Road to (Mayan) Ruins

The name Maya brings to mind many images - lost cities of stone consumed by jungle, grisly spectacle of human sacrifices and astronomical and mathematical achievements of astonishing sophistication. But for many people in the past couple of years, it was a misunderstood calendrical count which propelled the Mayans once more to the forefront of popular consciousness. As the sun rose again, rather anticlimactically, on 22 December 2012, popular interest in the Mayans seemed once more to wane. It also meant the world would not forget about them for another generation.

Below: perched like one of the many birds in the area on the edge of the Temple of Inscriptions.

I first learnt about the Mayans when I was 12. My family had just purchased our first PC after my PSLE, and at that age I used the computer only for games and the Internet (still dial-up). One of these games I came across was called MayaQuest. But for me the Americas, much less pre-Columbian America, were in another galaxy - there was little to separate Aztec, Inca and Maya in those ignorant days. Well, fast forward 17 years, and I still know little more than I did. And that's why we were in Copan. However, we kept postponing our trip to the ruins hoping that Mary would heal sufficiently to come too. The main plaza's fine to walk, it's like a golf course, Howard assured us. In the end, Mary decided she needed to rest on our last full day there, so I went on my own.

The ruins at Copan scarcely match up to their more visually imposing counterparts in Tikal, Palenque or Chichen Itza. What sets Copan apart is its art, nowhere as rich and well preserved as they are in its sculptures and stelas. I'll be honest - for me soaring pyramids beat intricate stonework hands down. The 12-hour bus ride from Guatemala City to the Peten (Guatemala's northern lowlands where these impressive ruins are situated) would be tolerable enough one-way if not for the fact that we would have had to retrace our steps, since we had no intention to end up in neighbouring Belize. Copan Ruinas was a compromise choice, wedged between the scenic highlands of both El Salvador and Guatemala which we wanted to visit.

Below: view of the surrounding countryside from the acropolis, the higher part of the ceremonial centre which only kings, nobles and priests could access.

Their sylvan setting reinforces not only a certain sense of dispossession, but also one of repossession. Man here seems to have been rebuked by Nature for his audacity to claim what does not ever belong. Copan was gradually abandoned to the forest from the ninth century, until reports by first a Spanish surveyor in 1576 and then a Honduran General in 1834 brought it back briefly to public attention. General Jose Galindo's report piqued the interest of John Lloyd Stephens, an American traveller. Stephens eventually bought over the plot of land on which the ruins stood, shunned by the locals for the perceived evil which lingered on in fallen pagan stone. At a knockdown price of $50, it was an absolute steal, even in those days.

Below: The forest which surround the ruins also bore life, exemplified in all its unreserved resplendence in the resident flock of scarlet macaws (below). The path to the main plaza could have been one through a zoo, except there are no enclosures.

Below: two yellow-winged tanagers foraging acrobatically.

Below (top to bottom): it's a deer, no it's a rat, no, it's an agouti, which is actually related to the rat; a variegated squirrel, much shyer than their New England cousins.

Both the extent of Copan's artistic achievement and what these portrayed reflected its considerable regional sway between the fifth and eighth centuries, a predominance which it shared with Calakmul, Palenque and Tikal in this time known as to historians as the Classic Period (roughly third to tenth centuries). But where are the Mayans today? And the question on most interested observers' lips - why did Mayan civilisation seem to collapse so precipitously at its height? The most widely accepted hypothesis presently is that a Malthusian combination of war, over-exploitation of natural resources and drought condemned the Mayans to the historical scrapyard of fallen kingdoms.

Above (top to bottom): first sight of the conveniently-labelled Structure 4 in the main plaza, as one approaches the ruins from the entrance; a profile of Stela A with Structure 4 in the background. It was discovered that these stelas also functioned as astronomical and mathematical tools, marking where the sun would rise on equinoxes and solstices, and even functioning as sundials. But what would the ancient Mayans have made of our unimaginative renaming of their landmarks?

Below: posing in front of the Petroglyph Staircase, the carvings on each step recount the history of Copan. The blocks which make up the staircase have since been reassembled by archaeologists, who found it in a state of severe disrepair and who still do not know enough to decipher fully its writing. A large ungainly sheet of tarpaulin today shields the monument from the elements.

