A relatively painless seven hour run from the highlands of southern Mexico to the highlands of Guatemala brought us to the town of Quetzaltenango (locally known by the Mayan name of Xela - pron Sha-la). Similar in appearance to Northampton, though admittedly under the gaze of a volcano, Xela failed in its attempts to hold us for more than an overnight rest. The following morning we passed a US style complex of cinemas, pizza restaurants and shops before reaching the dusty chaotic bus station. The smell of rotting food, black diesel fumes coupled with the continuous sound of blowing air horns. In amongst the confusion, you will always be found and led to your bus. Gringos head in the same direction for the most part, so the locals know what you are up to and where you are headed. We boarded our first chicken bus and made way for Lake Atitlan. Our journey was not long, perhaps 3 hours. We passed through an almost flourescent green landscape of steep sided farmland interdespersed with pine trees. The obligatory dilapodated towns whizzed passed our windows as our suicidal driver raced to our destination. The lakeside towns were a pleasant surprise and the lake itself absolutely stunning. This is infact a caldera. A collapsed volcano cone. We are told the waters run to a depth of 320 meters. Three nights at the hippified backpacker hangout of San Pedro followed the same duration at the more touristy Panajachel. Guns 'n' Roses blasted from all but the most sedate bars, though guns were more prevelant than roses. All security guards carry what appear to be pump action shot guns. The truth is these weapons can be bought anywhere for around 15 quid. They rarely fire properly and only hold one cartridge. these chaps are even employed to protect electrical stores. Imagine a shoot out for a washing machine. We will emphasise at this point that we have felt very safe since arriving in Guatemala. That said we are making efforts to avoid trouble. For example, walking a couple of hours between villages on the lake could be extremely pleasant. Unfortunately, macheties can be bought for a couple of nicker on the market and the local nasties all carry them. Tourists are robbed (and worse) on a daily basis on these footpaths. We will keep the football talk to a minimum. The kick-off was at 10am over here and our table was full of empty Gallo beer bottles long before the shoot out. The dozen or so England fans were out numbered 4-1 by the Guatemalans who all sided with Portgual. Some tenuous latin link we are told. Phill's 91 minute effort to kick start a sing song with fellow countrymen finally met with success. At the end a teary Phill was embraced by three local woman and two guys who clearly felt his pain. The only silver lining to this whole sorry tale was in making new aquantances with Becky from London and her travelling partner, Andrew from Edinburgh. Andrew was drapped in a St George for much of the game. This truly an historic cross border moment. Lastly, water. The picture here is the water supply to one of our hotels. Phill clambered on to the roof to take a gander at the view and found this radio-active muck alive with wiggling mosquito lavae. It explained why the showerhead passed little water. Apparently if you unscrew shower heads here they will be full of the little buggars. We both sustained electric shocks in the shower too. Melted wires and water don't mix. Flip-flops from now on. We are now in the colonial city of Antigua and look forward to climbing an active volcano tomorrow. Sort of! PaS