I arrived in the Guatemalan mountain town of Todosantos Chuchumantan hoping to improve my Spanish. Some hours after my first lesson, my teacher’s brother was shot dead by a local police officer. The dead man turned out to have been the head of a local gang – the next morning the entire town police force fled in fear of lynching. As the town began the preparations for its annual horse racing fiesta, preparations mainly involving getting fantastically drunk, the infamous Guatemalan army rolled in to keep the order. That weekend, six other people would die, and the host family I was living with would fall into crisis when the father punched his wife in the face. Todosantos was a town of welcoming, curious people, with great pride in their Indigenous Mayan traditions, surrounded by stunning mountains, and full of happy children who would shout, “Hola, Daniel!” whenever I passed their house. Despite the sometimes-terrifying events that took place, it remains my favourite place in Guatemala.

Friday, 31st October 2003: I wake to find my language teacher’s brother dead and my host family distraught at the news. The family are pure indigenous Guatemalans – the rather diminutive mother and four daughters have fantastically long blue-black hair. Everyone in Todosantos wears the same clothes – the traditional blue woven dress for the women; red trousers and white shirt with a huge red, purple or green collar for the men. They speak Spanish to me, and the Mayan alien-sounding “Mam” language to each other. The two youngest daughters, the sweet Juana (age ten) and the bubbly Melissa (age nine) are my main Spanish conversation partners. Without much apparent direction or scolding, the daughters cook meals, tend the log fired stove, wash vast amounts of clothes and blankets, sweep, wash the floors, and weave in their spare time. One magical evening, with everyone else out in the family shop, I watch Juana sit singing to herself while Melissa cooks a simple meal for about seven people.

By Friday afternoon, the three-man marimba bands have begun in earnest, as has the drinking. One of my neighbours is taking part in tomorrow’s fiesta, decked in sashes and a tall hat, he dances as much as his whisky brain will allow. He and his friends drink all night.

That night, an old man drinks himself to death and a young man dies from a knife wound – why, no one knows.

Saturday, 1st November 2003: I wake up at six am – my horse-racing neighbour is unconscious lying face down in the mud. By eight am, his friends have revived him and seated him on a horse – he is led across town to the racetrack.

The Todosantos horse race fiesta is not actually a race at all. There are no winners, the aim is to ride one’s horse all day back and forth along the two hundred-metre track, taking a drink at each end. At lunchtime there is a break for more drinking, then the race begins afresh in the afternoon. Already by eight am, the riders are already very drunk and many have not slept at all – as the day goes on, their eyes become mirrors and many ride swaying back in their saddle, arms outstretched at their sides. During the race, one man falls from his horse and is trampled to death – many riders finish the day proudly wounded.

That night, my friends and I go to the town’s annual fiesta disco: tourists and locals dance in a huge cold hall while a semi circle of twelve assault rifled soldiers watch impassively. Early the next morning, a man lying in the street is killed when the arriving bus runs over his sleeping head.

The remaining deaths discovered that weekend were less well documented – rumour and counter rumour were so widespread it was hard for me to know what was real. Many attendees of the fiesta were making their annual return to the town from their jobs in the United States – stories spread of old scores and inexplicably pregnant wives dealt with violently.

Monday, 3rd November: I wake to find my host family’s house turned black. The husband Augusto has drunkenly punched his wife Dominga, her face is swollen and left eye turned red.

I try to decide what to do. After taking advice from the long-term foreign residents of the town, I decide to move out, to send a message to Augusto and to avoid getting involved in any violence from him. I move out to a “Ladino” (as opposing to Indigenous) family, who drink Pepsi and power their stove with gas instead of logs. The sense of rejoining the cold West is jarring.

I had, and still have, little idea what the correct moral decision would have been in a situation like this. But I was missing the girls too much, the new family I was assigned to weren’t that keen on me – so after a few days I moved back in with Dominga and her daughters. As before, Augusto spent most nights sleeping in the family’s shop further up the hill, so I rarely saw him, but suspect it didn’t even occur to him why I’d left the house for a while.

My last week in Todosantos, I worked in the language school, doing the job of the day manager while he took a break to Lake Atitlan. I shopped among the Todosanteros for bread and light bulbs, organised a big meal for all the foreign residents, and arranged teachers and host families for any new students. It was great to interact with the ever-friendly people of the town on a deeper, less-touristy level. I would have come back to the town to do the language school job full time – the current school co-ordinator was leaving in February – but a month later discovered that they had given it to someone else, and so my travels around the world continued.