Below: the ball court in the main plaza, as seen from the acropolis. Ritualized games were played there, generally involving players keeping the ball in the air using their thighs and hips (doesn't sound too easy, which just might explain why many Latin American footballers today are outrageously skillful). These games were typically played against an unfortunate band of prisoners condemned to losing thrice successively - on the battlefield (which explains their subsequent presence on a foreign ball court), on the ball court (they could not win) and then their lives on the altar in sacrifice to the gods.

However, the curtains of history did not fall on the Mayan people. Mayan city-states continued to exist right up to the Spanish conquest in the sixteenth century, though they never attained the heights of their forebears in the Classic Period. And the Mayans have certainly not vanished. They still dwell in the hills around Copan, and I speak of people not spirits. In Guatemala (where 40% of the population remains Mayan), Mayan culture has not only survived but is mounting a revival after the violent civil war years of the 1980s.

Below (top to bottom): roots are the only climbers of the acropolis these days.

Mystery and nostalgia aside, the relative emptiness of the site on a Monday afternoon was an indication that tourism in Honduras has seen better days. There seemed to be more groundsmen, stewards and guides (whose presence put paid to any Indiana Jones and El Dorado fantasies) than visitors. The last-named looked like uniformed sages, as they walked around on thin wooden staffs tipped with a single macaw tail feather, which they used to point out sights to visitors.

I spoke to an elderly moustached groundsman, assigned to a patch on the acropolis which he kept spick and span by assiduously picking up any fallen leaf or twig. He confided that he is paid pittance in a job he has laboured in day in and day out without rest (not even Saturdays and Sundays, as I clarified) for the past eighteen years. He also said wistfully that tourists who hanker after the Mayan experience prefer neighboring Guatemala. Tsk tsk.

That there are fewer visitors in Copan presents an opportunity for those who have chosen to come. The nearby town makes a pleasant base, and is within strolling distance (although I took a tuktuk to save time), unlike in Tikal where one'd have to arrange transport between Flores and the ruins. The locals aren't pushy too, which is refreshing. I write this in hindsight, after having visited the tourist trap that was Panajachel in Guatemala.

Copan Ruinas definitely deserves more than being a compromise choice.

Our First Resort - Honduras

A quick search on Google for "Honduras news" yields the following results:

1. Fleeing Violence in Honduras, a Teenage Boy Seeks Asylum in Brooklyn (The New York Times)

2. Native Villagers in Honduras Bet on Food Security, and Win (Truthout)

3. Former Costa Rica boss Jorge Manuel Pinto named new Honduras manager (Daily Mail)

There is violence, insecurity and, what seems most benign, futbol. But even the futbol-related piece of news had to do with themes of instability and under-achievement. An English couple on a three-month long Central American odyssey also avoided Honduras (and El Salvador, too) because of the same perception. In Copan Ruinas we had none of that. Yes, Copan Ruinas is only one place. But it is still Honduras, which isn't muggy lock, stock and barrel.

Below: Hammock with a view.

Mary couldn't walk the day after twisting her foot, so I arranged a private shuttle for us back to Santa Ana, where we were to catch another shuttle on to Copan Ruinas in Honduras. It was meant to be an easy four-hour plus journey across two borders (through Guatemala to Honduras, because although El Salvador borders Honduras immediately to the south, crossing directly entails more traveling). However, to alight, get our passports stamped and board again was a tad too much hassle for Mary. It wasn't just difficulty moving which lengthened our customs and immigration process - we would have skimmed fifteen minutes off the time it took to go through but for the why-does-this-Japanese-passport-not-say-Japan moments experienced by both Guatemalan and Honduran officials.

Once at Copan Ruinas, we headed straight for the Casa de cafe, run by the very hospitable Howard and Angela. We planned for three nights here and stayed for four, the first time I stayed in a place longer than I intended to. Casa de cafe sits on a little hillock on the north-eastern edge of the town, and commands a fine views of the surrounding countryside.

Below: Casa de cafe - home away from home for the four days we were there.

