Costa Rica

Today, we are smothered in information.  We can book flights, buses and trains on-line.  We can read the opinions and experiences of others who have preceded us.  We have access to maps and street views.  We could have a trip experience without leaving our comfortable chair by the fireside or the pool.

Thankfully it was not always so.  When we left Panamá in April 1976, we had no idea of what lay before us.

The bus from Panamá left in the early morning and arrived in the early evening in San José.  It was a trip of some 800 km, interspersed with some small provincial towns.  On the way we experienced the curse of Central and South America of that era: frequent military road blocks.  Sometimes it was a cursory check of papers, at other times a thorough check of baggage.  And the passage through frontiers was doubly tedious.  In most cases a visa was mandatory and that could only be prior obtained from an embassy or consulate office, and not at the frontier.  Central and South America was in the grip of military dictatorships, enamoured with bureaucracy.

I have no recall of how we found a room, but we ended up in a very comfortable B&B.  The next day we wandered around the city but found little to excite us: at 1170 m, San José in 1976, seemed like a small sleepy provincial capital.  And churches, museums, art  galleries etc. have never thrilled me: except for the exception of literature, I have always been something of an alien in the ‘arty-farty’ world.  But outside San José lay Irazú, an active volcano, and that really appealed.

So next day we caught the daily bus to the summit.  It was about 55 km to the north-east of San José, a slow, winding climb across the slope of the mountain, carrying us to the summit.  Stepping out of the bus was like what I imagine it would be to step onto the moon: thick grey-black dust everywhere.  And only sparse vegetation.

Irazú stands at 3432 m above sea level.  It has many times erupted in recent history, most notably in 1963, covering the city in a coating of ash, on the day President John F. Kennedy started a state visit to San José. That eruption continued through 1965.

Crater Diego de la Haya
The main crater of Irazú on a relatively clear day (photo from internet)

Apparently, on a clear day, from the summit of Irazú one can see both the Pacific and Atlantic oceans.  But clear days on Irazú are a relative rarity, and our day was no exception; the cloud cover was thick, and visibility was limited.

We explored the area around the crater, keeping one eye on the direction back to the bus and the other eye on the time; the bus returned to San José after one hour, and we did not fancy having to walk back down the mountain, trying to hitch a lift.

By the time the hour was up, when we returned to the bus, we felt quite thoroughly chilled.  We had not anticipated that the mountain would be so cold, and we were not suitably dressed.

Returning to the balmy tropical air of San José felt so good.













Panamá, March 1976

After more than two weeks it felt great to be free of the boat; the constant moving between the gloomy light of the cabin, the restaurant, the bar and the deck was hypnotic.  One lost track of the time and days (see Sailing the Pacific).  Sydney felt very far away and the tropical smells and sounds of Latin America were completely new to me.  It was to be the commencement of my love-affair with Latin culture.

We took a taxi into the old city and told the driver that we wanted an inexpensive clean, hotel near to the international bus terminus.  The hotel to which he took us was adjacent to the Tica Bus station, that linked Panamá with all the central American countries, as far north as Mexico City.  It was a perfect location to stay in the heart of the old city, and the hotel proved to be both quite inexpensive and clean, with a small, albeit garish swimming pool.  We settled in for a few days.

Our first port of call was the bar beside the swimming pool and a cold beer.  It was there that we first met Joe, a New York cop, travelling on his own.  During his military service, he had been stationed in the Canal Zone, and he was on a trip ‘down memory lane’.  He offered to take us to the Canal Zone, so we arranged to go with him the next day.

Following their success in completing the Suez Canal, we learned that France started work on the Panamá canal in 1881, to connect the Pacific and Atlantic oceans, but eventually abandoned the project, due to high mortality rates from tropical diseases and the lack of funding.  It was the U.S. that completed the 80 km canal in 1914.  Between 1903 and 1979, the U.S. controlled the territory on either side of the canal.  From 1979 to 1999, the Canal Zone was jointly managed with Panamá, before being handled over and the withdrawal of the U.S.

