El Salvador, briefly

Chicken Buses are a ubiquitous combination of dangerous and uncomfortable, but colourful and fun. They are old US School buses, and the distance between the backs of the seats is significantly less than the length of the femur of the average 5ft 10in man. At any time of day, Guatemalans and tourists alike are packed in like sardines, such that up to four people share each two-man bench, with one person occupying the gap between benches (in a seated position, held in place by the squeeze placed on him or her from the sides). This makes for an agonizing three-hour journey. This is especially the case when somebody sits on the nozzle of your ‘platypus’ tube-attached drinking vessel, resulting in the partial flooding of the back rows. Angry looks all round.

On the other hand, there is often the opportunity of sharing the journey with a flock of chickens, as the name of the service suggests. But they’re rarely loose and flying around. No Borat-on-the-subway mayhem here. Two or three birds are placed in a plastic washing-up bowl, which is then covered by a tea-cloth or some sort of netting. These squawking packages are then neatly tucked under the seats to be kicked repeatedly throughout the journey as anyone over 5ft 10in attempts to restore circulation to their lower legs. More glares from the three traditionally-dressed, plump Mayan women sharing my bench. In these situations, you can generally rely on their attention being deflected by the driver’s attempts to manoeuvre the vehicle around crumbling switchback mountain corners at 60kmph.

Tourism is becoming more and more developed in Guatemala. Some towns, especially the World Heritage Site of the former capital, Antigua, are packed full of gringos taking their Spanish courses and glugging locally-sourced mochas in the minimalist-decorated avant-garde cafes. We could have been in Madrid. But one side of the business they haven’t quite caught up with is health and safety. This makes, without exception, for a richer and more intense touristic experience. Forget about insurance, security, or whether or not you have had any heart problems recently. If you have the cash, you’ve got your place on the tour of Central America’s most active volcano.

Halfway up the basalt cone of Volcan Pacaya, the guide crouched down at a vent. He threw a few cocktail stick-sized twigs into the crack. They ignited. We stepped over them and carried on up the razor-sharp rock until we reached a point within four feet of a tumbling flow of lava, about 40ft from the top of the mountain. The searingly hot pocket of air surrounding us was filled with a sound like breaking glass as the newly solidified bits of red-hot brittle rock fell from the edges of the flow. Someone produced a packet of marshmallows and some long twigs. The journey down was slightly more difficult than the climb for some, because the soles of their shoes had begun to melt like the marshmallows they’d cremated over the molten rock.

El Salvador, in contrast, hasn’t quite got the gist of tourism just yet. It still suffers from its reputation as a dangerous country, only recently emerged from Civil War. In fact, the war finished almost 15 years ago, but the backpackers still stay away. As a result, it’s harder to make yourself understood speaking pidgin Spanish. One or two things, however, need no translation. Such as the ‘no handgun’ signs situated at the entrances to public places in every town, or the bullet-riddled windscreens of the rusting wrecks that populate El Salvador’s vehicle graveyards. These little peculiarities do nothing to set the mind of the Lonely Planet-clutching new arrival at ease. We didn’t stay long – a matter of days. In some respects I regret not giving the country more of a chance, but once we’d climbed another volcano (the 'Lighthouse of the Pacific' until it stopped erupting 50 years ago) and wandered around the deserted streets of Santa Ana, the second city, we decided to press on back to the crystal-clear comfort of the Caribbean.