The very afternoon we arrived, we decided to obtain a medical opinion on the state of Mary's foot. Howard, Angela and their team responded brilliantly. After confirming that no English-speaking doctors were in, Howard and Angela accompanied us to the doctor and translated for us. Dr Maradiaga assured us that nothing was broken, recommending a second doctor known as being an expert in such injuries.

This was a burly Cuban doctor who has been based in nearby Santa Rosa de Copan for the past fourteen years, and who only sees patients in Copan Ruinas on the weekend. Once there, he looked closely at Mary's foot, mulled for a bit, and suggested a whole flurry of therapies - ice and heat treatment, ultrasound, an injection. No, not the injection, we interjected while exchanging looks of downright bafflement with Angela. And then he rounded off, of course you will need lots of rest. We opted for the hot-cold therapy, which involved no more than alternating between applying a cold pack and immersing the foot in hot water for 25 minutes.

When the hot-cold therapy was done, Dr Rodriguez suggested we return over the weekend (the next two days) for this. He's out to make money off you, Angela quipped in an aside, we could do the same back at the B&B. We nodded. So it was back there for Mary, for pretty much the next four days.

All the while, we chatted with Angela, who shared the story of how she met Howard (Howard completed the story a couple of days later, when he recounted how the Casa de cafe project fitted into their lives). They started Casa de cafe in 1995, and over time their business also grew to include the Iguana Azul hostel next door and the Terramaya hotel a couple of blocks away. We also found out how tourism was going well until the 2009 political crisis, after which Honduras became more closely associated in the Western media with crime, instability and violence. But in Howard's words, you could stay a month in Copan and not see any of those things.

So we woke up late, had breakfast after all the other guests, had our three meals at the B&B, read, surfed the Internet and watched shows off it. Tamales made for simple but tasty local fare. These were grain, vegetable and pieces of meat wrapped up in banana leaves, which the Mayans used to have while out in the field. The most exciting bits of those stationary days came with the visit of a hummingbird to the lawn just in front of our room. Hawks, grackles and doves drew a comparable degree of excitement, at least for the first few days.

Above (from top to bottom): Tamales, I grew to relish it, Mary grew tired of it after a while; the highlight of our Casa de cafe stay was spotting el colibri (a hummingbird).

Below (from top to bottom): More birds - the common grackle, a noisy neighbour; and what (after some extensive googling) looks like a seedeater.

Walks to town involved solo trips (just me, obviously) to the pharmacy to buy an ankle brace, anti-inflammation lotion, bandage, a gel pack for the hot-cold therapy, and body wash and shampoo when ours ran out. Consequently I've picked out more Spanish words for things I never previously bothered remembering.

Coming from El Salvador, where tourism was least developed amongst the three Central American republics on our itinerary (Honduras and Guatemala being the other two), Copan Ruinas was a step up in terms of development. Not only did we encounter our first souvenir shops on our trip here, but also a profusion of kitschy bars and restaurants geared towards tourists. Sensibly so, the growth of the town has always been dependent on foreign interest in the nearby Mayan ruins - first archaeologists, then a growing wave of tourists. Nobody comes to Copan without seeing the ruins (we nearly did that, only I went to the ruins and Mary stayed at the B&B, more on that later).

Above (from top to bottom): the main plaza in tiny Copan Ruinas, we didn't step into the church this time round, though everyday in the B&B we prayed for swift healing; tuktuk parade in town.

Below (from top to bottom): the hilly cobbled streets of Copan, a hobbler's nightmare; the bottom-most roller-coaster road leads from the centre of town to our B&B.

The days came and went, and even we had to leave to get our itinerary going. Mary's foot was better on our fourth and last day there, so we headed to town to do a little shopping the morning before our shuttle departure - for souvenirs, mind, not shampoo. There was a tinge of reluctance when the shuttle arrived at noon. We had grown so used to Casa de cafe and Copan Ruinas. But never did I expect in my life to be having a resort-style holiday in Honduras. And what was more - we were not even on its beaches!

