Get Lost

Nerd’s Night In

The sun was going down over the Florida Straits and turning the sky all the shades of rose and gold you hear about in the brochures. Next to me a Cristal cervesa was slowly warming, thick rivulets of condensation trickling down the bottle. Up here, 13 floors above the Vedado district with spectacular views of the Havana neighbourhood, it was as if life couldn’t get any better. Then I ducked my head.

Almost at the end of a two-month trip that meandered through the southern states of the USA then to Cuba and was soon to head onwards to New York, I’d come to realise that not everyone who travels does so with a book. In fact, many don’t even bring an electronic device loaded up with reading material. Not a newspaper from home, a trashy mag nor a detective novel.

When I get on a plane, step one is getting headphones and a book tucked into the pocket for ease of access. My idea of hell is to be trapped for even an hour without something to read. When I see people board an eight-hour flight on a budget airline with no entertainment system and just sit – not even a foreign newspaper to pass the time – I want to tap them on the shoulder and ask, “Just what are you going to do for the rest of the day?” Because, let’s face it, on a seat that’s not even as wide as your bum, you’re not going to sleep.

That night on the patio at Casa Lily I couldn’t tear myself away from the world of Celia and Marco, the star-crossed lovers of The Night Circus. Having devoured Liane Moriarty’s What Alice Forgot, I’d gone to the communal bookshelf and traded it for an indistinguishable thriller, followed by The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time (almost too ashamed to confess I’d never read it) and finally Erin Morgenstern’s magic-realist tale. All in the space of four days.

During the days I walked the streets of Havana, spoke to artists, had lobster lunches in fancy restaurants, drank mojitos in some of Hemingway’s favourite bars, lazed on the patio of Hotel Nacional, rode the hop-on, hop-off bus then walked a little bit further. At the end of the day a little voice inside me would make earnest suggestions: “Perhaps you should find somewhere to take a salsa class.” “Wonder if there are any local bands playing nearby?” “Do you think it would be safe to walk along the Malecón after dark?”

That little voice needed to growl a lot louder, because as excellent as all these ideas appeared to be, I never dragged myself and my book further than a couple of streets away to eat a late dinner at one of the local paladares (little family-run restaurants). Sometimes – OK, most of the time – it’s easier to disappear into a fantasy world than attempt to interact with the real one.

I am well aware that as you read this you will be thinking I’m a complete nerd. That I will not deny. My geek is especially strong while travelling. Notes – yes, I take them; what about it? – are written in black, ruled A5 Moleskines. People find this weird, but as I look up at those matched remnants of trips past – in a perfect line on my bookshelf – I think, Oh, yeah, that’s so hard to understand. They also have pockets at the back, which are like mini historical repositories. I’ve just opened one at random and found some god-awful passport photos from years ago and a ticket from a Rodriguez concert in Nashville.

And although my books can sometimes seem as if they act as a barrier between me and the rest of the world – I’ll even admit to using them as such – they also often start something: a conversation with a stranger in a New Orleans bar who’s also read Dave Eggers’ Zeitoun or someone who’s simply pleased to inherit a just-finished copy of Gone Girl. Because, of course, they’re not something you want to bring home with you. No, there’s just no way you’d ever want to have to buy another bag to hold the books you’ve gathered during daily walks to McNally Jackson in New York’s Lower East Side, or send home a box filled with signed copies of Willie Nelson’s autobiography, books of essays written by Martin Luther King or copies of classics in hardcover you’d never be able to find in Melbourne. Seriously, what kind of weirdo would you have to be to do that?

Guatemala

Within the mountains of Central America lies Guatemala, a country rich in history, culture and natural appeal. This is the birthplace of the Maya civilisation, and despite many of the rainforest cities having been abandoned hundreds of years ago, the Maya still live and thrive in the highlands. Visitors can easily get to the Ixil Triangle in the western highlands to experience this culture for themselves.

Guatemala boasts one of the most beautiful cities in the Americas, Antigua, with its backdrop of volcanoes. Here the colonial architecture is unmissable, and its markets and squares are pulsing with energy. On a day trip from the city, you can hike up the rumbling, lava-oozing Volcan de Papaya, the most active volcano in Central America.