Daniel’s travels continue at http://blogs.bootsnall.com/dw

All long-distance buses seem to have termini fairly near the Central Station [trains]. Outside this there is a massive square where most local buses start and from the other side there are roads into the centre, of which the Via Roma is the widest. The place where I stayed is just to the left of the Via Roma [third turn] and is visible from it. This is the Rosalia Conco d’Oro, completely unprepossessing from outside but secure, snug, clean, comfortable and friendly inside and with a lift to the third floor reception and rooms. Toilets and showers are shared but I never had to wait.

A small but useful tip for the first time visitor is to buy a ticket valid for twenty-four hours on local buses from the bookshop on the station before you leave that area, as a lot of tobacconists only have one hour tickets. Another is not to think of travelling without a ticket; three times while I was there a pack of three inspectors got into a bus I was on and all doors are locked until they have done their business.

The Museo Archeologico Regionale is not a purpose built edifice like the national museum in Agrigento but the building itself has an interesting history, first as a convent and then as an almost ruined bombing target of the second world war. It is the Greek remains, again, which provide the main interest and for anyone who has come from or is going on to Selinunte, the sala de Selinunte is a must with its collection of stone carvings from the numerous temples there. The top floor has a very fine mosaic, Roman from the third century AD, of Orpheus playing a lyre and surrounded by animals.

Two places in Palermo disappointed me a little, one because it does not live up to the hype and the other because Italian and mock Italian furniture and artefacts are so common in Europe generally. This second was the Palazzo Mirto, an eighteenth century building which has much original furniture.. The other is La Zisa, built in the twelfth century along North African lines. It now contains a good collection of Muslim art. If I had simply expected this, I should have been far more impressed than I was. Local attempts to liken it to the Moorish remains in Andalucia are absurd.

The next place described could present a dilemma for those with children. It could really excite and fascinate or it could frighten and cause bad dreams for years to come. If you are uncertain, please give it a miss! This is the Convento dei Cappucchini, reached by bus from the Piazza del’ Indepenza. This is an abode of Skeletons, many of which are clothed and standing. Right up to the late nineteenth century, wealthy people would make bequests or their relatives would pay for them to be placed there. Division is by sex, status and occupation. There are numerous skeletons of little children and one which can really shock. This is an amazing figure of a two-year old who looks almost as though she could wake up at any time, except that she does not breathe. She died in the 1920’s and was treated with a special embalming process by a doctor whose secret died with him I am not particularly given to fantasy but the skeletons’ appearance of grinning seems to increase as you stay longer. I was not sorry to leave; a strange experience.

A last expedition at Palermo involved a bus trip from quite near the prestigious national theatre. This was to Monte Pellegrino and the ride is stupendous, twisting up through forest with outstanding views to sea and a fine view of a beach to the west of the mountain. The bus stops near the top in a huge car park where there were various stalls set out, mostly selling the most revolting tat. The shrine, the supposed magnet for the trip had no appeal to me at all. Twenty minutes spent waiting for the bus to return, however, was but a small price to pay for the ride up and down.

After two nights, and visits to the archaeology museum and a market on the morning after, I used the train for the first time in Sicily to reach Cefalù.

David was a keen walker, particularly on mountains before he developed serious heart problems in 1995. He has now adapted his holidays to what he is able to do and we are presenting his account of 12 days in Sicily over this and the coming months. Next two episodes: Palermo.

Next episode – Cefalù, Castelbuono and Milazzo

Which countries are represented by these flags? For the answers, see at the end of the eNews.

1	2	3	4	5

The ringing of metal hitting metal in the early evening sunshine rang across the stillness of the Fiord as we moored for the first night on our Norwegian sailing trip. Driving a steel stake into the rock that had a ring attached allowed one to pass a warp through the ring and back to a cleat on the boat – Thus enabling any one to explore the shore easily by just jumping on to the rocks from the bow or stern, have a BBQ or merely to stretch their legs in the evening after a day at sea. The locals used this way of mooring up for the afternoon or night, and this was only possible because of the lack of tides in this part of the world. This was a very pleasant surprise after the difficulties with tides and mooring in the UK.