Los Gringos Walk On Waterfalls

This was the trip's decisive moment. The reason why we visited Juayua was to see los Chorros de la Calera, a set of three waterfalls, just out of town, around which stone embankments have been placed to create refreshing natural swimming pools. There was a better deal than a straight visit to los Chorros though - the Ruta de las Siete Cascadas (Seven Waterfalls Route) tour. And at US$20 per person it was a bargain. This would take us through a trail consisting of seven waterfalls (I didn't really count them when we visited though), negotiated with the assistance of a local guide and ropes, and finishing at los Chorros.

Below: we walked down that waterfall.

Amed and Jose were our guides, and Chiquita, one of Derek's two dogs, blithely tagged along. The route passed their house, where they stopped to get their gear. Once they were ready we thought we would be hitting the main road (wide enough for a vehicle to pass comfortably) again. Instead, we disappeared down a faint trail leading out from the back of their house. It was a sign of things to come.

Below: village life near Juayua, and laundry with a view (photographs taken with Amed's permission)

Below: the same view as from the church tower, but greener. Jose is standing with his hands in his pockets, while Amet poses next to Mary. Notice what looks like a criss-crossed pattern on the hills in the background - these are trees planted to shade the coffee plants against the sun.

The trail passed slopes which were blanketed with coffee plants. Amed explained that this was the harvest season and true to form, farmers seemed to materialize from the vegetation as we walked past. All carried baskets, which held the coffee berries they picked. As has been mentioned in a previous post on Santa Ana, the Salvadorean economy is built on the foundations of the tiny coffee bean. But this was only from the mid-nineteenth century, after the production of chemical dyes severely dented global demand for indigo, then El Salvador's principal export. The growing importance of coffee was underlined by the fact that between 1895 and 1926, the country's presidency was held by a succession of coffee barons. This smallest of the Central American republics even became the world's fourth largest coffee exporter in the 1970s.

Below (top to bottom): Mary is shown the real Coffee Bean, sans tea leaves; a coffee picker graciously smiles for the camera, we would have missed her without Amed pointing out their presence.

As we descended the slopes towards the first waterfall, both the scent of coffee and any signs of an established trail gradually faded. Amed and Jose pulled out their machetes, which they employed effectively in fashioning a way forward for us. The undergrowth closed in on us, the slopes grew steeper and even the soil in some parts became looser. In one such area, the earth gave way with a sharp cry where Mary placed her foot. She slipped and arrested what would have been a long slide with her elbows on what was left of the path.

We hauled her up. It appeared that she had twisted her foot, so we stopped for a while. Chiquita, sensing Mary's discomfort, snuggled up to her in solace. We were in a right quandary - the way back seemed too treacherous to retrace, while the way down involved ropes and waterfalls. Mary made the choice, Amed made another walking stick out of a suitably-proportioned branch, and we made our way gingerly forward.

Below: Chiquita the Faithful.

Las Siete Cascadas in question was actually an entire wall of falling water. All we needed to do was to climb down the first waterfall, and then follow the brook with the subsequent waterfalls on our right. It was easier said than done, of course. When we got to that first waterfall, Amed and Jose got out the gear, handed us the safety helmets and secured the ropes in place. Mary went first, because I knew not the terrain as well as our guides, who leapt up and down the falls as if it was no more than a flight of stairs on a rainy day.

Below (top to bottom): where we witness water issue from rock, just before making our way down the first waterfall; observe the contrast in composure, we were sure Amed didn't need the helmet.

Initially we took extra care not to completely submerge our boots. But once our socks were soaked, we simply followed the flowing water. In any case, it was easier than balancing on slippery stream-side rocks. The subsequent falls were less challenging - we simply walked, well, hobbled, right up to them. Lunch comprised sandwiches, chips and fruit juice, which we partook of near a ledge above the stream and beneath yet another wall of water. Only the insects marred the experience.

Below: river-tracing the rest of the way.

After overcoming all our earlier obstacles, we had to climb out of one valley and get into another to get to Los Chorros. The path differed little from the one where Mary lost her footing. Only this time she proceeded a lot more cautiously and on fours if necessary. There was little to report on this stretch except that we had to duck our heads and walk with bent backs frequently. We were never happier to finally get to Los Chorros.

