Our flight arrived as predicted, at Gate 9. Hesitantly, we walked into San Salvador airport and was really surprised at how beautiful the terminal was. Having heard the entire country El Salvador was best to avoid, we couldn’t believe how big and established this was! Sparkling white corridors were brimming with tourists from all over the globe who were shopping and eating in all of its fancy looking outlets. We had specifically booked our flights in and out of Guatemala under similar reasoning. Horror stories and travel blogs had highlighted again and again the dangers of these countries and the risks associated with venturing through them, so we thought it best to fly in, and limit covering a lot of ground through the country.

A couple hours later we arrived in hectic Guatemala City, and having been advised not to stick around, got straight in a shuttle bound for Antigua. Within minutes of being in the car, we were stunned to see guards patrolling along shop fronts with massive guns slung over their shoulder. As we passed through the city and into shanty town outskirts, these guards now seemed to be stationed on top of buildings and along the roadside. Not knowing whether to stare or hide, we sat straight backed and wide-eyed taking it all in from the safety of the back seat.

As pot-holed highways were replaced with dirt tracks, we began to wind higher and higher into the cloud-covered landscape. Our conversation had turned to a whisper as we quietly pointed out to each other we were at the complete mercy of this man driving us into the sky. The stunning countryside crashed like rolling waves against the horizon but it was confrontingly poverty-stricken. Flimsy sheets of tin were propped up against each other creating endless rows of rusted shelter. Makeshift windows were decorated with strings of rotting bananas for sale and kids were kicking lemons around for sport. Something like 60% of the country live under the poverty line, and we seemed to be driving right through the heart of this confronting figure.

Another hour passed before slowly, the roads narrowed into cobblestoned streets and tin was replaced with brick. We had reached Antigua. A museum of Spanish colonial history, this picturesque town was instantly spellbinding and full of flourishing life. Rows of elegant colour popped off the streets, women clad in traditional dress were balancing all sorts of items on their heads, and pasty skinned tourists were posing for selfies against beautiful church ruins.

V O L C A N O  A C A T E N A N G O

Scarcely having time to take in our surroundings, we were hurried up to the Volcano Climb meeting held on the hostel roof when we arrived at our end destination. The guide was speaking in both Spanish and English to an assortment of about 15 people listening intently to his instructions. The level of difficulty was being continually stressed, as was the freezing temperatures at the top. We had signed up for one the most gruelling climbs fellow travellers had spoken about. This was an unwritten initiation for everyone on the Central American gringo trail and we were determined to see it through.

Having read ample scary stories about bandits hiding up the volcano, I had done my research and found a seemingly reputable company – OX Adventures – to climb with. Not only were they going to keep us safe from baddies, they also provided packs, warm clothes, food and tents. After the meeting we scrambled through the warm clothes pit to retrieve gloves, beanies, trackie pants and a poncho in a bid to prep against negative temperatures.

Unbeknown to anyone but me, poor Sam had been experiencing a rough couple of days battling pretty hectic diarrhea. Starting in Dangregia, we had put it down to an extra hot chilli and potentially dodgy seafood eaten during our sail. Her irritated  anoos had kept the poor soul running to the dodgy Dangregia toilet all through last night, and it had only mildly gotten better since then. Determined-Sam was not going to let a leaky butt stand in the way of a volcano, and insisted we were going to climb the next morning. I could not change her mind on this and so we made a quick visit to the pharmacy and tried our best to describe the “agua” that was pouring out of her. It took a few attempts and some raised eyebrows before the guy finally understood what we required. Sam gulped down what she needed to, we got ourselves a big carb-loading feed (which we later found out is just about the worst thing you can do for diarrhea) and headed off to our dorm.

As I lay in the top bunk trying to fall asleep, I rolled onto my side and peacefully let out a silent pass of wind.

Only, it wasn’t just wind that passed.

Horrified, I hurled myself upright, hitting my head on the roof as I realised where I was. Clenching as tightly as I could, I slowly lowered myself down the ladder and butt-strutted as fast as my shaky legs could carry me to the toilet. Yanking on both doors, I realised all cubicles were locked and I was not in a position to be hunting down others.  I had no option but to stand as clenched as possible, and wait it out. Trying not to make eye contact with anyone that passed, I distinctly remember the moment I felt the dribble cascading down my thigh. If ever there was a time for a closed face it was now. After what felt like an ETERNITY one of the doors finally opened and a freshly washed, toweled body walked out. I couldn’t even tell you if it was a guy or a girl I was frozen in my stiff, upright position and was not going to raise my head to look. Instead, with locked-knees and a piping red face, I pushed passed and locked myself in for a good half an hour.

The alarm went off at 5am and I was far from excited at the prospect of heading up an intensely hard Volcano with poo running down my leg. Sam and I had a few seconds to decide whether we pull the plug or not. Acosting the guide that had just walked into the hostel, we pulled him into our room and shut the door. Telling him about our questionable anooses, he shrugged and mentioned there was no shortage of outdoors to let rip in. That was it. I only had to pass a couple of heavy bouts but I was not going to be caught in the shit, 3000 metres above sea level. Waving the white flag for the both of us, I told him it was not going to be possible for us to climb, just as poor Sam beelined for the loo.

Turns out, my shart saved the day. Sam took a turn for the worse that morning and after emerging in sweats from the toilet, praised that god-send-of-a-shart she was not up a FUCKING volcano. All Hail The Shart!