tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-97156142010-03-09T22:50:30.175-06:00The official source of Dean-based adventures and musings.Deanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04879162405084467116noreply@blogger.comBlogger257125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9715614.post-20986303569832095812010-03-09T22:45:00.000-06:002010-03-09T22:50:30.263-06:00

The day was Friday, the month February, and the hour nine. The story of Cali begins on a warm evening just outside the Iguana hostel where I am walking out the door to find Anabella in her Hondita and Phil already crossing the gap towards me. Press play and handshakes, hugs, and greetings are exchanged and before I know it I’m in the backseat zipping along the streets of Cali en route to her

Deanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04879162405084467116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9715614.post-59613386348749712022010-02-26T20:21:00.008-06:002010-03-05T16:37:33.540-06:00

In a country where transport between places is almost always an 8-12 hour excursion, it's tempting to take advantage of the night bus. You hop on, sleep, wake up, and you're there. Admittedly you are not liable to sleep as well as in a hostel, but at the same time you also save a night's accommodation. The problems only become apparent when you are on a night bus that is raided by guerrillas (

Deanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04879162405084467116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9715614.post-23034269312675703052010-02-23T02:03:00.000-06:002010-03-02T15:20:34.201-06:00

We arrived at the Bogota Bus Terminal at about 9 at night, later than we would have liked but with travel times this large between places in Colombia, there wasn’t much to be done about it. Our first stop was to find a hostel, and most of them are in an area in the centre of town called Candelaria. They have a taxi stand from which to purchase fares at fixed rates which is helpful to say the

Deanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04879162405084467116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9715614.post-47739127172752608322010-02-19T09:26:00.003-06:002010-03-02T15:31:03.199-06:00

We landed in Medellin at about 4:30, half an hour ahead of schedule. I don’t generally like to fly as I feel like I’m missing out on countryside and adventures in between hubs, but in this case it was not much more than the bus and much faster (two 1 hour flights vs 13 hours) and we were in a bit of a time squeeze with Phil’s last days looming and attempting to meet up with Maria and Anabella in

Deanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04879162405084467116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9715614.post-14915933302483765652010-02-17T11:45:00.002-06:002010-02-18T18:22:47.228-06:00

North we trundled in the minibus. Our destination? The town of Santa Marta. Or was it a city? It occurred to me, sitting on that bus, that I didn’t have a clue what we were heading there to see; I only knew that nearby Tayrona National Park was meant to be beautiful. Given that we were halfway there, it struck me as about the time where I should be able to answer why and I dug out my big red

Deanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04879162405084467116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9715614.post-52003786126003571312010-02-14T11:05:00.003-06:002010-02-17T22:35:59.792-06:00

We were in the small village of Capurgana in the Darien gap of Columbia, one of the most uninhabited regions on the planet because here, the wildlife is truly wild. A Norwegian guy would later tell us a story about a journalist in Darien who had fallen asleep with his tent not fully zipped and woke up to find blood everywhere and half his scalp chomped off. A vampire bat – with rabies, it turned

Deanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04879162405084467116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9715614.post-36233394106247484562010-02-10T18:20:00.003-06:002010-02-16T16:35:58.868-06:00

A favourite speech from Seinfeld begins with George Costanza setting the scene: “The sea was angry that day, my friends, like an old man sending back soup at a deli.” Indeed, many of the crew would, that day, refund their soup and also cheetos. The wind was coming from behind us as our sailboat, which suddenly felt too small to make this passage, bobbed, weaved, dropped, and heaved in the swell.

Deanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04879162405084467116noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9715614.post-64168383974037700242010-02-08T10:10:00.001-06:002010-02-16T16:29:12.202-06:00

Let me just start this segment of my journey by reminding readers who may have forgotten amidst all my adventures abroad that I am a prairie boy. I come from Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, a beautiful city in the middle of a vast flat ocean... of land. The nearest coast in terms of driving hours is Vancouver, BC, about 20 hours west and over the Rocky Mountain range. This leg of my journey starts in

Deanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04879162405084467116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9715614.post-23683687247333342282010-02-05T12:55:00.000-06:002010-02-13T16:39:06.262-06:00