As this was the final bit of the hike, Amed took off his boots, took out his soap and showered in the pool. Jose also indulged in a swim. The final stretch of Los Chorros was also the prettiest (this would be the first if we had opted to visit straight from town). There we met a friend of our guides, who then climbed up together to a narrow perch on the cliff face some two and a half stores above the pool. Without so much as a second thought, they plunged in turns into the frigid water beneath. I contented myself by flopping into the pool from ground level.

Below (top to bottom): climbing out of one valley to get into another; the final, more spectacular section of Los Chorros, notice who plunges, and who flops; Los Chorros, seen from the bottom of the weir.

I think I have both overestimated and underestimated Mary. I planned the volcano and waterfall hikes to be a day apart, but a couple more days of rest would have been wiser. On the other hand, she has also shown some tenacity given that she effectively completed this up and down trail on one leg. What happened changed the subsequent complexion of the trip. There would be no more hiking for 2014.

And we were to start, for the first time, a conventional do-nothing holiday.

*As I write this nine days later on Lago Atitlan in Guatemala, I'm also pleased to share that Mary is recovering very well.

Los Gringos Unhinged

The day after our gruelling volcano day trip, we left Santa Ana for Juayua (pronounced hua-yoo-ah, for Singaporeans, the incriminating why you ah isn't far off the mark), a town an hour's southwest on the Ruta de las Flores (the Flowers Route, which covers a handful of towns, named for the rich soil in the area which supports the cultivation of coffee and the growth of wildflowers). There being no tourist shuttle, we took another local bus, which proved to be more comfortable than la linea especial. For starters, the overhead stowage had room for our backpacks. And despite these recycled school buses not having any aircondition, the windows were open, quite unlike our previous oven on wheels.

Below (from top to bottom): Mary and our divine school bus; the decal at the front of the bus reads "Thanks to you, Lord".

There was another novelty to our ride. En route, I heard a familiar voice utter some familiar words through the huddling bodies along the aisle: Dios (God) ... Spanish I couldn't understand ... pecados (sins) ... more Spanish ... Dios ... cielo (heaven). Previously, I had listened to Rafael Cruz's reading of the Bible (New International Version, in Spanish) as I tried to obtain audio materials to improve my self-schooled Spanish listening skills. No, the driver wasn't playing the same MP3 files over the stereo. It was an itinerant preacher to whom God has granted amplification, balance and clarity. But that morning on the bus it sounded as if all Spanish-speaking pastors preached in one voice.

Our accommodation in Juayua was at Hostal Casa Mazeta, owned by Derek from Ipswich who made an effort to get to know all his guests. After being briefed about Juayua's whats and wheres by Amed (again, I'm not sure how his name should be spelt), one of Derek's employees, we set off for pretty much the only place within town worth seeing - La Iglesia Del Cristo Negro, the Church of the Black Christ right beside the town's main plaza.

Below: La Iglesia Del Cristo Negro; we climbed the right tower.

The cult (here I'm using the word to denote a religious system and not normatively) of the Black Christ is the product of the cultural encounters between the American indigenous people, Africans and Europeans during the early modern period (roughly, the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries). There are a number of such centres throughout Latin America.

There are various reasons why these have flourished where they did. Most such icons are associated with a particular miracle - either disaster averted or favourite granted. Some come with legends of their own. In Juayua's case, there once stood a tree where the altar now stands. Its trunk one day was split asunder by lightning, whereupon was found the image of the Black Christ, surrounded by flowers. Those of a more secular leaning have argued that these carven images were deviced from darker shades of wood, on the instruction of the Spanish, as the indigenous people sometimes did not trust a God whose complexion was the same as that of their oppressors from across the Atlantic.

The church was the same sanctuary for the townsfolk as the cathedral was for the people of Santa Ana. One could walk up behind the altar to have a closer look at the image. However, the church workers were putting up the Christmas decorations in the same area, and so we contented ourselves with appreciating Cristo Negro from afar. We went on our knees and gave thanks to God, as we did in Santa Ana, for his protection. And when we got to our feet, an idea crept into my head.

