Australians might not give a Castlemain XXXX for anything else, but according to the two Ozzies I met on the Mombacho zipline tour today, they don't even drink XXXX (or Fosters) down under, as it tastes of piss.
Kirk and Fabien do however drink a substantial amount of Toña cerveza in Nicaragua, or at least they did this evening with me in Granada after our tour to Mombacho, and they apparently did on Sunday evening as well, to the extent that Fabien almost enjoyed an intimate encounter with a local transvestite until Kirk stepped in to set him straight on the folly of dancing at the Feria with a woman with a bigger Adams Apple than he had.
This evening there were no cross-dressers, just some good steaks and reminiscings about Harold Bishop over a lot of Toñas on Calle Calzada, culminating in a drunken Scotsman zigzagging up and down the backstreets of Granada, having been spotted by an irate hotellier with a broken table.
Tomorrow I head for Isle de Ometepe with a hangover and Carlos the Mexican (that also climbed Mombacho with us) to try and conquer the mighty Volcan Concepcion, drunken plans having already been hatched to meet up for 19 holes of golf with the two kangaroo-eaters in Costa Rica in a few days time.