Travel to Tikal, an incredibly well-preserved collection of soaring Maya temples set deep in the rainforest, or spend a few days exploring the villages on the shores of Lago de Atitlán. The lake itself is huge and one of the most spectacular you’ll find. Panajachel is the main town, then take the boats that crisscross the water to other villages.

For adventurous types, this is a country with plenty to offer, from multi-day hikes across the Sierra Las Minas, with its untouched cloud forests, to kayaking on the Caribbean coast. The only thing stopping you will be a lack of time left on the itinerary.

Costa Rica

Burt Bacharach and Hal David weren’t referring to the Costa Rican capital when they wrote the hit ‘Do You Know the Way to San Jose’, but any visit to Costa Rica will no doubt include some time in its heaving capital. It’s charms aren’t obvious, but dig deep and you’ll find galleries and boutiques in neighbourhoods layered with history like Barrio Amón, amazing museums (guests enter the National Museum of Costa Rica through a butterfly house), and great nightlife.

The reason you’ve come to this Central American country, however, has nothing to do with discovering the urban charms of Chepe, as it’s known. Open the dictionary at ‘tropical paradise’ and you’ll spy a photograph of Costa Rica. It is the epitome of what travellers began looking for once Alex Garland stuffed up the tiny pockets of Thailand that had yet to be overrun by keen beachgoers. Here, you’ll find soft eco-adventure – from horse riding along palm-fringed beaches to rafting down fast-flowing rivers – in plentiful supply. Marvel at the volcanic peaks of Poas and Arenal before heading to the white-sand, palm-fringed coastline of Manuel Antonio National Park. (For lovers of lazy wildlife, this is one of the best places in Costa Rica to see sloths.)

Those eager to explore the rainforest and its creatures – squawking scarlet macaws, giant anteaters, sleek jaguars – should head to Puerto Jimenez. Located on the Osa Peninsula, it’s not only handy for Corcovado National Park, but, should you head south, you’ll also discover the tiny village of Cape Matapalo, with its pristine beaches and great waves.

Inland is the spectacular Monteverde Cloud Forest, a 10,500-hectare reserve consisting of 90 per cent virgin forest. The site has the largest number of orchids anywhere in the world (about 500 species in all), as well as huge numbers of birds – the rare and scared quetzal is still regularly seen here – frogs and even bigger animals like the agouti (a large rodent). The continental divide runs right through the reserve, so you can put one foot on the Caribbean side and other on the Pacific.

Go on a crocodile safari

When cruising the Black River in Jamaica’s southern parish of St Elizabeth, there’s a chance your guide will tell you that the river’s famous crocodiles are tame. They lie stretched out on the river banks, sunning themselves, or hovering just beneath the water’s surface under the cover of mangroves, steely eyes just visible. They look fearsome, but most have names, which many of them actually seem to recognise.

Tame or not, the crocodiles here are certainly abundant. As you make your way along the murky river, you’re guaranteed to get your money’s worth. And you won’t just see crocodiles – you’ll come across egrets, herons and other creatures flitting through the lush vegetation.

Whether they consider the crocs to be tame is another matter that you can ponder as you cruise. The river is the longest in Jamaica, named for the mossy layer on its bed which turns the water black, although you may actually find it more of a sludgy shade of brown.

Dance with the Dead

Towards the end of October, the cobbled streets of Oaxaca are not only filled with the usual stream of tourists who come to enjoy the rich culture and cuisine. Around ever corner and every alleyway lurk papier-mâché skeletons bedecked in their finery, and otherworldly beings setting out to spook. Shop windows are filled with skulls and bony beings carefully crafted in sugar or chocolate, and decorative altars to the dead are erected in hotel lobbies.

But don’t be afraid. This annual festival of the dead, Dia de los Muertos (Day of the Dead) is an uplifting celebration. While the evenings buzz with frantic street parties, the traditional activities centre mainly around homes and cemeteries as families welcome back those who have passed on for this briefest of visits. The spirits of the town’s children are the first to return on 31 October, with 1 November the time of the adult spirits and 2 November marking the night of farewell. As important a feature on the calendar as Christmas, this annual event coincides with Halloween, but is quite different from the witches and ghouls you may be familiar with – instead merging the traditions of All Hallows’ Eve, brought to Mexico by Spanish colonisers, with the pre-Colombian traditions of Mexico’s indigenous peoples.