It was a long, all day trip from Santa Catalina to Panama City, but soon suburbs filled the bus windows. I knew for certain we had arrived when the bus crossed the Panama Canal on the friendship bridge and I could see boats coming out of the canal headed for the Pacific ocean beyond. And I knew it was going to be a different experience than the rest of Central America when I arrived at the bus

Deanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04879162405084467116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9715614.post-30243815533775665972010-01-29T08:56:00.002-06:002010-02-01T13:37:35.121-06:00

I left the mountain town of Boquete for David (pronounced dah-veed) at noon with three people I’d met from the thankless climb up Volcan Baru: Clint & Kenny (two guys from Jersey) and Raj (from England). Raj was headed to Panama City to fly to Colombia and Clint & Kenny were, like me, heading to a place called Santa Catalina. They were looking for a bit of surf before heading back to the US and I

Deanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04879162405084467116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9715614.post-67289833382895191582010-01-26T11:50:00.003-06:002010-01-31T07:39:11.952-06:00

Bocas del Toro was in the distance and I was making my way, half asleep, on the series of buses that would take me across Panama to the Pacific coast and then back up into the Chiriqui highlands. The scenery was beautiful but, I had trouble keeping my eyes open after my Saturday night sendoff from Bocas and I would like to think I managed to be awake to see most of the highlights like the large

Deanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04879162405084467116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9715614.post-34578374069988859142010-01-24T11:30:00.002-06:002010-01-30T07:33:22.472-06:00

Most renowned explorer in human history Christopher Columbus. Scourge of the Spanish Sir Francis Drake. Fearsome pirate (and delicious rum) Captain Henry Morgan. Legendary travel and photo journalist Dean Katsiris. What do we all have in common? We spent inordinate amounts of time enjoying the paradise that is Bocas del Toro, my first stop in Panama and one of the most magnificent places I have

Deanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04879162405084467116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9715614.post-70177583487325939012010-01-18T10:34:00.002-06:002010-01-19T18:16:31.086-06:00

Phil, Perry, and I were in El Nubio, the white 4WD that Perry had rented heading ever closer to the Panama border and specifically to Puerto Viejo. We'd heard it was really sketchy and I didn't expect much from it at all, but as we rolled into town (what a way to travel!) I decided it was a marked improvement from Cahuita. At least here, there were people milling in the streets (some of whom were

Deanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04879162405084467116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9715614.post-7967296983413494042010-01-14T13:54:00.002-06:002010-01-19T14:29:55.127-06:00

While it had long been the plan to visit the towns on Malpais and Montezuma on the tip of the Nicoya Peninsula, the lack of transportation options had changed my mind. There was no way to go down the peninsula (it’s interesting that in poorer countries the buses, though less scheduled and more packed, would run EVERYwhere and it was much more simple to get around) which thwarted my first plan. So

Deanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04879162405084467116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9715614.post-7891347543717119532010-01-10T06:07:00.001-06:002010-01-13T01:44:15.270-06:00

One thing the marketing people of Costa Rica taught me: Jeep-Boat-Jeep sounds a lot more exciting than van-ferry-van. I was in Monteverde, however, and JBJ was the fastest and most convenient way to get across the continental divide to La Fortuna, my next stop on the way to the Caribbean. And it was worth it, if not for the adventure I'd hoped for then because the views and the rural passage down

Deanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04879162405084467116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9715614.post-9582045881794084592010-01-08T15:13:00.004-06:002010-01-12T21:23:51.307-06:00

When our adventure last ended, we were winding our way up the green mountains from Tamarindo to Monteverde, Sloane, Shaun, Johnny, Jez, and myself, in Sloane’s aptly named Green Machine. We arrived at 2:30 PM to find the wind howling and the temperature already too cool for shorts and a t-shirt. The hostel we’d been recommended, Vista de la Golfa, was full (they had a few cabins left but she wasn

Deanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04879162405084467116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9715614.post-81285694967582571662010-01-07T16:10:00.005-06:002010-01-13T09:45:25.732-06:00

