Deutschlandia

So I was going to call this missive ‘Deutschland uber alles’, in doing so combining the title of the seminal Dead Kennedys song, ‘California uber alles’, with my location.  My partner Susi, who is German and travelling with me for the rest of the journey, learnedly pointed out that maybe the Kennedys weren’t the first to use such a phrase and, given it was the anthem of a group of chaps responsible for a few global fracas’s last century, it may not be appropriate as a title.

A fair point, but my time here highlighted how much of a leader Germany is in terms of sustainability, and in an unofficial theme that’s organically developed through my travels, a night, or several, on the town. It’s also hard to escape the leadership role of Germany in holding the European Union together, with The Guardian coining the phrase ‘The Accidental Empire’ in recognition of this.

Tharandter Wald

I spent most of my time in Germany staying with Susi’s sister in Tharandt, a small town of about 5,500 souls near Dresden, before catching up with friends in Berlin for the weekend. It’s fair to say you don’t come to Tharandt for the nightlife, it’s quiet nature is why people reside here and Susi’s sister lives in the penultimate house on the edge of town, surrounded by the Forest Botanical Garden of Tharandt that leads onto the magnificent Tharandter Wald, the oldest forest in Saxony. Sitting around an open fire one evening with the stars in the sky the silence of the surrounds was at times quite stunning, only broken by the crackling of the fire.

Ralph

Tharandt isn’t a place I’d have expected to come across interesting sustainability examples but walking home from the station one day we came upon Dresden local Ralph, recharging the bemusingly named Kangoo (a cross between a kangaroo and an Obama speech) electric vehicle he had on trial. 

Ralph is definitely on the leading edge of the uptake curve and was prepared to overlook the current six charging stations in the Dresden region, a range of 180km and a recharge time of 6 hours for the free electricity he’d receive if he purchased the vehicle from the sponsored charging station. In conversation it’s apparent that Ralph is both interested in sustainability issues and looking to the future when charging times are predicted to come down to 30 minutes next year. This improvement is part of an overall German government strategy that seeks to have a million electric vehicle users on the road by 2020.

 

A walk through the afore mentioned Forest Botanical Garden of Tharandt also surprisingly revealed a highly professional information trail focused on sustainability in general (including a peculiar table contrasting the number of Google hits associated with ‘sustainability’ and its German counterpart 'Nachhaltigkeit' ), and the interaction of climate change on the forests of Germany, and the ability of various species to adapt.

With all these positives you’d not quite expect games of nude twister to be spontaneously breaking out on the streets, but if my journeys between Dresden and Berlin were any indication a simple smile, impulsive ‘hallo’ or even simple nod in your general direction wouldn’t go astray. 

Having been travelling for a while I booked a seat from a car sharing website to save money, and potentially meet a few locals for the ride from Dresden to Berlin. I unfortunately missed a seat in a one Marvin Sontag’s Golf 6, and instead found myself on a Friday afternoon stood in a McDonalds car park by the side of the motorway outside of Dresden waiting for Michael and his 2 door Saxo. Michael arrived dead on time and I soon met the other passenger for the journey.  Crammed into the back seat I played the role of the overtly friendly Aussie for the first 10 minutes, asking questions about the trip and the lives of my companions before giving up on the strained responses and travelling the rest of the trip with my headphones in. Booking into a cabin on the way back to Dresden a few days later I had a similar joyful experience with the other two travellers who were fiercely competing with each other for the world title of longest time spent mimicking a face like a bucket of bolts.

In terms of my time in Berlin I spent many long hours with an old friend, and one met travelling in Belize testing the theory as to whether the city has the best nightlife in Europe, and potentially the world at the moment. As it was the start of Berlin Art week we interspersed our nocturnal activities visiting the highly engaging Art Berlin Contemporary Exhibition.

I stayed in Friedrichshain, an area, like many in the former eastern part of Berlin that, due to the readily available cheap housing post the fall of the Berlin wall, saw an influx of artists and creative types. Now it’s a hub of the Berlin nightlife and I was amazed how much English I heard as we moved from bar to bar. 

I’m not the only one who has noticed and this article sums up the backlash against tourists from the rest of Europe that have been flocking to the area. Fortunately for the Berlin locals I know of just the person who will gladly bring the edge back into their neighbourhood, if politely requested.

