An Unexpected Journey on the isthmus.

It was supposed to be a complicated trip. Our cheap flights were already rerouting us through two regional capitals, so in a sense we were only slightly inconvenienced by a transport meltdown that saw us driven through four countries, but that's putting an awfully positive spin on things.

The smoking cone of San Miguel: Destroyer of Travel Plans

Everything had been going as smoothly as these things ever go. We'd played runaround with the airport counters ("If you queue here it will take ages to drop your bags, you'd be better off waiting for some of the other desks to open at 5am" "Which ones?" "I don't know"), I'd enjoyed becoming a seat sandwich after it transpired that my seat didn't recline, but the one in front of me very much did, the Iberia flight attendants managed to make me feel that ordering a G&T was in some way deliciously naughty (slipping the Blue Sapphire bottle to me when no-one was looking) and watched the entirety of Cloud Atlas (I say the entirety, because we very nearly gave up at several points) on my iPad to avoid the airline entertainment: Elf, on loop for 12 hours, on a TV stapled to the ceiling.

Given that a kind stranger had allowed himself to be moved so that my Esteemed Travelling Companion Michelle and I could be rehoused in reclining seats, all was well until we approved Guatemala. It was a stopping flight, the same flight number intended to proceed to San Salvador. There was something in the frantic last minute instructions to collect our hold luggage, just as we were queuing up to exit the plane for a 90 minute break, that suggested that the aircrew were working with soe very last minute information. Unfortunately, they chose not to reveal what that was.

Being a monolingual anglophone (I do try, but my current Spanish-learning strategy is to use the fun but perhaps not entirely tourist-targeted "Cat Spanish" app, so I can ask where the fish is and say the dog is stupid, but can't ask "why am I standing with my luggage in the street when I should be on a plane?"), I feel slightly cosseted by the international convention of English as the lingua franca of the skies. However, like the Albatross, eventually one must land, and suddenly realise that one is poorly adapted for this new environment. Iberia may have many English speaking staff on their flight crews. Their ground reps, however, are just as linguistically limited as I am*.

It was some time, in which we learned that queuing as a concept does not really exist in Meso-America, before we realised that having collected our bags and cleared customs, that we were slowly being ushered out of the airport. Reassured slightly by the familiar faces of our fellow flyers, we milled out into the airport approach road. Helpful hispanophones managed to communicate to us that we needed to get a bus, but for all we knew it was going to take us to another terminal. Only after waiting so long that our scheduled departure was 20 minutes away did we realise something was up, and only when the bus arrived did we manage to work out - by patient studying of gestures - what was going on.

Volcan San Miguel, a 37-years quiescent cone in the east of El Salvador, had chosen that afternoon to wake up and vomitar ash several kilometres into the sky. It was a shortlived eruption, but enough to ground all flights from San Salvador. Our journey was, basically, a bit buggered.

Which is not to say that we truly understood the actions of Iberia. True, we had boarded their flight with the intention of reaching El Salvador, therefore being put on a bus and transported there was a way for the airline to fulfil their duties. However, that also meant they were transporting us all to the one airport in the region that wasn't working. Had they left us in Guatemala, surely it was more likely that they could arrange alternative flights.

To make matters worse, by the time we driven for five hours through Gautemala City, the surrounding countryside, patiently filed through the border controls and on to San Salvador, the airport was not only disfunctional but noticeably shut. The security staff let us use the toilets and charge our phones, and their armed presence was reassuring, but it wasn't so far from being dumped in the street at 1am and told to sleep there until dawn.   

Travel Iberia in comfort!

 Throughout the night, various plans were hatched. We could pay the bus driver to take us on to Nicaragua. Then we couldn't. We could get a taxi for only $90. Then we couldn't. There was a mini-bus that could take us. Then it couldn't. Eventually the dawn came, and we discovered that we would have another 14 hour wait for a flight. Sit all day in the airport, or take a chance.