Unless one has studied a map of Panamá, one could assume that the canal runs from west to east.  In fact it runs from south-east to north-west, and the Pacific end at Panamá is east of the Caribbean end at Colón.


As arranged, Joe met us the next day.  A busy road separated the old city from the Canal Zone and the contrast between the two could not have been greater.  On one side there was the old city, with its ramshackle buildings, busy narrow streets, bars, shops, throngs of people, and the constant beat of music.  On the other side there were extensive manicured lawns, interspersed with blocks of apartments, at the centre of which there was a small commercial area.  And there was relative silence.  In the Canal Zone we could have been anywhere US.

We walked down to the canal and watched the shipping wending their way through the series of locks.  To avoid having to make extensive cuts through the central Isthmus, the locks lift ships to, and descend them from, an artificial lake, Gatun.  It took about twelve hours for a ship to pass through the canal.

The canal (picture from internet)

On another day we went out to the ruins of the original city, Panamá Vieja – founded in 1519.  It became the starting point for expeditions to Perú, and it was from Panamá that gold and  silver were shipped to Spain.  It was attacked several times by pirates, and was finally destroyed in 1671 by the pirate Henry Morgan, with thousands of fatalities.  It was rebuild a few kilometers to the west at the present site.

Sir Henry Morgan c1635-1888, who ended as Lieutenant Govener of Jamaica (photo from internet)
The ruins of the cathedral of the original Panama City, with the modern-day city in the background (photo from internet)

When we originally decided to sail from Australia to Panamá, our ambition was to continue south to Chile, and return from there to Sydney.  At the time, I was completely unaware that there was no land connection between Panamá and Colombia, through the Darién Peninsula, and that the only way to reach Colombia was by boat or air.  At the same time we learned of all the interesting countries and geographies that lay to the north.  With the Tica bus terminal being next door, the change of direction was an easy one.  We bought tickets to San José, Costa Rica.

South America could wait for another day.



Sailing the Pacific

It was in March 1976 when we set sail from Sydney, bound for Panamá, on a liner of the Chandris Line, the Australis, on one of its last voyages back to Europe.  For some years, the Australis had carried immigrants from Europe to Australia, stopping in Freemantle, Adelaide, Melbourne and Sydney, and returning to Europe via the Panamá Canal.  It was to be one of its last voyages from Sydney, for in 1977 the Australian government did not renew their contract, and from henceforth, immigrants were flown from Europe.

The Australis at Circular Quay, Sydney (photo from internet)

Leaving the magnificent Sydney harbour was for me a poignant experience;  I used to have an apartment on the north shore, at Kirribilli, from which I often watched ocean liners parting from Circular Quay.  It was there that I nurtured the growing ambition of one day sailing to South America and that day finally came. The trip was to be encompass some of both South and Central America, eventually returning.  42 years have now passed, and I am still on my way back.

Once free of the coast, the weather hit with full force; the Tasman Sea from Sydney to Auckland can be a difficult crossing.  I spent most of the next three days in my bunk, feeling distinctly queasy.  In Australian slang, ‘to chunder’ = ‘to vomit’ and ‘chundrous’ = ‘a tendency to vomit’.  I was sailing on a ‘Chundrous’ Line ship.

But Auckland was a welcome relief.  We were met at the quay by an old business associate of  A-M’s father and we spent a most interesting day with him.  He was most hospitable, a complete gentleman of the school.

There were not many passengers on the boat.  We had bargain-basement berths, travelling cattle-class in the bowels of the ship; A-M with three old ladies, complete with their ample supply of old-lady powder, and I, with three middle-aged drunks, who were either asleep or at the bar during the entire voyage.  I never did learn their names.

Passenger lines of that era bore little resemblance to the cruise liners of today.  Passenger liners carried their human cargo from A to B at minimal cost, as do low-cost airlines today.  Unless, of course, if one travelled first class.