An estranged homecoming

For four years I called London home, but that was eight years ago, and while I won’t go all Gotye, each time I visit we’ve grown a little further apart.  Our estrangement was highlighted when a friend quipped, ‘welcome home’ on meeting for a drink in a London pub the Sunday afternoon after arriving and it struck me how little London feels like home, in stark contrast to when I lived there and Australia felt like a distinctly foreign land.

As with many Australians my time in London was marked by a decidedly indifferent start, where I shared a cramped ex Council flat in a dodgy neighbourhood with a group of South Africans, lived on 8p tins of ALDI mushy peas (mmm, mushy peas) and forsook any alcoholic beverage for several months.  After a while however I found my feet, was able to trade in my South African housemates and enjoy the vibrant lifestyle London offers, such as I experienced during this visit when belting a little bit of LMFAO and other such classics with good friends till the wee hours of a Monday night in a Soho karaoke bar.

Our changed relationship was also highlighted during my visit by the time, or rather lack of it, I spent in London, for the vast majority of those I knew when living in London have either moved overseas or retreated to the countryside with their new borns.  So over the course of a week I became a doyen of British Rail and in lovely late summer sunshine (apparently I was very fortunate) took in relatives and two 2 year old birthdays through Bristol, Malvern and a classic English weekender in Brighton, where in addition to children’s birthdays and early morning swims in the sea, I was able to unsuccessfully stalk, from a respectable distance, Nick Cave’s balcony in the hope of a sighting in the unofficial Australian celeb quarter of Sussex Sq.

On my way back from Brighton I changed trains and had the pleasure of a truly English experience as I heard drunken soccer chanting coming from a platform of a recently arrived train, which struck me as odd considering there were no games that day.  As the crowd came into view and moved past me I realized from their emblazoned attire it was a very drunk group of David Weir supporters, the multi gold winning English Paralympic.  Being in London during the Paralympics I couldn’t help but be impressed with the level of support and genuine excitement from the English for the sold out event and their ingenuity in finding a reason to get tanked.

Emma, Susannah and I

From a sustainability perspective I was fortunate to spend my final day in the UK at the Olympic site in Stratford with a former colleague, Emma, who is manager of the Commission for a Sustainable London 2012, an independent body established to monitor the sustainability performance of the various Olympic and Paralympic bodies and Susannah, a sustainability adviser with the London Organising Committee of the Olympic Games and Paralympic Games (LOCOG).

Not sure either

There’s a pleasant video of Olympic and Paralympic sustainability examples by the thinking woman’s bit of crumpet, Kevin McCloud, on the LOCOG website, but from the interviews with Emma and Susannah the key insights I gained were the success of the Commission as an independent body proactively influencing and ensuring the sustainability targets were taken seriously, the commitment and resources available to LOCOG to address the targets, the no-white elephant approach to stadia and venues and the tension between corporate sponsorship and the sustainability vision for an event such as the Olympics. 

The corporate sponsorship issue is of particular interest as invariably events such as the Olympics and the World Cup require large multinationals to provide sponsorship to cover costs and supply products on the necessary scale.  From the discussions these organisations are often more than willing to consider alternative approaches for their activities at the events themselves, but how far the event is able, or should then influence how the company performs in the lead up to, or during, or after an event is a different conversation. As Emma and I discussed, even loved companies such as Apple have been enveloped in media storms around their international operations.

Leaving London two words, newly learnt during my time there, stuck in my mind, ‘strim’ (the Olympic wrapping surrounding everything in sight to signify you're at the Olympics), because it is quite clearly a made up and ridiculous word, and more seriously, ‘incession’ – an incessant recession, a challenge the London and the UK will need to address in the post Olympics come down.

Ice landing

I was enjoying an afternoon coffee and reading a local paper in Reykajvik when I came across a remarkable stat that on average there are 2 murders a year in Iceland.  This seems a remarkably small number in the context of where I’d been recently, Guatemala for example averages 70 per week, with just over 40 a week in Guatemala City alone, while Honduras, with the current highest murder rate in the world averages a violent crime every 74 minutes.

I was also thinking at the time that I had more chance of being murdered that gloomy afternoon as I did of seeing the sun, or it stopping raining in Reykajvik during my short 36 hour stop over from New York to London. Luckily however I drew on my savy travelling experience and contrived an elaborate approach to ensuring that I did see glimpses of sunshine during my time in Iceland. 

Sun?

After an afternoon trudging around the city in the cold wind and rain and discovering that the sole of left foot is no longer water proof I made my way back to the hostel. As the bus for my flight to London was due to pick me up at 4:30am I was keen to wring enjoyment out of Iceland and sample the famed nightlife of Reykjavik before departing.