Latching on to Juan, a Spaniard also heading for Managua (who was also the kind stranger from the plane), we hit the taxi rank. There were a few startled looks from the Salvadorian drivers when we stated our destination, but a few whispers later were were offered $150 each. Hoping the travel insurance would cover that, we accepted, confident that a car could over the 300 miles to Managua faster than an aircraft that wouldn't be going anywhere for most of the day.

It turned out we were right, but by less of a margin that we had hoped.  The main road through El Salvador is in very good condition, but it's just a two lane road, and for all the stretches where our driver, sporting a borrowed ute with our bags tarpaulined in the back, was able to rattle along at 100kph, there were times when we were stuck behind, variously, an old bus, a motorbike with several people on it, or a donkey and cart. The border crossings were also interminable, though our Hispanophone friend at least made them less stress filled that might have been the case. Our driver was sweating and nervous at each crossing, which in turn made us edgy, but we preceded through several border checks before we hit a snag.

The Honduran highway feels like a neglected cousin of those around it, its roughness reflecting the scraggy terrain of the pacific coast of Honduras, but its border staff were helpful enough. At one point they filed us through a cage, giving us the impression were about to be handed our orange overalls to prepare for incarceration, but Juan was able to handle any questions about our bizarre voyage without too much trouble. The Hondurans were fond of passport stamps, customs forms and receipts. The Salvadorians let us through through entire country with nothing but a cursory glance at our documents: there is no evidence we were ever there.

The Nicaraguan border at El Gausaule is a (comparatively) plush affair, with trees and gardens and a small boy who (for some reason) "refreshes" your car tyres with a squirty thing. Regrettably, like Bill the pony at the gates of Moria, it was here our trusty steed deserted us. The Nicaraguan authorities, for reasons we still don't entirely understand, took exception to our driver and barred his entry. The driver, in turn, then insisted that he get his full fee, and was most crestfallen to be asked to take a cut, and we departed on less than amicable terms, but we now had to hire another taxi at great cost, or take a bus that would almost certainly reach Managua after our rescheduled flight, rendering our whole journey entirely redundant. We did explore the bus station, but the small boys standing around holding broken plastic guns and staring at us were discomfiting, and we slunk back to the patch of gravel that seemed to serve as the official taxi rank.

$110 dollars later, we were on the road again. The driver, despite claims to the contrary, was unable to supply a receipt official enough to satisfy insurance, and had to borrow one from his friend in a local restaurant.  I look forward to discussing this with my insurers when they ask why my taxi receipt has a picture of a roast chicken on it.

The Nicaraguan road, briefly, led us to despair. It was so potholed that for a first mile or so I thought Nicaragua's brush with the British Empire had led to them driving on the left, so often did the taxi take evasive action on that side of the road, but once it levelled off normal service was resumed.

According to Lonely Planet's map, Managua is 47 kilometres from the border as the crow flies. Sadly, Lonely Planet maps have long come with all the accuracy of a six-year-old's crayon drawing of a human face, and the actual road distance turned out to be 186km, a difference not explained by the occasional wiggle on the road or volcano avoiding reroute.  So the last phase of our voyage dragged on, and on, with the prospect of losing our race with the airline a distinct possibility. Our impromptu interpreter, Juan, was staying in Managua itself, so we entered the congested streets of the capital to enjoy the view of bright shiny orange Christmas trees, flashing elves and prostitutes, finally abandoning Juan and - it turned out - our driver in a shopping mall. Juan kindly gave us a bottle of wine in thanks for helping him escape El Salvador. We still haven't drunk it.

Our final driver, Bayardo, ploughed the journey to the city of Granada with great aplomb, and very kindly didn't hold us at knife point until we gave him all our money (apparently a hobby of Managuan drivers).  As we slumped gratefully in our hotel, we calculated that we had beaten the plane by about three hours, and - cumulatively - been on 420 miles of road for 18 hours. Worth every cent. 

* though they may not know how to say "quiero vomitar" in English.