Somerset to El Salvador
One car journey, the Eurotunnel, two trains, a weekend in Paris, one bus, an eight-hour flight, two metros, one week in Montreal, an airport shuttle, a six-hour flight and an Uber...
Our journey back to Central America was one of epic proportions. It made returning to Australia all those years ago seem like a walk on the beach. A 17-hour flight was nothing compared to the military operation that we undertook to return to our abandoned truck camper in the Guatemalan highlands. Travelling with a dog is not something you should undertake lightly, no matter what social media leads you to believe. One seven-month-old puppy and a several-day-long journey – what could possibly go wrong?
The drama began the day before we were due to depart. We had planned to travel via Paris so collected Digby’s EU health certificate the afternoon before our early morning Eurotunnel. It wasn’t until 7pm that night, after a day spent driving the same stretch of motorway to collect parcels delivered an hour after we had left, that I realised the vet had used my married (how long into marriage until that feels normal?) name, instead of the name on my passport. Two painful hours on hold to Le Shuttle booking line later, and several heated exchanges back and forth to our vet, and there was a note on our booking, and a green light for our crossing.
Whilst on the phone, it was also discovered that the entire booking was actually in the wrong name, i.e. in mine, rather than Lewis’ mum who was very kindly giving us a lift across the channel. She would be returning to the UK on her own and would have been turned away attempting to use a ticket in my name.
One 4am start, five-hour car journey and an underwater train journey into France later, and we were en route to Calais Frethun train station, via several circuits so Lewis’ mum would feel comfortable making the return journey solo. Unfortunately, the prospect of driving ten minutes on the opposite side of the road proved too much so we stopped for a brief interlude in a boulangerie. Shouting loudly at the staff in Fr-english cheered her up immensely and, several croissants later, she was back on her merry way to Portsmouth via Dover – with a booking in her name, luckily.
As for us, it was immediately onto the third form of transport for our trip: kudos to France for the fanciest trains we’ve ever seen. If French trains are like Disneyland, UK ones are like a dilapidated old playground and just two hours later, we pulled into Gare du Nord feeling very smug with ourselves.
The three of us trotted along the Parisian streets in search of our Airbnb and 30 minutes later, arrived outside an apartment block where somebody was waiting with a key. They didn’t hang around to see us in and it didn’t take us long to figure out why. You could have caught Cholera just looking at the place. Dirty bed sheets and wet towels were scattered throughout the bedroom, the bin was overflowing in the centre of the lounge and the dining table was littered with leftover lunch. A few expletives and one disco nap later, we headed out to drown our sorrows. Destination: bistro. Digby obviously in tow.
After that evening, we should have known to cut our losses and never leave Europe. Travelling with a dog has never been so easy. One fashionably late French dinner with him asleep at our feet, featuring two litres of red wine and three happy Brits, and we had forgotten all about our fate that was waiting back at the apartment. It wasn’t until midday the following afternoon, waking with a ferocious hangover and festering in the filthy (albeit sniff-tested) sheets, that we really felt the consequences of my budget accommodation decisions. Digby was pleased though; he had found some disgustingly dirty plates underneath the sofa.
Our second day in Paris had us heaving out of our hell hole in the search of coffee and crepes, whilst preparing ourselves for a 5am start and flight across the Atlantic. Although two days in the city was tiring for Digby, our seven-month-old puppy had an eight-hour flight ahead, so prior preparation and planning were on the agenda. The trade-off for terrible accommodation was to be in Montmartre; a stone’s throw from Sacre Coeur and our favourite part of Paris. In the shadow of the church is one of the few gated dog parks in the capital, complete with a view of the city skyline and a tiny twinkle of the Eiffel Tower.
Unfortunately for us, the park gates were not due to open until 8am; our curfew was 6. Fortunately for Digby, we pride ourselves on solving problems and by 5:30am we were hoisting ourselves, two 20kg backpacks and one 23kg Golden Retriever over a five-foot fence in the pitch black. Â Half an hour and several inconspicuous games of fetch later and we clambered out of the park, high-fiving as all feet and paws jumped back on the ground. We had avoided any authorities, and the colossal population of rats a local had warned us about.
Our mission successful, we walked another half hour to the bus stop to catch the airport shuttle. Digby claiming ownership of multiple Parisian lampposts but his piece-de-resistance was still pending. Luckily there was an entrance to the airport in between the bus station and the terminal, with the grass giving the green light for a pre-transit toilet. 45 minutes in and we were losing our minds, traipsing up and down the same 20m squared area. Our patience was growing shorter and our long-haul flight drawing closer.
We decided an hour would be his cut-off, which allowed us two hours to scrape by, check him in and clear security. It’s a common query how much dogs deduce from us but it seemed the pressing time scale passed onto Digby and his desire to go. On the sixtieth minute, and not a second before, Digby dropped trow. If any onlookers happened to pass, they would have seen two dishevelled dog owners manically grinning at each other as Digby began to arch his back, and us loudly cheering as he completed his task. I’ve never been happier to pick up his poo.
Our break-in successfully executed and Digby’s bowels adequately emptied, it was time to tackle Charles de Gaulle airport. We were petrified that Digby wouldn’t distinguish the fact that he was in fact inside and, being so young, empty his bladder at any given moment. We needn’t have worried. He was an absolute angel the entire time and didn’t put a single paw out of line. Just seven months old and he was already proving to be a calmer traveller than most people we know.
