1700: So we eventually got another taxi into Limon. A rough place. When we first arrived many of the general shops were open and it seemed ok. Later, when they had closed, it started to be... lively.

Costa Rica operates two currencies: its own, the Colon (after Christobal Colon, Christopher Colombus to us) and the US dollar. This is immensely inconvenient. It means that unless you carry both there are some things you can buy and some you can't. After two abortive attempts to get colones out of ATMs I gave up for the evening and had to stick to the drinking/ taxi dollar economy.

But people were very friendly and helpful. They just seem to be like that, with a lot of wry humour and philosophy. ¡Hola Ticos!

Eventually we found a hotel for Thomas who got off here on his way overland to Honduras. Then I accompanied the others in their expedition in search of rum.

The first bar we went in was rough, with immensely loud Ragga playing, and no windows, just bars in the apertures. I don't much like Ragga, which to me sounds formulaic and, unlike almost any other reggae except perhaps dub, dated. But then the music changed to indigenous stuff and that was great. Everything in the bar started to happen to the beat and no one sat still: the music must be shared in. I started to really enjoy myself.

Outside, Tom and Peter committed the mistakes of a) standing still and b) obviously not knowing what to do next. This place was on the darker fringes of downtown and a crowd of people gathered from the shadows of nowhere to offer suggestions, demanding a dollar for each one. Eventually two of the younger crew members from the Segovia Carrier arrived and drove most of the crowd away. One new acquaintance recommended a bar nearby and we set off.

The Russian lads were very much against this second bar. "Bad place," they said. The bar was completely empty. Huge video screens showed a compilation of Madonna videos. There were neon lights everywhere and a general 'designer' look. The barman had his hair tied back into an oiled ponytail, and there was no one else in the place at all.

The owner emerged from somewhere. Meanwhile, the younger Russian had engaged me in conversation and I was trying to follow this while also trying hard to work out what was going on. When drinks eventually came, following intense negotiations between Tom and the owner, they were large glass jugs, half-and-half lager and ice. The lore of travel is that ice is no more healthy than the water it is made from so if you wouldn’t drink the water, don't touch the ice! And anyhow, who wants to pay for watered-down lager? I went.

Outside things were now a little ragged. Someone gave me a high five, then grabbed my hand and tried to pull me into the shadows. I pulled away and didn't stop. I toured a couple of well-stocked supermarkets but I couldn't buy anything because it was all priced in colones. In the market square a full family, mother, father and three kids, were preparing for a night on the pavement before an illuminated shop front, presumably hoping that the second-hand light would give them confidence or security. They seemed decent people. The mother was adjusting her children's pyjamas before they lay down beneath their blankets as though still in the bedroom they must once have shared.

I met up with the taxi outside the post office. The fare had mysteriously doubled, but I arranged for him to return at 9 tomorrow morning so I can go to town, do my shopping with colones and film some daytime life. I won't see Tom again, but I wonder what time Peter will manage to get back.

0700: Grey and rainy. We are ploughing north and west. We have left behind our furthest point south and we have turned our stern to the earth's arse of Turbo.