They stood in an unordered mass of over a thousand bodies, swaying like palms in the wretched sun as wave upon wave of hot malice fought to rip any remaining moisture from their parched, barky skin. An occasional gust of wind brought both relief and clouds of dust that settled on them like a powder. Slowly, the mass of humanity shifted and one ponderous step forward was taken before stillness

Deanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04879162405084467116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9715614.post-39030612694260960702010-01-02T15:14:00.006-06:002010-01-04T15:46:06.458-06:00

It was about as organized as I have ever been travelling: I had booked somewhere to stay for New Years Eve almost two weeks in advance. Generally, I prefer the showing up and finding what you find approach. At first this approach might seem laden with stress and worry, but with time and enough experience showing up and finding something that works, there is actually less. You don’t have to scour

Deanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04879162405084467116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9715614.post-87364409654815918642009-12-28T15:06:00.006-06:002010-01-04T15:52:41.531-06:00

Ometepe is an island in the middle of giant inland Lake Nicaragua, formed much like the island of Maui by two volcanoes and an isthmus of volcanic soil connecting them. And it was our next destination, just for a quick two nights as we had already booked ourselves into Pacha Mama Hostel in San Juan del Sur for Dec 28-Jan 2 on the southern coast of Nicaragua. We set out at around 11:30, catching

Deanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04879162405084467116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9715614.post-91858909854840913662009-12-25T21:30:00.004-06:002009-12-29T15:03:27.512-06:00

First things first: by this point, we had a cadre, a crew, a group of travellers hanging out together, which I have to admit is something new to me. Generally I'd keep it down to one or two people but it's Christmas and everybody is great. Plus this is Central America, and there's safety in numbers. So the dramatis personae: Myself; Phil, a friend from Saskatoon; Jez, an Englishman whom Phil and

Deanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04879162405084467116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9715614.post-76844609201067387952009-12-22T21:10:00.002-06:002009-12-24T09:23:56.859-06:00

That morning I was in for a pleasant surprise. I checked out of Hostel La Clinica, grateful that they’d taken me in last night but not really eager to spend another day sleeping on stained sheets. It was fine and cheap for the most part, but it was pretty quiet and I was ready to meet some people. So I went to the Bigfoot Hostel and checked in at 11 AM, which has plenty of people everywhere not

Deanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04879162405084467116noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9715614.post-14662472046906862722009-12-18T23:57:00.001-06:002009-12-19T12:18:44.676-06:00

Leaving Juayua on the Flower Route at 10 AM gets you to the volcanic black sand beaches of El Salvador’s Balsam coast (and specifically El Tunco) at about 2 PM. From there, you wander down a small cobblestone road from the highway into town, passing a few hotels here and there and eventually coming upon some restaurants and cafes. All this done with 20-some kilograms of backpack in surprising

Deanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04879162405084467116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9715614.post-57579482999956537302009-12-14T10:30:00.003-06:002009-12-16T11:10:41.768-06:00

Crossing a border is like starting your travels all over again: new place, new rules, new people. You never know what to expect on the other side. It was time for me to leave a country I’d grown pretty familiar with, Guatemala, for that small unknown mark on Central America’s Pacific coast: El Salvador. I had just enough Quetzals left, in my estimates, to make it to the border. The journey

Deanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04879162405084467116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9715614.post-79631265877521737942009-12-10T21:38:00.000-06:002009-12-12T09:53:47.483-06:00

We returned from our hike to Taljumulco, the highest point in Central America and said our goodbyes. I needed to find a place to stay and after chatting with a girl from Vancouver, decided the hostel attached to Quetzal Trekkers, Casa Argentina, would do just fine. I was going to meet up with the Vancouver girl and her friend for wine later, but right now, I wanted some street food. Sundays in

Deanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04879162405084467116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9715614.post-53776010225074487482009-12-06T17:50:00.001-06:002009-12-14T19:59:40.180-06:00

I quickly loaded my pack with gear and refilled my water bottles (5 L in all) while everybody was loading their packs into the back of the pickup. We were setting off at 5:15 AM for the highest point in Central America, Tajulmulco, about three hours north of Xela close to the Mexican border. Quetzaltrekkers, the company I was travelling with, provided almost all of the gear including a backpack,

Deanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04879162405084467116noreply@blogger.com0