Let's get to top of the church tower, I suggested. But the only door providing access was locked. We approached the lady who looked like the matron (indeed I later found out from her that she has been serving in this particular church since she was a little girl) to ask if such access was indeed possible. She graciously obliged, and led us into a musty stairwell which functioned as the church store. A trapdoor at the end of some shaky metal steps from the second level provided access to some fantastic views of the town and its surroundings.

Below: the views which led us to the top, the three rightmost volcanoes were the very same volcanoes we saw the day before - Santa Ana (the one which has its summit mostly in cloud), Cerro Verde (from where the long stream of cloud seems to issue) and Izalco (rightmost).

There were also two wooden doors on the second level, to which I was inexplicably drawn to. The  doors were tied firmly shut to the railing behind, and they seem to howl and shake. Prising and prying achieved nothing for the knots were cleverly done. What unspoken terror did they conceal? The rope broke with a final desperate yank. The doors swung wide open, and we were knocked half a step back.

Wind 2 KR 0.

That scoreline would turn into a drubbing for us on that very sleepless night, as the doors and windows in our hostel creaked and thudded incessantly. So we learnt Juayua is regularly buffeted by strong wind. To go back to the matter of our swinging doors, we quickly went downstairs to inform the kind lady who let us in, and on whose face barely a flicker of emotion registered. We could see her younger colleagues trying to stifle giggles, though, as we dropped some extra coins in the offerings box.

We had dinner at a local taqueria (place that makes or sells tacos), where our Singaporean citizenship merited us extra attention from both the owner, Martin, and his waitress. Asians, much less Singaporeans, are a rare breed in these parts, and even before we placed our orders our faces appeared on the restaurant's Facebook page. (Incidentally the same thing happened with Cafe Expresiones in Santa Ana.) Martin's uncanny eye for publicity could be the reason why he has headed the committee overseeing the organisation of the town's feria gastronomica (food fair), which takes place every weekend, for the past fourteen years (pretty much the entire time the fairs have been organized). 

Below: fifteen seconds of fame at Taqueria Guadalupana, where we thoroughly enjoyed our pechuga de pollo (grilled chicken breast).

Juayua was very pleasant for us, even if our arrival did very nearly unhinge a tiny bit of the town. But we really came here for the waterfalls, and what would happen the following day was a real turning point for the trip.

Los Gringos Climb a Volcano

What's a Central American trip without volcanoes? The Central American Volcanic Arc (CAVA) stretches from the Guatemala-Mexico border to the western Panama, and in turn constitutes a link in the Pacific Ring of Fire. In fact, the closure of the Central American Seaway between the two Americas and the birth of the Central American isthmus had to do partly with increased volcanic activity. Volcan Santa Ana is El Salvador's highest volcano, and, we read, a very achievable four hours' return hike. So, on our second day, we set out to do just that.

Morning arrived on our second day like a swindler - I had forgotten that the time on our iPad was still Singapore's, and hence we awoke a full two hours earlier than intended. At five in the morning, the hostel was desolate like any hostel never was before - even the small, squarish pool in the corner was boarded up. For breakfast we had the previous night's pizza left-overs (we were too lazy to step out for dinner). It was just as well that we bumped into Daniel, a Swede fellow traveller, outside the kitchen. Like us, Daniel planned to climb Volcan Santa Ana that day, and alerted us of the hostel owner's recommendation that we take the 7.30 am bus to the trailhead instead of the 8.30 am service as we intended.

Below: Volcan Santa Ana, our first successful volcano ascent together - achievement unlocked.

Bus 248 to Cerro Verde, where the hike to the top of the volcano begins, leaves from the La Vencedora terminal not far from the hostel. La Vencedora isn't like most bus stations we've been to. First of all, it looks like a badly stocked provision store. We didn't know how we would board the bus, because there was no signs of a berth. Only the rows of plastic seating hinted at something like a transport hub. When the time came for the bus to depart, the iron door in a corner was opened, and we found the buses we were looking for. Second, an armed guard patrols the ground. He holds a rifle, not a pistol.

