them all duly stamped just a few minutes later. The Guatemalan entry guard wanted a bribe to do the same so it's all off the bus to queue up, but even so, ten minutes later and we're rolling again. A couple of steep mountain pass ascents and descents, an ice cream stop amidst the volcanoes to the beat of a Latin dance rhythm belted out on indoor speakers then down to the next two borders. Another spurious Covid check, two quick stamps, this time both in the same building and back outside. Meanwhile, another guard is trying to extort a few hundred dollars from our tour guide in fictitious fines and taxes: a thirty minute stand-off then it's Holland one, Honduras nil and back on the road again.

Cheap journalism would have you believe that Honduras is the murder capital of the world. True, there are about 3,500 murders per year, but this is the lowest rate since 2006 and falling following the declaration of emergency powers by the government, and is also on a par with Venezuela, Mexico and the US. The most dangerous Honduran city, San Pedro Sula at 500 per year is ranked 15th in the world after six cities in Mexico, two each in Brazil and Venezuela and Baltimore and St Louis in the US. In any event, San Pedro Sula is nearly 200km from this quiet corner, close to the Guatemalan border, where all is quiet and it's all about Mayan ruins.

 

Less remembered than the Aztecs and Incas, the age of the Maya was from about 250 - 900 AD and wasn't an empire at all, but a confederation of city states and kingdoms which stretched from southern Mexico to this Eastern corner of Honduras. Copan is one of the best preserved sites and the remains of pyramids, squares, palaces and obelisks bask gracefully amongst the trees. The screeches of the Honduran national bird, the scarlet macaw echo through the forest accompanied by the occasional flash of red.

A two dollar tuk-tuk ride takes us to Macaw Mountain, a cooler reserve up the river valley, where macaws are being rescued or bred for future release back into the wild. There's something about a tuk-tuk ride guaranteed to put a stupid grin on your face: the breeze stirred up in the afternoon heat, the holding of breath as the driver pushes a 40" wide tuk-tuk through a 41" gap in oncoming traffic, the intuitive trading off of momentum, centrifugal force and centre of gravity to avoid rolling over on tight, hilly corners.

Guatemala: end of the road

I love the sound of a Mariachi trumpet doing the sombrero dance at 4am. And with added fireworks is even better. Our room fronts onto the main road so the celebrants may as well have been inside the room as outside. Apparently it's how they celebrate a birthday round here, as 4am is normal time get up to get the tortillas started. Enough of macaws and Mayan ruins, Copan is a cobble-stoned village of just a couple of low-rise blocks in all directions from a tree-filled square with a simple church facing the government buildings. Most accommodation and restaurants are at backpacker level and after dark, there is no hint of danger or trouble. Locals relaxing on their porches outside all mumble a cheery "buenos noches" to passers by and once again, an inquisitive dog accompanies us back to our hotel near the edge of town. There are public buses from here to San Pedro Sula starting at first light, but probably best to head in the opposite direction: west towards Antigua, Guatemala and journey's end.

Last double border crossing of the trip executed in twenty minutes flat, which was more about lack of traffic rather than improved performance on our part. The first part of the road through Guatemala is grim: a long string of wheezing container trucks strung out over an undulating and twisting road snaking across a dusty plain between two ranges of desert mountains, on the top of one of which can clearly be seen Clint Eastwood on horseback, with three days growth of beard, sporting a poncho, chewing on a cheroot and squinting into the sun. Just two weeks after arriving in the Sarapiqui rain forest and one week after a sunset bird watching trip in Granada, there's little evidence of wildlife here beyond vultures circling high on thermals. And after mangoes, corn and okra, Guatemala's main industry must be speed bumps. They are dumped everywhere, often in twos or threes, requiring the already crawling traffic to slow to walking pace. After a brief pitstop in searing heat for toilets and takeaway sandwiches, the road improves to a dual-carriageway, but forward progress is further hampered by being stopped at three police checkpoints within two hours  where armed guards once again board to check the passenger manifest. Wonder what they're looking for: possibly the miscreant who ignored the ubiquitous instruction to the contrary and flushed some paper down the toilet, causing a potential sewage backup all the way to Panama City.

Guatemala City becomes the fifth capital city we have missed out, after San Juan, Managua, Tegucigalpa and San Salvador, as being too big, uninteresting, messy and even dangerous (according to Lonely Planet, the best thing about Guatemala City is "leaving"). The city is built on the dreams of poor agricultural workers looking for a better (and richer) life, those dreams perishing in the suburbs of concrete breeze blocks, decay and traffic congestion. 

The grim journey across the capital is compensated by arrival at Antigua, the former capital until a devaststing earthquake in 1772. At over 1,500m, Antigua is noticeably cooler and therefore suited for exploring on foot what is reputedly the best preserved Spanish colonial city in Central America.

 Exploration begins with a short journey by "chicken" bus. Entrepreneurs over the whole of Central America bought up these 1950s school buses from New York City and set them to work here. Three quetzales (30p) buys you a journey into town and 15 quetazales will take you all the way back to Guatemala City should the mood take you. Each operates a fixed route, painted on the front and they compete for custom with extravagant paint jobs, lots of chrome, booming sound systems (reggaeton is the soundtrack of choice) and even WiFi. Only 45 seats but often up to 85 and more passengers. Antigua central bus station is a hive of activity, with dozens of gaudy buses coming and going. The bus station gives onto the central market, a riot of fresh fruit and vegetables, flowers, spices and clothes. Four of Guatemala'37 volcanoes are active and the nearest, Fuego, lives up to its name today, emitting a large puff of smoke and ash every five minutes or so. The last serious eruption was in 2018 but if the interval between smoke belches is less than five minutes, more serious activity may be imminent. 

The city centre is just ten blocks each way of low-rise colonial, peppered with ruins fron the 1773 eruption and surrounding the large elegant central plaza. No more colourful birds filling the air and trees: the much milder climate means it's all pigeons and sparrows among the Jacaranda blooms which mark the coming of Easter.

And that's it. 2,000 accumulated kilometres from Panama  City to here will unwind in a two-and-a-half hour flight tomorrow, as if to emphasise the fact that ground travel reveals much more about the slow changes in countryside, wildlife, weather and people as we go. Glittering western city, through cloud forest, rain forest, tropical beaches, dust desert and colonial history: probably far too much too quickly, but who knows when we might pass this way again?

(We travelled with Journey Latin America, and special thanks to our Passepartout, guide and fixer Jessica de Gier)