The beauty of the hostel is that invariably you will find accomplices for such endeavours and so with a fellow Australian, a French and a German we had a few beers at the hostel bar before heading into town.  Around 2am I made the enlightened decision that by now there was no point in trying grab an hours sleep and that’d push through to when the bus arrived.  After the obligatory late night feed I made my way back to the hostel around 4:15am, allowing myself enough time to grab my gear and meet the bus. 

Checking my pockets however I found I somehow lost the key to my locker.  No problem I’ll just grab the spare….unfortunately however the night clerk didn’t have one and suggested I look harder for my key.  I thought about where I may have lost it and through the haze remembered spilling money on the ground when counting change for the food. 

Giving up on catching the bus and resigning myself to an expensive taxi fare to the airport I retraced my steps on the post rain slick and shiny streets.  I searched in vain but found no trace of my locker key.  Returning to the hostel the night clerk then decided the best course of action was to break open the locker.  So at 5am, with me holding his phone for light we tried with a set of plyers and a file to jimmy the lock open….which only succeeded in him breaking the file off in the lock.  Unfortunately I was in a 6 bed dorm and all around formless shapes were rising and peering with squinting eyes at the light and the banging and screeching noises coming from my locker in the centre of the room. After the clerk and I had both had a crack at the non-budging lock we retired to the hallway to converse on our next move, which was to admit defeat and waiting until 9am when the day manager arrived.  Unfortunately my flight was at 7:40am and I had to kiss goodbye my ticket.

Struggling to sleep due to annoyance at myself I wandered out to reception where the newly arrived manager calmly followed me back to my room and unlocked the stubborn locker door to reveal my belongings.

By this stage I was well and truly over Reykajvik and spent a small fortune on a new flight leaving that afternoon.  As luck would have it I was able to glimpse the sun a few times on the 50km or so bus ride out to the airport. I eventually lobbed into London around 10pm, having had minimal sleep over the past 48hours during a rather expensive time in Iceland.

Gentrification

Arriving into New York has been a bit of, not really a shock, more a jolt back into the familiarity of the western world.  No longer do I have to look round for the bin to dispose of the toilet paper, or lie there in morning with a parched mouth wishing I'd remembered to buy water on the late night wander back to the hostel.  For the first few days I probably also held the unofficial title of the Slowest Man in New York as I put into practice my well developed Caribbean lollop.

High Line

New York has seen a significant upgrade in accommodation as for the first time since I started my trip I’m staying with friends in an apartment on the border of Williamsburg and Greenpoint in Brookyln, effectively wedged between hipster central and Poland, an interesting combination, walk one way and it’s kielbasa and borscht city, cross the street and it’s hidden bars, obscure providores, startling beards and cute little restaurants where you find yourself sat across from the dorky guy from Friends.

Being here I’ve refocused on seeking out interesting sustainability examples. One of the most well known on the west side of Manhattan, is the High Line, a former freight rail line that’s been converted to a 16 block stretch of urban parkway floating above the streets below, combining numerous plantings within the in situ rail, green spaces, public art and viewing platforms.  It is wildly popular as I evidenced visiting one sunny afternoon and then a second time much later in the evening following a show. To me it’s a great example of reuse of an underutilized existing asset for wider community benefit. The success of the High Line has lead to the development of the Low Line concept, using an abandoned underground rail terminal as the proposed location for a new park.

High Line

Another evident trend is urban farming and one sunny afternoon I paid a visit to Brooklyn Grange, a significant urban farm based on the roof of a factory in Queens that grows a diverse range of produce.  When I visited there was everything from tomatoes to lettuces and eggplants. The Queens based farm is one of many planned and is part of a broader movement that’s prevalent in many cities around urban farming. This has been taken a step further in New York through the handy development of the 596 acres website that identifies….596 acres of disused public land available for farming purposes. 

Brooklyn Grange

I also was able to have lunch with one of the chief drivers behind the ‘+ Pool’ concept. The idea behind this innovative project is to have a plus shaped pool that utilizes the river water floating off the banks of the Hudson River, with just south of the Brooklyn Bridge as the preferred location.  Like the High Line the project is being driven by those with the creative idea and as appears to be common in America, private, as opposed to public financing is sought to further develop the concept.