From Auckland the sailing was on smooth seas with no more storms.  It took about six days from Auckland to Tahiti, some 4000 km.  We were due to arrive just after dawn and the first sight of the verdant mountain of Tahiti rising from the ocean was unforgettable.  We would not set sail until the early evening, so we went ashore.  It was my second visit to Pape’ete (see A Tale of Two Graves).

As we walked across the quay, a couple approached us.  They were considering sailing back to Europe on the Australis on a later voyage and were interested to hear of our opinion of the ship.  They were Alberto (Argentino) and Polly (English).  They were based in Pape’ete and Alberto worked for a French publisher.  He was writing a book on Polynesian cooking, one of those large coffee-table publications with beautiful pictures, that are so popular in France.  They drove us around the circumference of the island, showed us the sights, and were suburb hosts.  By the time we had to return to the ship, we had already become good friends.  A-M kept in touch with them and we met with them several times a couple of years later in England.

From Tahiti to Panamá is a bit over 8000 km and took about 12 days.  Every day or two, the ship’s clocks were changed and before long we were waking up in the late afternoon and going to bed in the morning.  Having no portholes to see daylight, we lost all sense of time.

When we were awake, whatever the time, we spent hours playing cards in the bar.  I cannot remember the name of the card game, but playing it was hypnotic, amply aided by a constant supply of inexpensive beer and gin and tonics.  And much time was spent in speculating on which of the passengers would be the next client of the attractive Australian hooker.  She came to the bar, afternoon and evening, working her passage, in constant search of her next customer.

Outside, there were no storms to get excited about.  The ocean was continued relatively calm and during the passage through the doldrums, it was more like a swimming pool.  On a few occasions a pod of dolphins would play around the boat and once a glide of flying fish swam alongside for a while.  Time passed very slowly.

Until one day we passed under the Bridge of the Americas and slowly berthed, under the brooding vigilance of a horde of vultures, perched on the warehouse buildings.

The Bridge of the Americas

The air was humid and heavy and saturated.  Onshore we could see a seething horde, anxiously waiting to offer transportation, accommodation, or general assistance.  We felt as if we were very much heading into the unknown and the adventure was about to begin.






Sir Walter Scott

When I was young, Ramore House was the oldest dwelling in Portrush.  It was at the lower end of Main Street, on the corner of Ramore Street, overlooking the harbour.  I remember it as a building having external wooden stairs and a shop selling second-hand books.  After I left for Canada, in 1965, the building was demolished, together with the local fishermen’s cottages on Ramore Street, and all were replaced with a ‘modern’ block of flats.

I remember my primary school headmaster, James Bankhead (see Jimmy), telling us that a famous writer once visited Portrush and stayed at that house.  I remember the writer he spoke of as being Jonathan Swift (1667-1745) who wrote Gulliver’s Travels and many others.  But search as I have several times, I have never found any evidence that Swift had ever visited the area.  So, when I wrote my article, Early Memories of Portrush, I omitted mentioning Swift and my memory of the oldest house.

Jonathan Swift 1667-1745 (photo from internet)

But I was not happy with that omission, for I was convinced that I could not have imagined the visit of such a famous writer.  I contacted a friend who had attended the same primary school as I, to see if she had a similar recollection.  She referred my query to her husband, Hugh McGrattan – journalist, retired editor of the local newspaper and author of three books about local history.  Hugh was able to correct my confused childhood memory.

According to Hugh, there was indeed a shop at Ramore House, an antique shop, full of old books.  It was owned by a Mr Cochrane and outside there was an imposing coat of arms.  The distinguished visitor whom I recalled as being Jonathan Swift, was actually Sir Walter Scott, many of whose works remain classics of English-language and Scottish literature.  And at that time the house was occupied by a Dr. Hamilton.  Hugh mentioned that Thomas Carlyle, the writer, historian and mathematician, was another distinguished visitor to Portrush during that era.

