A weekly ode to the joys of moaning about your holiday, by Tim Roxborogh
Standing on my own at the hotel check-in counter, an appalling steel drum band was competing with teams of caged parrots to see who could do the most decibels. All I wanted was a bed for a couple of hours to lie down and I was desperate. I'd never felt like this. One minute I'd been good and sprightly while wandering through the crammed alleyways of a town market in the Guatemalan highlands, the next thing I was confused and inexplicably ill. In that bewilderment I'd somehow ended up at a hotel that specialised in the relaxing sounds of steel drums and large, agitated birds.
This yarn dates back a few years, but I've never forgotten how surreal and dreamlike the whole episode was. I really was fine in the market and was yet to have any health issues after a week in Central America. I knew about altitude sickness, but at just on 2000m, surely we weren't high enough. And then in an instant I started to feel as if my head was spinning and I didn't really know where I was.
Alerting a friend and stumbling to the hotel, my complete lack of Spanish and the staff's very justified lack of English made for a not especially winning combo. "Buenas tardes, could I please have a room for two hours por favor?" Surely saying "please" in both Spanish and English makes up for knowing little else.
After a couple of minutes of blank looks and an expanding gathering of staff behind the counter, it became apparent they thought I must have a prostitute in tow who was perhaps hiding, possibly among the parrot cages. It took a further minute or two to convey that it was sickness and not love that had brought me to the Hotel El Steel Drum and eventually I was given keys to a room.