We had set out in ‘Turid’ a 35 ft Halberg Sailing sloop, from Kragero in the south of the country to enjoy a few days break from tackling the stresses and strains of life in London. The Norwegian Skipper had an old 1780’s house overlooking his mooring and was just back from sailing round Greece. David and I have been friends since way back when we were nearly young. He has a wooden Folk boat on the south coast of England and I once had a four berth sailing cruiser moored in Conway. The second piece of luck was that as we boarded the sun came out and for the rest of the trip we had sunshine until about 2130 hours at night with a temperature of 26 degrees Centigrade at sea during the day. People expect it to be cold but in the summer this place can be extremely warm, in fact the week after we left the temperature rose another five degrees.

We started our trip around this wonderful coast with fir trees on the rocks and the houses right on the waterside. Rocks and inlets all around the place, so be careful if you’re not with a local skipper who has a good knowledge of the area. It seemed that everyone in Norway had some sort of boat and they were all making the most of the summer either in their holiday homes right by the sea or on the water.

The cost of beer or wine is so expensive in Norway, that I had brought a three Litre box of red wine to be used on the boat. The Skipper who had started life in the Galley of a cargo ship in his country’s merchant marine had just finished cooking up our evening meal after a long day at sea – This was the moment that my friend David told me he had forgotten the wine on shore! So like it or not we went on the wagon! Except for a thimbleful of whiskey that we had every time we anchored for the night, this was a Norwegian custom called Ankerdram, and we definitely decided that this was one custom that needed to be kept up.

We only docked to take on provisions, but we still had time to visit some of the excellent little ports – Risor, Arendal, Grimstad to name but three. Grimstad was my favourite with some of its wooden houses, in the old town, going back to 1729. I even encountered two Dutch cycle campers that were on a cycle way that took in six north European countries.

The only things I needed to take was my ‘Tilley Hat’ to cover my ears from the hot sun, a pair of ‘Ecco’ deck shoes and a boat or beach mesh bag that was great for carrying wet things as well as food etc. Norwegian money was needed as it was very rare that they took foreign credit cards, though Euros could be changed very easily. An inexpensive holiday in an expensive place but thanks to friends with a boat and a cheap return flight with Ryanair it became a great short holiday break.

The good thing about south Norway was the warm, sunny weather and the wind at about Force 4 – If anything we could have done with more wind. Houses by the waters edge, fir trees behind and moorings in your back garden are great but for me, some of the Fiords that we visited by boat, dropped anchor for the night and watched the sun go down were fantastic.

It has been nearly four years since I was last in Mikindani, Southern Tanzania, and six years since my initial involvement with Trade Aid, so to be able to return and see the changes to the village and its inhabitants is a real privilege. Of course, being Africa, the changes are slow to come about, and much of the “progress” is in areas that I would never even have considered.

Seeing the Boma, (see photo by the Beetle,) now a fully restored small hotel is even more amazing than any of the photos I had seen, such a dramatic transformation from the derelict building here on my arrival, which was only just nearing completion when I returned for the millennium festivities. It now stands in grounds surrounded by all manner of vibrant vegetation, attracting varied animal life – from butterflies to lizards to the occasional monkey.

As the various groups of volunteers have ventured further into the depths of Mikindani, new places to visit have been discovered while it would appear that some of the old haunts have been forgotten. Maybe our fickle tastes mean that even here, where the choices for evening entertainment are limited, there are places to be seen, as well as those that have fallen from favour.

Perhaps the most surprising addition to the village and the area in general is the curse of the mobile phone. Vodaphone and Orange have spread their wings wide enough to mean there is just no escaping contact from the outside world. Not that I should complain too much, as without a phone I would not have been able to keep up to date with the rugby scores as they unfolded! Internet cafes have sprung up in Mtwara, the “information highway” is now fully accessible, while rutted mud tracks still link adjacent villages.

Some things have however, remained the same: the beauty of the village, the smiling faces on the children, the overwhelming generosity in the face of poverty, the sounds, the smells (some of them anyway!). It is these things, and countless more, that combine to continue drawing me, and many others, back. It will hopefully not be too long before I am able to return and see the next stage of evolution.

For more information about Trade Aid, their work or being a volunteer in Mikindani, see: http://www.tradeaiduk.org/ or if you would like to stay at the Boma Hotel, see: http://www.mikindani.com/accommodation.html The Beetle can recommend it as a wonderful experience.