Sir_Henry_Raeburn_-_Portrait_of_Sir_Walter_Scott (1)
Sir Walter Scott 1771-1832 (Portrait by Sir Henry Raeburn)


Thomas Carlyle 1795-1881 (photo by Elliott & Fry c1860)

Once knowing that the visitor to Ramore House was Sir Walter Scott, I searched and found a book called Sir Walter Scott’s Tour in Ireland by D. J. O’Donoghue.  In it there is a brief reference to his visit to Portrush, but there are several references to Jonathan Swift and Sir Walter Scott’s reverence for the man and his writings and his desire to visit any place in Ireland associated with him.

As a child, I had read Scott’s Rob Roy and Ivanhoe and part of Swift’s Gulliver’s travels.  When James Bankhead was telling us of the oldest house and the famous visitor, and perhaps the visitor’s great respect for Jonathan Swift, I must have confused the two writers.

So after more than 60 years and thanks to Hugh McGrattan, the fog has now cleared.

Now if only I could find a photograph of the old house before it was demolished….





Gabriel García Márquez

I can recall the morning in 2012 when I read in a BBC report that Gabriel García Márquez was suffering from dementia. His brother, Jaime, spoke of it in Cartagena, where he was giving a lecture to students. It is true that García had not often appeared in public in recent years and there had been several unconfirmed rumours of his ill-health, but the latest news left me feeling quite saddened to know that there would probably be no more writing from the great man. He was then 85, and according to his brother, he would write no more.  He died some two years later in Mexico City.

I first came across Gabriel García in 1996, when I was participating in a French course at Alliance Française in London.  I was brushing up my rudimentary French, with a view to starting a venture in Europe, or at least obtaining a senior European position.  As it turned out, it was the latter, as MD of a small Swiss company.

In the class we were asked to frame a general knowledge question, in French, relating to our country of birth.  A young Colombian student asked us to name the Colombian author who had won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1982.  None of us knew the answer.

Gabriel García Márquez (1927 – 2014)

The first of García’s books that I read back in 1998, when I was based in Neuchâtel, was El General en su Laberinto (The general in his labyrinth), recounting the last days of Simón Bolívar. Years before I had been to Bolívar’s home in Caracas and the story left me with a lasting impression of how even the great can end in ignominy.  Later I followed on with García’s collection of short stories, Doce Cuentos Peregrinos (Twelve Pilgrim tales), his great love story, El Amor en Los Tiempos de Cholera (Love in the time of cholera), his masterpiece, the mystic Cien Años de Soledad (One hunded years of solitude) and several others.

When I later learned of his death, sitting on my bookshelf, waiting to be picked up, was Vivir para Contarla (Living to tell the tale), the first part of his autobiography, covering his early years in Cartagena.  When I eventually read it, I recalled that I once knew a Señora Garbàn and her family in Caracas.  She was a talented artist and I attended one of her exhibitions in the late 1970s.  I am almost certain that she was from Cartagena.  And I sometimes wonder if she ever knew García, for he was a journalist of her era.

When reading García’s autobiography, it is obvious that many of his writings were based on his own intimate experiences: the small town, Aracataca, where he grew up, both his close and extended families, local and national historical events. For a ‘wannabe’ writer like me, there are rich lessons to be learned from his work.

But what a pity that the sequel to his autobiography will never now appear.



The Wall of Death

In my previous blog, I wrote of some of my earliest memories of Glenmanus and nearby Portrush.  I wrote of a couple of stunt motorcyclists and their act, ‘The Wall of Death’, and how they boarded with my grand-parents at Seaview Farm.  My memory of their act is so vivid, but I could not recall their names, despite my mother often speaking of those years when they returned for the summer season.

I posted the article and next day I received a comment from Australia, from Iris, who like me, also grew up in Glenmanus.  She recalled the couple and said that she remembered their surname as being Goosen or similar.  The name sounded Dutch or perhaps German but rang no bells for me.

