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...