Williamsburg

To me these are all practical examples of the integration of sustainability thinking, however it is apparent this view is not shared by all, as per this article last week on the High Line and a recently released book on the death of bohemia in Brooklyn, and in particular around the Williamsburg area.

Put plainly the authors see the insidious tendrils of gentrification changing their city from how they like it.  It made me think that many of the aspects looked for in a successful sustainability project, i.e. bike lanes, mixed use development, urban agriculture, integrated transport, densification etc, are often also hallmarks of gentrification and can be indicators of what locals feel they've lost.

5Pointz

To a degree I can understand this perspective and a visit to 5Pointz in Long Island City, a freight forwarding factory adjoining rail yards that’s become a hub for street artists for several decades highlights these concerns.  5Pointz appears to be something of an institution for street artists both in New York and internationally, however with the continued expansion of apartment living into Queens it's now slated for residential development. Obviously once it's developed a significant proportion of what's makes the current site will be lost. 

I feel however there is a danger in criticising gentrification of overly romanticising how these areas were, and feel the trick, if possible, is to try and integrate the former features, or feeling into the area, as per the redevelopment of 5Pointz which is seeking to incorporate existing and provide spaces for new street art.

Adios mis amigos

Following the trials and tribulations of my journey through Guatemala, the leg to Belize City was a doddle.  With one eye on the clock and given my desire to extend the great time I'd been having in Central America, once in Belize City I caught the ferry across to the extremely laid back Caribbean Island of Caye Caulker. 

Accommodation Caye Caulker style

Caye Caulker made Utila feel like a bustling metropolis, with life on the island consisting of a significant amount of sitting around waiting for the next boat to come in, making half hearted efforts at selling a ride or tour and then going back to sitting and waiting until it's time to have a drink and give up on the attempt at working for the day. 

Even road transport is by boat

As a traveler it's an idyllic island and if one has the will can be circumnavigated in two hours or so.  It also marked a point where I'd been travelling in the region for long enough that there was constant stream of familiar faces to spend time with. I did the obligatory snorkelling trip with the sting rays and nurse sharks, but it did feel like a bit of a treadmill experience of shuffling the tourists out each day to see the same, ahh, 'wildlife'.

To a degree however I was putting off the inevitable journey north to Cancun.  Several months ago during my aborted attempt to drive to San Diego I'd pulled off the highway somewhere in Southern California needing a break from driving, and spying a market gardener had pulled in to buy some apples.  As I approached a short portly American in denim overalls with a USS [insert suitable word 'Destroyer', 'Freedom', 'Touch of Paradise'] appeared chomping on a fat cigar.  

After he convinced me to buy some strange apple pear fruit blend he asked where I was from.  It was obvious he didn't have a Scooby Doo about Australia, but he did have a rather strong opinion about Mexico, 'worst damn country in the whole world' he repeated a number of times as he gestured in a vaguely southerly direction over the field...and even more profoundly and insightfully once he'd tired with this statement, he gravely announced that 'they were his neighbours'...not literally given we were about 200 mile from the border, but I understood from his bulging eyes and gesticulating that geographically, yes, they were the next country along the highway.  

Having now been to Cancun I have a feeling there maybe a Mexican market gardener making similar comments about what happened to their country in Cancun once American tourists decided this was the place for them. It is a strange place, 'muy plastico' I profoundly announced to a cab driver when there, but saying that I had one really fun night out there despite having my tshirt stolen at a pool party (the first theft in my travels, kind of ironic considering where I've been), and then probably stayed one night too many. 

My departing flight to New York and the next stage of my trip bought to an end my time in South and Central America.  I had no idea when I started the amazing adventures I'd find myself involved in  and could not have asked for more in terms of an experience. I'd often catch myself inadvertently smiling as I travelled along.

In travelling these countries you often meet people who are seeking answers for the next directions in their life.  I wasn't seeking this, but I did learn, or have reinforced a few simple insights.  

Probably the most poignant for me is how simply one can live and have an incredible time, I already knew this, but it's comforting to have it reinforced.  The other, as someone who is habitually late, is that there are times in life when it pays to be early, as often it allows you that extra inch of leg room slightly closer to the only form of ventilation in the portable sweat box you find yourself locked in for the next few hours as you stare mindlessly for miles at the passing scenery.

A place for old men

Along my travels, and especially in Central America, I’ve found myself in a number of long conversations with retired American men. A straw poll of other travelers indicated this doesn’t appear to be a common occurrence, and these conversations occur in the most unlikely of circumstances, although I have noticed that breakfast seems to be the conversation time of preference for the American retiree.