The dead are depicted as smiling and dancing, and are greeted with music and a selection of their favourite foods piled high on the decorative altars. Graves in the cemeteries are decorated with flowers and candles by the friends and families, with many spending the night there to reflect and reminisce.

Steeling Trinidad’s Carnival

I’d never thought of street furniture as being particularly erotic but then I’d never seen a woman make love to a sign post either. Was I surprised? What do you think? Her flailing left leg booted me on the ankle. When I looked down she was seated on the footpath wearing the tiniest hot pants, legs akimbo, back arched, groin grinding against this now phallic object. Not something you see every day back home.

There’s no doubt that Carnival in Trinidad is sexy. It’s a time when people want to display themselves and be noticed in all their loud and sensual glory. But there are so many other facets playing on the senses that to focus on one would be to do an injustice to the overall brilliance of the occasion. Take ‘steel pan’ drumming, easily identifiable as the sound of the Caribbean and the focus of the renowned Panorama competition. This annual extravaganza between steel pan drummers is fought out under the floodlights on the massive stage in the Queens Park Savannah and is regarded as a festival highlight. Bands are heralded onto the massive Savannah Park stage by stilt walkers and skimpily clad flag-wavers dressed in band colours. Each performance lasts about 10 minutes, urged on by the crowd’s good-natured baying and dancing as wave after wave of shimmering metallic crescendos are sent out across the park.

If you can’t get a ticket into the main event, grab a few cool beers and head off to alternative pan yards like Phase II or Desperados in the week before the final. Ask any local or just follow your ears. Along with hundreds of spectators, you’ll feel like you’re at an impromptu open-air jamming session. Steel drums, be it a two pan tenor or six bass drums, belt out a full musical scale, complete with sharps and flats.

As with any event held during Trinidad’s carnival, the boundary between performer and audience is blurred. Trinidadians are not known for their shyness. It’s just not in their nature. So, while a hundred musicians send wave after shimmering wave of melodic beats deep into the night air, I’m swept along in a giant conga line, snaking through the dancing crowd. The rum flows, the music blurs and my ripped shirt says I’m having a great time.

Dexterity is a carnival trait, whether bodily, musically or verbally. The best demonstration of the latter is Extempo, or the art of singing extemporaneously around a given subject. Like most carnival events it’s held at Queens Park Savannah on the Friday before Carnival. Here you’ll eavesdrop on verbal jousting of the most deliciously barbed kind. The nature of Extempo is to demolish your opponent with wit. If you’ve seen Eminem’s film 8 Mile, then you get an idea of the style. Only here the music is calypso, soft and bouncy and understated. In the past, digs would be made at the expense of British rulers. Today it still has the power to annoy governmental figures.

The competition is brutal. These are people who could take Eminem apart word for word, leaving him just a pile of quivering consonants. Contestants are only told what the theme is once on stage. The mental alacrity, humour and ability to weave a narrative can make you blush with embarrassment for those on the receiving end. Each phrase, honed in just seconds, contains innuendo – sexual, political and otherwise.

But then Carnival is based on mockery. Initially introduced to Trinidad by the French, it was a way slaves could parody their owners, jibing at their extravagant balls and masks. Carnival does have its critics. Many eminent voices, including prominent Trinidadian journalist and writer Earl Lovelace, feel that knowledge of the origins of carnival are being eroded by a lack of education at schools and by the globalisation of the celebration; it’s now just another international event to sponsor and brand.

Take my lady of the lamp post. The night of her performance was J’ouvert, from the French, ‘day break’. Traditionally, this is a night when whip-carrying devils, oil-covered Jab Jabs, stilt-walking Moko Jumbies and many other figures from African folklore would come out. Sadly I came across none. Instead from the wee hours of Monday morning until sun-up, countless thousands bounced along in the vibrating wake of massive trucks packed with amps ambling their way all over Port of Spain. There seems little acknowledgement for the roots of carnival in Trinidad.

In my group, an old ambulance had been converted into a bar. Rum was the order of the morning. All anyone is expected to do is to follow the music. For the uninitiated, soca is a fusion of calypso with insistent Indian beats, dominated by a whacking bass and rapid-fire lyrics. When our truck encountered another posse the sound collision was astonishing. I feel sure those caught in the narrow space between the two passing trucks would have had their brain pulped and stomach eviscerated by the sheer monstrous volume.

