A GOOD NATURE.

A year ago, Costa Ricans were voted the happiest people on the planet. Or in research terms, 'reported to have the highest life satisfaction in the world'. What a selling point! Who wouldn't want to go to a country where the locals are more content than anywhere else?

From visiting Costa Rica (or the "Rich Coast"), I found out a whole lot more about this extraordinary place and its cheerful inhabitants. For one, they protect more of their natural environment than any other country on earth. A third of this little paradise nestled between Nicaragua (to the north) and Panama (to the south) is reserved solely for mother nature.

Could all of this greenery, as it were intended to exist since year one, play a part in their untroubled existence? I'd say so.

And secondly, they don't have an army. They got rid of it in 1949. So, unlike most other nations in today's world, they have no military, no armed forces, no organisation dedicated to fighting and killing. Remarkable. Although, what use would the happiest people on the planet have for being trained to hate?

With such vast amounts of natural splendor, it's no wonder I spent vast amounts of time in National Parks and Reserves. All of which were along the Pacific Coastline and all of which were as breathtaking as the next.

In the North, I hiked along a jungle road for 26km, catching quick glimpses of Capuchin Monkeys and intricately patterned snakes, in order to have the privilege of standing on a completely wild, completely undeveloped stretch of beach, whose wave is of the best in the world. It's called Witch's Rock, and the bodysurfing was magnificent.

Further South, again hiking through a National Park, I saw a wild three-toed sloth dawdling through the thick jungle canopy above me. These slow-moving creatures seem so perfectly suited to this mellow land, where there really is...no rush.

Then, while staying at Poor Man's Paradise, an aptly-named bungalow style hotel on the border of the Corcovado National Park (which National Geographic have called, "the most biologically intense place on earth", and where wild Jaguars and Pumas have been seen prowling the beach at night), I saw and heard from my room, the most beautiful of all parrots - the Scarlett Macaw. In the wild, these birds (which are on the verge of extinction) are seen in pairs. They choose a life partner and form a partnership so real that should the one die, for whatever reason, so too will the other.

But as they say, one must take all the good with the bad. And I happened to experience something pretty bad. An earthquake. An earthquake which measured 6.3 and whose epicenter was 10km away. However, while such disasters can cause huge damage and suffering, this one didn't. And in a dark, ironic way, this disaster was also appropriately natural.

It's good to know that a place like Costa Rica exists; protecting nature while the rest of us neglect it. And it is for this reason that I will most certainly return one day. Heck! there's an entire Caribbean coastline I am yet to see...

STARING AT THE SUNRISE.

Nicaragua.

It's just as it sounds. Exotic. Wild. And a very long way from home.

Nicaragua is a fantasyland. It's a place which, in the past, I would never have thought to go. It just sounded too distant. Distant in a way that I knew it existed, having heard the word in geography class, but it seemed more like a place Peter Pan would visit. Not me.

But today I am here. Today I find myself far, far away in the largest of the Central American countries. I can barely speak the language - just enough to ask the essential questions like, 'another beer, please'. I travel in chicken buses overloaded with men, women, children, sheets of corrugated iron, wooden furniture and, well, even chickens sometimes. I embrace the all day sweat, because there is just no other way. And I drink the coffee made from the beans I watch the man meticulously rake out on the concrete floor, for the hot Central American sun to bake. And it's all good.

On a trip like this, carrying everything I own on my back, moving from place to place just to "see what they're like", and experiencing new cultures and ways of life every day, I try to picture where I am positioned on a globe; where I would pinpoint myself in relation to the rest of the planet. It's a crazy notion when contemplating this on Playa Santo Domingo, which is a beach on Ometepe, which is an island in the middle of Lake Nicaragua, which is the largest freshwater lake in Central America. Or when the heavens open and a tropical downpour 'scatterdots' the Pacific Ocean as I swim in it for the first time in my life. Or while I shower underneath a 40-meter waterfall cascading down the side of a dormant volcano. It's a crazy thought to think about where I am, while I am doing these crazy things.

I am in Nicaragua, and Peter Pan is nowhere to be found. For, while this place is magical, it is also very real.

REALITY? CHECK.

It's fairly safe to assume that you'll have some kind of image in your head when I mention the word 'paradise'.

And more often than not, it's an image which references a fictional story from your childhood; or a postcard from Mauritius; or The Beach; or even the real motivational poster. You know the one. It's roughly A3 in size, tacked to a wall in the photocopy shop or the dentist's rooms, showcasing a picture of some 'beautiful landscape' and underneath, a word and its meaning. Some crap like, "FATE. No matter how long it takes, life will always work out as its meant to."

Well, that's what was in my head, at least. At least until I got to Honduras. And more specifically, Utila - one of the three Bay Islands.