So it was I found myself sat on a wooden bench underneath a rusted bit of corrugated iron in the early morning sun chatting with my latest retiree, who for want of knowing his name I called, ‘Chet’, about the performance of various construction materials on Utila under the constant battering dealt out by the sun, wind and salty sea air.  

With the coming of Hurricane Ernesto I’d spent longer in Utila than planned and decided to gain time by flying a few legs to my next destination of Rio Dulce and then Flores to see Tikal back in Guatemala.  Unfortunately the flight had been overbooked and Chet and I had an hour or so wait for the flight to return to pick us up on the bench that served as the waiting room at Utila Airport for the plane to return.  Like most of retirees Chet was seeking an escape from elements of his life in the US and with a relatively small amount of money by western standards this part of the world offers plenty of opportunities to escape.

Eventually Chet and I made it onto our flight to La Ceiba, which marked the first leg of a crazy, hot and long day of travel.  Following La Ceiba I had another flight to San Pedro Sula, but was bumped again as I had no need to make a connection as I’d be bussing it from then on.  The silver lining being the next plane was a 6 seater and my seat the co-pilots, a novel experience, particularly as the captain let me film the take off and landing, no need to worry about electronic devices on these planes.  As we flew along I kept thinking of the co-pilot scene from Flying High and wondering how I’d cope if the pilot had a sudden heart attack and I’d have to take over as the co-pilot.

Reaching San Pedro Sula at about the same time as if I’d caught the boat and bus connection, I caught another bus to Peurto Cortes and then walked around the block to catch a chicken bus to Corinto and the Honduran border.  Jumping off the bus and changing money I was the only person around by the time I walked through immigration and the border.

By this time it was baking hot and steamy and I amused two bored Hondurian officials who debated whether I was James Bond or not before flicking my passport back.  I then piled into a beat up minivan and waited in the sun till it was packed with locals crossing the border and transported the 15km of no mans land to Guatemalan immigration.

Our van had picked up a group of Caribbean guys that the Guatemalan police took great interest in.  This was too much for our minivan driver who after 10 minutes of waiting ordered all those near into the van inside and put his foot down as we sped away and left the Caribbean guys stranded at the border.  I then changed minivans two more times, waiting at the roadside for another to come along.  The minivans are packed so tight I was standing inside in a half crouch so not hit my head on the roof.  Still I was doing better than the local guys standing on the vans running board and holding on with one hand as we sped along at 120km.

Rio Dulce

About 20mins outside my destination of Rio Dulce the heavens opened, and my backpack, which was on the roof, was soaked through as it’d been tied on with the rain cover facing down. In the driving rain I walked with my sodden backpack to the first accommodation I could find, right on the river and weirdly enough a haven for retired American sailors who bring their boats down the river from the Caribbean Sea for protection during hurricane season.  It was a testing day, but in a way exciting as during the time I left San Pedro Sula to Rio Dulce I only saw locals.

The following morning I completed my journey to Flores and the following day visited the daddy of Mayan Ruins, Tikal.  There were similarities with the ruins I’d seen in Copan but while those in Copan are more intricate, Tikal is of a much grander scale…and also differs in that it’s set in dense jungle, giving a true feeling of a lost city…..which is further emphasized when you realize only 20% of the ruins have been uncovered, the rest appear as giant hummocks with hints of the limestone ruins inside.

Tikal

On the return from my day trip I learnt I’d had a lucky day as we unexpectedly stopped for an hour at the police station.  I learnt that most of the other passengers who’d been on the earlier morning tour bus prior had all their possessions stolen by a gang who boarded the bus with machine guns and machetes, a harrowing experience from all accounts. 

Duckin' n diving

During my brief time in El Tunco I’d had a few beers with an English surfer, Sam Wildgoose (yes I’ve complimented him on the fineness of his surname) who mentioned that he was going to head to the Bay Islands in the Caribbean off Honduras to obtain his PADI open water scuba licence.  My own vague plans had been to slowly make my way north through Guatemala and Mexico on route to Cancun, but I’ve always wanted to scuba dive but always thought the time investment when on holiday for a shorter period was too much.  Reasoning that if I can’t find the time in 7 months of travel I don’t really want to do it I changed my plans and rendezvoused with Sam again in Copan Ruinas on the Honduran side of the Guatemalan border.