Luckily we were given next to no warning for the most nerve-racking portion of the whole process. We reached the front of the security line, and were immediately asked to remove Digby’s harness and lead, whilst the three of us passed through the X-ray: one at a time. I rushed through first whilst Lewis undressed Digby, tentatively telling him to both sit and stay. He passed through, raising his eyebrows at me, as I looked past him to see Digby, sat expectedly and patiently waiting, well over ten feet away.
That was the moment I truly felt we had done the right thing. Our sweet, seven-month-old boy, sitting and waiting for our command amidst the absolute chaos of an international airport. His eyes stayed fixated on us, and on the personnel’s nod, Lewis called him to come.  He trotted straight to our side, tongue lolling out, looking straight at us and smiling wide.
Next thing we know, we’re touching down in Montreal; our home for the next week whilst we planned the next portion of our trip.  Air Transat deserve more word count than this but I can’t praise them enough for ensuring our first flight went without a hitch. A separate check-in counter, personalised priority boarding and the warmest welcome once seated. Flying with an emotional support animal automatically allocates you to bulkhead seats and so as we flew over 3000 miles at 40,000 feet; there was Digby just chilling, cool as a cucumber, not a care in the world.
Ironically, it wasn’t the eight-hour international flight with our puppy that took its toll, but navigating French Canada’s public transport system upon our arrival. One scene that didn’t quite make the social media cut was Lewis and I having a meltdown whilst sat on the floor of a shopping centre. We were an afternoon into the age-old dilemma of private taxi vs public transport and after waiting in the snow for over an hour and 30 minutes for a bus that did not exist, Lewis was very close to losing his s***. I persevered, as I quite often do, and challenged us to find the nearest metro station. As it turns out, rush hours on trains and tired travellers’ brains do not mix very well so I instead set up camp on the floor of the mall, obviously refusing that a cab was called.
We did eventually make it to our Airbnb that night and it was there, in our $100 a night accommodation, that Digby decided to make up for lost time with his toileting. To this day I still have absolutely no idea why he chose to hold his bladder for two hours prior to a flight, eight hours during a flight, and two hours after a flight. Yet just one evening in our immaculate Airbnb had him peeing on the bathmat and following through on our duvet. Ironically, he wasn’t even allowed on the bed.
Our first day in the French-Canadian city saw us attempting to emulate Digby’s raw feeding diet we had diligently followed at home. Clearly my Google translate skills are not up to par as despite traipsing nearly an hour to a Jewish supermarket famed for its low prices, the receipt indicated I had somehow spent over $30 on organic chicken breasts. Whilst Digby chowed down on his delicacy that evening, Lewis and I dined on dried noodles.
The remainder of our time in Montreal passed in a haze of icy walks, flat whites and attempting to decipher the remainder of our trip. Although we had crossed the Atlantic, we hadn’t quite figured out how to get from the very tip of North America to the very middle of Central. Four days in and we eventually landed on a second flight with our new favourite airline, arriving as close to our abandoned truck as they could get us. Buenos Dias El Salvador.
One more weekend of pavements and potable water, whilst sneaking into our Air BnB’s communal pool in our PJs, and we were heading for the chaos of Central America. The flight went as smoothly as the first, albeit our disappointment at the lack of meal service for Latin American flights. After traipsing 23 gates to a dog relief area that didn’t exist, 90 minutes in immigration applying for permits and 15 dollars paying out for pet fees; we were sat in the sunshine stuffing our faces full of pizza, and wondering where we were going to sleep that night.
The next morning we woke to the sounds of roosters and chicken buses1 and children playing. We bought fresh tortillas from the vendors outside our gate, ground coffee from the tienda2 on the next corner and sat in the sunshine with our feet dangling in the pool. We had two blissful days in that Airbnb, basking in the sunshine and celebrating that we had really, actually made it, until Digby began to deteriorate.
Sandwiched right in between those two days, Lewis took on a trip all of his own; one epic expedition to bring our truck back home. Our trusty Toyota Chinook, both our ride and our home for the past two years, was parked in a mechanic’s yard somewhere in the Guatemalan central highlands. One midnight Uber, a hideously delayed 2am flight, and a hectic three-hour taxi journey, and Lewis was greeted by the workman and his wife who had cared for our car since we flew home the week we said goodbye to Humphrey last summer.
It took Lewis a lot to make that traumatic trip on his own and despite his early start, he still had a long day ahead of him. He was soon in the driver’s seat: 200 miles and seven hours between him and I. The epitome of overland travel had him dropping 6000 feet through the mountains and reaching flat ground, as simultaneously the brakes completely failed. On the side of the highway with a few minutes to spare and in 35 degrees no less, he threw everything out the back of our truck to reach his tools, jack up the car, remove the wheel and stop the brake fluid from draining dry. Honestly, marry yourself a man who can make falafel and fix up a car. Â
With no assurance how effective the brakes may be, Lewis limped it across Guatemala and crossed over into El Salvador late that evening. He tackled two border controls and a cliffside coastal road, breaking a sweat but barely managing 20mph. I’d never been so pleased to hear the roar of that old truck and see my husband dressed in his only decent clothes, covered head to toe in engine oil. Funnily enough it was Valentine’s Day and instead of roses; I was given our beat-up old red truck.
Chicken buses are the local transport in Central America, named by English speaking tourists. The word ‘chicken’ may refer to the fact that the buses are often crammed with passengers, or to the fact that Central Americans occasionally transport live animals on such buses.
Tienda: a booth, stall, or shop where merchandise is sold.