When I arrived, I figured 4 or 5 nights would be a good amount of time to take it slow, out in the middle of the Caribbean. I ended up staying for 11. And completing 2 PADI dive courses - an Open Water and Advanced. I'd say it was the snorkeling with a 20ft Wale Shark in between two reef dives that made me believe an advanced course was necessary. Or at least worthwhile.

I stayed in a room on the dive shop's dock, not 20 meters from the sea. I ate in restaurants which served authentic Honduran dishes for not much more than $5 a plate. I drank Cuba Libre's for 20 Lempiras (or $1) a pop. And I adopted island time for almost two weeks - the kind of time that has no regard for its international counterpart.

The people of Utila speak the language of the Caribbean. The language we've all come to associate with Bob Marley and Jamaica. It's English, but unless you're brought up speaking it, it's for the most part indecipherable. Every so often you can pick up a word or two, but not much more than that. It's as though they've taken English and taught it to dance. And the fact that they did it to the one language that is meant to have origins of the most proper, is simply perfect.

Utila is far from the kind of paradise I had in my head prior to arriving here. It's far more rustic. As much as the visitors visit the bars and dive the reefs, so do the locals. Entire families of English-dancing Utilians go about their day-to-day chores right there, in between the day-to-day meanderings of backpackers and holiday makers. And the fact that these mellow, approachable people live in a place that I consider paradise, yet seem so happy to have me here, completes the image in a way that is forever going to replace the unrealistic visions from my past.

SEE TO BELIEVE.

The media is a vicious beast. A beast that keeps us locked in our homes and comfort zones, never daring to step too far out in fear of our life.

This is why the majority of people I meet think South Africa is a war zone; why a group of Americans cancelled their World Cup plans because they don't want to be shot as they step off the plane; and why most times when I mention where I'm from I get a confused, worried look from whoever I'm telling - as if to say, 'you poor bastard, you'll never live as long as I.'

And unfortunately, it works both ways. The media is the culprit for why I was made to feel weary about visiting Guatemala. Why I was thinking, 'perhaps I am stepping a little to close to the edge. And with my luck, it'll be a rabid Guatemalan street dog that pushes me over.'

But that's all just BS.

Guatemala is incredible. The people are friendly, welcoming and sincere. The landscapes are the product of dreams and sublime acid trips - except that they're real. The food is hearty and cheap. The climate is hot. The jungles are a thousand shades of green. And the media couldn't be further from the truth.

I've marvelled at the grandest of all Mayan ruins - Tikal - set deep in Guatemalan jungle. I've climbed mountains looking down on untouched jungle streams with emerald-coloured water. I've tread cautiously through jungle caves wearing no more than a pair of baggies, guided by no more than a local man and a candle. I've scaled active volcanoes and tanned marsh mellows above lava. I've jumped off 15 meter rock facades into fresh water lakes surrounded by more volcanoes. And each costs less than a night out in Parkhurst.

This country is surreal. It's a land where the children attend school in beautifully hand-woven traditional garments; where the bus drivers smile and laugh at your accent, and love to ask about Mandela; where the coffee is strong and tasty; and where the truth about its beauty can only be felt and understood by those who visit.

I would come back here any day.

GRINGO IN MEXICO.

There couldn´t have been two more juxtaposed cities either side of my flight from Havana to Cancun. While Havana pulses with authenticity from the moment the sun rises out of the Caribbean Sea, Cancun excretes a hybrid of American capitalism and counterfeit Mexicanims. I had landed in a new city with a memory card full of magic, yet took just one picture in this phony place - a picture of a gigantic Mexican flag.

To make matters worse, I´d accidentally coincided my arrival in Cancun with the start of America´s Spring Break. Initially, the thought of being in Cancun over Spring Break wasn´t too horrifying (since that´s all the place is really known for) but when realising that Spring Break is exactly like everything you hear, see and read about, I decided it wasn´t much to write home about. So, I´m not going to.

A disappointing entry into Mexico would surely mean things could only get better? Thankfully, they did. Tulum, a small town 2 hours south of Cancun (in the Yucatan province) helped realise this. One road in, one road out - a highway lined either side with all kinds of local businesses. Intriguingly, their trades were, for the most part, only unveiled upon entering (or at least by peering in). There was one in particular that stood out. Ironically, I forget the name, but this place makes the best ice-cream lollies in the world. I know that´s a bold statement but in my world, it´s the truth. And I´ve been to Italy. To give you a bit of perspective, I went back four times in two days. And I don´t consider myself to have an addictive personality.

For such a small town, there´s a lot to say about Tulum: 8 Peso tacos ($0.60) from street vendors, which the less adventurous tourists avoid; a bright white sand beach with turquoise water gently lapping its shores; crisp Mexican beer called Montejo; underground fresh-water cave snorkeling in the middle of the jungle; ancient Mayan ruins; and all day happy hour at what became my local. That´s to mention only a few.