Copan Ruinas is one of the more impressive Mayan sites in Central America, an enormous sprawling complex of a once great city that was at the height of its powers from 400 to 900 AD. Arriving on a sultry afternoon I was the only one wishing a guided tour at the time, so with my own personal guide we sweated our way around as she babbled in my ear about each of the temples. 

The floor of the main temple area used to be covered in white staccato tiles which would have been amazing and blindingly bright.  Today it’s been covered by grass and kudos to the groundskeeper as I’ve only seen a better outfield on the first day of a Boxing Day test.  I also learnt the Mayans played a game that’s an early version of soccer, kicking a ball back and forth at concrete macaw heads, with the loser being sacrificed to the Gods.

As you may expect I’m a sucker for a nature walk and after the ruins took myself on the adjoining walk and interpretive trail, which I really enjoyed, with colourful macaws in the trees, lizards and other creatures moving through the jungle. At one stage I thought it had started raining only to look down and see the whole forest floor was a sea of moving ants criss-crossing my flip-flops.

After numerous hours of bussing followed by an hour ferry journey on the ‘vomit comet’, a small catamaran that makes the bumpy journey across the sea I arrived on the beautiful Caribbean island of Utila. Sam and I checked into our dive school, Alton’s, a series of weather worn wooden accommodation structures that connect to its own dock (and dive boats), bar, seaside hammocks and loungers.  It’s a sweet set up, although the accommodation is some of the ropiest to date, the shower is a bit of pipe sticking out of the wall and the cold water is intermittent, which can be frustrating if you wish to wash….or flush the toilet.

The Alton's Dock

I loved doing the dive course and our instructor, a German woman who must be slowly going insane with the complete lack of punctuality of anyone on the island, was really good, direct and no nonsense.  I was with a great group of people and over the four days of the course, as you’d expect, got to know each other pretty well.  By coincidence I was also here during the annual one day music festival, Sunjam, that is held on a very small tropical island off the coast of Utila. Almost all travellers go along and consequently the dive schools are closed the day following to enable people to recover.

I had a great time at the festival, but it also precipitated one of the scariest moments of my trip.  The festival started at midday and we’d been advised to get there before night as the seas were rough due to a strong onshore wind that had blown all day.  Unfortunately we’d been diving, returned late in the afternoon and all fancied a meal before heading off.  We made it back to the dive school only to see the last boat depart.  Walking the short distance into the centre of town we were ushered into the back seats of a small speedboat waiting to depart. 

It was only when we left the dock I realised the boat was severely overloaded as it tipped precariously back and forth in relatively calm water. It was now night and it was soon apparent the guy driving was drunk.  As we powered into the larger seas the boat lurched to one side and then swung alarmingly back the other. Lisa from my dive school who was sat next to me alternated between closing her eyes and putting her head down to hysterical screaming when she felt the boat tilt.  By this time the driver had slowed down and we appeared to trying to surf the face of the waves up and down, which worked until a large wave loomed out of the dark and the whole boat tipped to such an extent that the back section of the boat we were in dipped below the waterline and we started taking water. 

By now I thought there was a fair chance we were going under. Apparently I appeared very calm but I was focused on trying to work out when it was appropriate to jump into the sea and swim to the nearest piece of land.  A large part of me was wondering how I’d ended up in this situation, while a small part was intrigued to see what would happen if we did sink as I’ve never been in a boat that has sunk before and I was pretty sure I could make the swim to land, although it would put a dampener on the evening. Fortunately our little boat managed the waves and 45minutes later a very relieved group kissed the sand of the festival island.  The festival itself was very good and the return journey better in that the boat had a normal load and the sea a tad calmer.

Follow the day off I resumed and completed my PADI course, so am now an open water diver which should come in handy later in my journey. I spent the lay day checking out, according to the Lonely Planet, the fourth best bar on the planet, TreeTanic.  It is an amazing place and the work of several years of its owner, a cross between Gaudi and Alice in Wonderland and has probably the most artistic use of recycled materials, and glass bottles in particular, I’ve seen.  As someone quipped when we visited however, bars one, two and three on the LP ranking must have earnt that place as you can get a drink there...as there was no barman and no one vaguely interested in serving. It does feel more like a tourist attraction than a bar, but even so it’s an amazing piece of art.

My next move is up the coast on route to Cancun however I’m currently stuck as Hurricane Ernesto is moving through the region, which isn’t too bad as Utila is great place to be marooned.