The Northern Irish marriage records over 75 years old are accessible for a fee, so on the off-chance that they married in Ulster, I went to  And in 1938, I found a Theunis Christophel Goosen who married an Ena Birmingham in Saint Patrick’s Church of Ireland, in Ballymena.  And both had their profession as ‘Amusement Caterer’.  It looked as though I might have found them, but I wanted more evidence.


When I searched on the internet, I found a site focused on the Goosen genealogy ( and in it was an article about Chris and Una Goosen.

Chris and Una Goosen (from the Goosen genealogy site)


I am almost certain that I have found the couple and how thrilled my mother would have been to read my little account.

Perhaps the warm and contented feeling I am experiencing tonight is a reflection of her approval, and maybe also that of Chris and Una Goosen.



Early Memories of Portrush

What is your earliest memory?

Are you certain that your earliest memories are genuinely your own memories, or are you remembering and imagining what your parents or others have told you?  I confess that I am never quite certain of the authenticity of mine.

My early years were spent in Glenmanus, a small village now totally enclosed and obliterated by the relentless expansion of Portrush.  Until I was five years old, my parents lived in a small wooden hut, at least I recall it as being small and wooden.  It was just up the road from the farm of my great-uncle Bill Douglas, and great-aunt, Letitia.  I can clearly remember going down the steps to the stream that flowed in front of Bill’s farmhouse and falling in the water.  And in an out-building, Titia making butter in a large churn, paddling up and down. And offering me a ‘piece’, a thick slice of bread, coated in butter and jam.  Delicious it was.  The stream has long since been piped and covered over, and the farmhouse demolished and replaced with modern houses, owned by two of my cousins, Hughie and Brian Douglas.

A butter churn, similar to that of Titia

And one freezing morning in winter, when the older boys came flying down Loquestown Hill on a sled, and one of them crashing into a hedge, and injuring his cheek.  I remember it as being Maurice Elliott who crashed, but he has no recall of it. One of us is correct…

My mother contracted TB when I was very young, and for some six months she was interned in a sanatorium in Derry.  It was Louise Wilson who looked after me, while my father worked on the farm during the day and played piano with his dance-band at Barry’s Ballroom at night. My only clear memory of that era was sitting at the table, having breakfast and my father telling me that a fox or a badger had broken into one of the hen-houses and killed all the hens.  He could probably have ill-afforded the loss, as he was just starting out on his new farming venture.

And there was the day when my mother took me down to Portrush, through the archway under the railway embankment, and we sat up on a sandhill, waiting for the ‘mock invasion’ to start.  In those days there was no seawall, only sand dunes leading down to the west strand.  Out in the bay there was a battleship and it began to fire its guns and then several landing craft were launched.  The troops were disgorged just offshore and there was lot of firing of machine gun blanks, as they charged up the beach.  Predictably the ‘enemy’ soon surrendered.  For many years after, until I was about 16, I dreamed of joining the military, despite my father’s lack of enthusiasm.  He had had enough of war after six years of fighting in WW2 and wanted me to join him on his farm.  I ended up doing neither farming nor military.

In those days there was a tram that ran from Portrush to the Giant’s Causeway and I remember seeing it setting out past the gasworks, down Causeway Street.  It was probably one of the last trips, as it stopped functioning at the end of the 1949 season.

In the late 1940s and early 1950s, my father’s dance band played every night in Barry’s Ballroom.  My mother took me to see him play one evening, and afterwards, we went outside, to an exhibit called ‘The Wall of Death’.  It consisted of a circular wooden tower, inside which a couple rode motorbikes.  We stood at the top of the tower and looked at the bikes going around and around, horizontal to the ground at dizzying speed.  I later learned that my mother knew the couple.  During the war, in the summer season, they used to board at my grandparent’s farm in Glenmanus.  I wish I could remember their names.

So few memories, but so vivid are the few.  I sometimes wonder which vivid memories of their early years my four sons will recall, when they are older.