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Written by Orla Nad Ron with bits by Bob

Moist, windy, dark, cloudy, cold, insane, but mostly windy. We were huddled together, lying flat on our backs. To offer the wind any angle of elevation would be to risk being blown over the edge. We were on the top of an active volcano, it was nearly dark, and it was very windy. I could just about make out what Jim said – “Where’s the helpful guide?” or something like that …

Following the previous night’s group meal and one or two beers, the ten volcano climbers were subdued as we boarded the small bus bound for Volcan Pacaya. We were told to being water, food, warm clothes and a torch. We set off at lunchtime, packed tight for two hours of a bumpy ride to the musical accompanyment of plinkity-plonk zylophone music.

There was spectacular scenery as we left the city and headed up through the hills to Base Camp, a small village called San Francisco. As we started the climb, the group gradually became quieter as we concentrated on the climbing. After about an hour’s climb we left all signs of folliage and wildlife and started climbing the gravel side of the volcano.

At this stage the wind started to pick up and around and above us white clouds raced across the sky. The final stage of the ascent had us crawling up loose scree and rocks with the wind screaming in our ears while being sand-blasted by gravel-filled gusts. A free facial scrub on the side of a volcano was an unexpected hidden extra.

As we neared the crater the clouds seemed all around us and the landscape was lunar, or Lord of the Rings style. Hot from climbing uphill, cold from the freezing wind, wet from the cloud moisture, we whooped, cheered, and danced at the crater edge. The force of the wind soon put a stop to that and after a group photo, the ten were huddled on the ground behind a clump of rock.

This was the wierdest sensation as we quickly realised that the ground was hot – hot bots and everything else freezing cold. We was the red glow of the lava at the crater. The only one with common sense on the crater’s edge at that time was the local guide who scarpered down the hill, leaving us to the mercy of the volcano gods.

When we realised than an overnight stop was not an option, we commenced the stagger of the lemmings down the volcano side (we hoped). The descent was a surreal experience as we skieds, skidded and slid down the precipitous slope. Marianne and Lea took a more novel approach and had to be treated for gravel rash of the bot later.

While the visibility before was 2 metres, it disappeared altogether at the advent of nightfall. Still no sign of the local guide as we fished out our torches and continued the descent. Conversation dropped to an absolute minimum consisting of “Are you okay?”, “Who are you?”, “Ouch my boots are full of gravel”, “I need a pee but it’s too windy!”, “Where’s the volcano guide?”

After an indeterminable period, we finally reached the base, some of us nearly sleep-walking the final stage. Climbing onto the bus our final words before unconsciousness set in were “Turn off the music.”

In spite of the narrative, giving the impression that the climb was horrendous, it was in fact the opposite. Intense, exhillarating, and we’d all do it again tomorrow (well maybe not tomorrow …)

Written by Ron, our man in Costa Rica

After a couple of hectic days based in San Jose featuring white-water rafting, jungle bashing and fast city living, we were facing up to the possibility of having to stay awake until the early hours to get the best view of Volcan Arenal doing its thing.

This was the preparation: various combinations of the group ventured forth into the city to taste the local cuisine with a plan to meet at a local bar later for drinks. For some it became evident that when ordering from a menu something gets lost in the translation. Sopa de vegetales conjoured up images of fresh vegetable soup but turned out to be a few cabbage leaves with hot water poured over them.

Undeterred, and having fully lined their stomachs with soggy cabbage, we set off for the trendy El Pueblo, which is a collection of restaurants, bars, nightclubs and shops not far from the city centre. El Pueblo had been recommended to us by the rafting guide and Jo and Caroline had forced themselves to go and check it out the night before (for the good of the whole group), although the fact that the rafting guide was to have been there may have had something to do with their philanthropic attitude.

Soon the protection of the cabbage wore off and many of the group took to the garden and began an international dance-fest of their own. Sort of Riverdance meets Zorba the Greek without coreography.

Some cervezas later we headed for a nightclub where Lea, JoJo, Marianne and Elisabeth cleared the dancefloor with a sort of salsa twist. Catrin was checking out the local culture, Bill was looking confused and Yuko was looking for Bill.

At the end of the night we all got taxis safely back to the hotel and our preparation for the volcano was complete.

The next morning the memories of the previous night’s excesses were clouded and shrouded in mist and hangovers intact, we left San Jose for Volcan Arenal through pretty countryside. For those awake, we were amazed to see the PopeMobile, escourted by police and Hells Angels on motorcycles (this was not our imagination, it has since been confirmed as true).

Anyway, thus blessed we approached the volcano. As we did, the sky cleared giving us perfect views. Super-impressive. Huge plume of smoke rising out of the top, smoke oozing out of the vents on the side, and to top it all off, just as we were setting up camp at the volcano base, huge rumbles and explosions and magma streaming down the side.

As it got dark, the weather got the better of us, and we lost the view. For the second time in 24 hours things were clouded and shrouded in mist.