You can still experience old-style traditions at the Kiddies Carnival on the weekend before Carnival. Don’t be put off by the name. You will definitely meet plenty of whip-cracking devils, jab molassies, bats and imps. As it happens, on Carnival Tuesday I was ‘lucky’ to run into some blood (well, red paint) carrying demons who well and truly left their mark on me.

This is the day of carnival when a whole year’s worth of costume planning, preparation and pent-up anticipation is finally released. The highpoint is the crossing of the Savannah Stage with your ‘band’ to perform for judges. Thereafter you are let loose on the city to head for other marking points. But what are judges actually judging? Drunkenness? An inability to shake one’s booty like a local? Who knows. You get no badge apart from the one sewn into your memory. However, I did return home with something fleetingly tangible – a bath full of pink water as the last of the red paint seeped from my hair.

Nicaragua

Three decades ago Nicaragua – gripped by civil war and rendered a tourism basket case – was a no-go zone. Today, much has changed, and the Central American nation is a picturesque land of peace – the rest of the world, however, hasn’t quite caught on.

While nearby Colombia is emerging from a tumultuous past as a travel hot spot, and neighbouring Costa Rica has long been popular with American tourists, Nicaragua remains blissfully off the radar. Yet the country has so much to offer: rumbling volcanoes ripe for sandboarding, quaint colonial cities, pristine beaches, enviable surf breaks, smiling locals, enchanting cloud forests, and a rich biodiversity that includes animals like toucans, macaws, leopards and even freshwater bull sharks. Home to one of the world’s largest lakes and abundant eco-tourism opportunities (more than 20 per cent of the country is protected), Nicaragua is the kind of place where you can genuinely get off the beaten track. But the winds of change are blowing and it won’t be long before the developers move in, bringing with them the tourist masses. Get there now.

The Bahamas

This bare speck of a nation might well have been the fictional place the Beach Boys imagined in their 1988 song ‘Kokomo’. Turquoise water. Check. A variety of beaches. Check. Stunning marine life and nature. Check. Lots of cocktails. Check. Hammocks. Check. Amiable people that live up to the island cliché. Check. It all adds up to make that fantastic island holiday complete.

It is also a great place to park your yacht and stay awhile. Given its close proximity to Florida, the Bahamas does have resorts filled with the requisite podgy and pasty tourists from developed nations although you can definitely escape that scene if you head to some of the smaller islands.

You’ll certainly enjoy the island life. Oh, and definitely, definitely don’t forget to pack your sunnies – all that white sand can be blinding!

Island of the Dolls

If Chucky had an evil playground, it’d be Isla de las Munecas (Island of the Dolls) in Mexico City. Haunted by the body of a girl he found floating in the canals, the island’s only inhabitant – Don Julian Santana – spent 50 years collecting and hanging dolls from trees to ward off evil spirits.

Unfortunately, it didn’t all go to plan and the dolls became possessed with the spirits of deceased girls instead. Rumour has it if you spend enough time on the island you’ll catch a doll’s arm twitching or sets of eyes following you as you walk.

In 2001, Santana mysteriously suffered a similar fate and was found drowned in a canal. Whether or not you believe the decayed dolls or the island itself are haunted, peering into the vacant eyes of a soulless dolly, riddled with mould and insects, will leave you feeling terrified.

Mexican Bikini Body Bootcamp

If ever there was an incentive to get buff, surely it’s the prospect of stepping out in a bikini (gasp). In public. Without a sarong.

At Amansala’s Bikini Boot Camp, a hardcore team of trainers will sweat away your insecurities and have you looking the business in no time. And the surrounds couldn’t be more idyllic. Imagine having Mexico’s Riviera Maya as your military camp HQ while you put your body through its paces on glinting white sand with the Caribbean Sea lapping at your toes.

Trade weights for coconuts and the treadmill for twilight jogs on the beach. The camp also serves up a sweat-fest of salsa and tribal dancing, kayaking, volleyball and yoga – whatever your physical fancy. Oh, and bikinis are optional if you would rather work out more modestly attired.

WHICH LETTER DOES YOUR DESTINATION START WITH?

region: Central America & Caribbean