3 nights in Tulum could easily have turned into a week with more time. But a 12 hour bust trip south, to a jungle community on the outskirts of another set of Mayan ruins, was next. Palenque is in the neighbouring province called Chiappas. And while 12 hours on the road isn´t something to look forward to, it was certainly worth it.

I stayed just outside Palenque in a place called El Panchan. It´s closer to the ruins and more interesting. And this is also where I found fire-dancing hippies. An entire populace of unbathed, dreadlocked earth children had, for some reason, descended upon El Panchan to make their beaded trinkets by day and dance with flaming balls on the ends of thin ropes by night. I wondered whether the reason they´d chosen this place was to live out the next 2 years and 8 months as close to the remains of Mayan existence as possible. Perhaps?

El Panchan and Palenque were quite different from Tulum, but well worth the 4 nights in the middle of the Mexican jungle in 100 Peso a night ($8.00) cabanas (Mexican huts) on the banks of a jungle stream. Not to mention on the border of a Mayan city built in roughly 700 B.C.

This part of the world becomes more enchanting by the day. Every time I move the landscape changes slightly and my mind opens a little further.

Next landscape, Guatemala...

CUBAN. THROUGH AND THROUGH.

They say Havana is hard to pin down. Hard to describe to someone who´s never been there. Invariably, that´s true for most places. After all, isn´t that what makes for good writing? Or a good writer? Someone who´s able to pin something down so well that it´s as if the reader has been plucked from their seat and gently placed wherever the writer decides.

But "they" are right. There is something superbly tricky about describing Havana. It´s a city of emotional and physical contradictions. It´s dense yet stark; vibrant yet bland; inspiring yet depressing. Every buidling (aside from the expensive hotels) seems as though it´s one brick away from collapse. Their 4 decade long trade embargo has ensured no menu includes much more than chicken, rice, salad (by which they mean a few slices of tomato, cabbage and beans) and bread (which is most often indescipherable between toasted and stale).

Though somehow Havana´s crumbling neglect is inimitable. It´s a city one-of-a-kind. There´s an inexcapable sense that something significant was fought for here. Something so worth the fight that dancing, singing and pure happiness permeates through the streets. And the only way you´ll miss it is if you choose to stay on your air conditioned bus or in your air conditioned hotel. The minute you walk onto the street, that something grabs you. And it´s not something tangible. It´s an energy from a people who have never left their land; from a people who believe 9am on a Tuesday morning is as good a reason as any to play their instruments and dance and sing and smile.

There´s no questioning the fact that Cuba belongs to the Cubans. No confusion there. They´re the one nation that told the U.S. to fuck off. And you can feel it. The buildings and streets may have been built by the Spanish. And sure, they may drive bulky American Plymouths and Cadillacs, but this island is Cuban. Few places seem as authentic. Well, the few that I´ve visited at least. But I certainly get the sense that the Cubans know they´re Cuban, believe that they´re Cuban and love that they´re Cuban.

For me, Havana´s not a place that´s stuck in a time warp (as I originally thought, before coming here). It´s not even a place which idolises the legedary Che Guevara (who was Argentinian anyway). It´s a place that decided to be its own and commit to one way of life. It´s a place where the people know who they are. And that´s rare. And that´s beautiful.

THE TITLE TRACK.

What is it that gives a grandparent's house that distinctive 'old' smell? It's not a bad smell, just an old one.

I clearly remember the smell of my grandmother's house from when I'd visit her while studying at UCT. It was a smell of aged leather; dated furniture upholstered in dated fabric; antique silverware; priceless paintings; and wisdom.

I suppose there's my answer. It's an old smell because it's full of old things. Even old people.

I remember I'd take the day, most times it was a Sunday, and drive out to St James from Wynberg or Woodstock or Sea Point (depending on the year of my studies) and spend it with her. Spend it chatting about things. Some arbitrary and others, the more interesting, about family. How she'd raised three sons. No daughters. "What a handful", she'd mutter. I can only try to imagine.

One of my last visits was a few days before I left for The States. I was going to work and travel for 6 months. I was 23. And right before I left she wrote a quote down on a piece of paper for me. Something to take with, or at least memorise before I left. I did both.

"Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough gleams that untravelled world whose margin fades forever and forever when I move." Alfred Lord Tennyson

My grandmother passed away 2 days ago. She suffered a stroke. And a few days before that I was contemplating what to call this blog, when I remembered the quote.

Perfect.

I guess, in a sense, I dedicated this blog to her without even realising it.

Even more perfect.

Today is the day before I leave. The day before I fly to London from where I will catch a connecting flight three days later to Havana, Cuba. Today is the day before I am set to begin an adventure that is bound to be full of meaning. Today I am 28.

Here's to you, gran.