The bus ride was an experience in its own right. Not since Senegal have I encountered anything similar. If those long bus rides in Senegal made me fall in love with reggae then this one did the same for reggaeton. It also seems that in El Salvador, buses aren't just a means of getting from point A to point B, they provide a thriving marketplace as well - as the stream of vendors which board at major stops prove. These come on and sell anything from fresh produce to socks to padlocks. If you aren't hung up on getting your stores from Cold Storage or Waitrose you can pretty much by anything and everything by way of these vendors.

At the entrance to the Volcanic Complex, we paid our admission fees under the watchful eyes of three soldiers. We had slightly over an hour to wait as the hike cannot be done unguided, and the daily tours begin at 11 am. Each group then sets off with the appointed guide and a police escort (consisting of two policemen: one who walks ahead to the crater, and another who brings up the rear).

Below (from top to bottom): Maria versus Ana (the hulking green giant in the background), who will prevail?; chilling at the makeshift cafe, literally, as the clouds rolled in.

The route up was fairly straightforward, though it hardly qualifies as easy. First we had to descend the 566 steps from Cerro Verde and then from the bottom it was about an hour and 15 minutes or so up to the crater of Volcan Santa Ana. There were three viewpoints (los miradores) along the way: the first a rickety flight of wooden steps leading up to a similarly shaky platform which overlooks the nearby Lago Coatepeque, the second a slightly sturdier one from where Volcan Izalco is visible and the last which looks down to the crater lake atop Volcan Santa Ana.

Below (from top to bottom): Lago Coatepeque from the first mirador, moments before it was engulfed by cloud; Volcan Izalco, behind Cerro Verde where we started our hike, the youngest volcano in El Salvador. It was born in 1770 in a corn field on the southern flank of Volcan Santa Ana. Continuous eruptions over the following 200 years (ceasing in 1966, just before a hotel meant for eruption-chasing tourists on Cerro Verde was completed), spawning a 650-metre high volcanic cone. These highly visible eruptions earned it the moniker El Faro del Pacifico (Lighthouse of the Pacific) from passing sailors.

Somewhere between the first and second miradores we lost the main group, not because it got steeper but because it became more sustained. For the rest of the way, our guide Kevin led the main group some hundreds of metres ahead, while we huffed and puffed behind with Leas (this was how we heard his name pronounced as he introduced himself), our accompanying policeman. The scenery aside, Leas's patience was the other highlight of the hike. He showed good humour throughout his three hundredth and sixty first amble up and down Santa Ana, the ease with which he accomplished it betraying his forty years.

In my halting Spanish, we spoke about football (all about Barcelona and Real Madrid here in Central America; followed by the local rivalry between FAS and Metapan), gas prices (ours in Singapore still capable of drawing gasps internationally, and not because it's cheaper), the local wildlife (about there being jaguars sometimes in nearby Lago Coatepeque), both our families and work. There was little for me to share where the last-named topic was concerned, obviously. Leas has fifteen years in the force, four in the city of San Salvador, eleven here. I have three.

We drew some cheers when we finally made the top. The others had been there a while already. Despite the clouds getting in the way of what promised to be a spectacular panorama, we retained clear views of both the crater lake (reminiscent of Kawah Ijen in eastern Java, though smaller) and the flanks of the volcano - lifeless scree descending into gradual verdure. There is something to be said about standing atop a volcano, its titanic forces of fire and rock asleep beneath our feet. We know so much, and yet so little, about these giants, for guess as we might, we can never foretell their moment of awakening. Leas was on neighboring Cerro Verde on 1 October 2005 when Volcan Santa Ana hurled skywards a column of ash and rock, the last time it did. It was amazing, he says. (2 unfortunate souls perished, though.)

Below (from top to bottom): Jaffa Cakes give you wings; almost like looking out of an aeroplane.

Below (from top to bottom): Maguey in bloom on the arid upper slopes of the volcano. The fibre from its leaves are used to make rope and clothing and the liquid from its stem yields a spirit known as pulque (those from some relatives of the maguey yield tequila when distilled); a tired traveller contemplates the lusher lower slopes.

Going down proved nearly as tiring as going up was for Mary's tired legs. A thick fog had developed by the time we got to the trailhead, where the rest of our party was gathered in various horizontal positions of repose. The cheers were a little more feeble now, but it hardly mattered - we had climbed our first volcano together!

Achievement unlocked.