Leaving Panama City proved as difficult by plane as previous border crossings had been by bike. I booked my flight online and the following day received an e mail cancelling my reservation because they didn`t accept international credit cards for flights booked with less than 3 days notice. So I re-booked with another company and secured the last seat on a direct flight to Bogota. It was with some relief that organized my luggage for an early departure the next day. I was eager to leave Panama City after nearly 5 days of waiting and in the meantime I had somehow picked up what I thought was a bad cold. You know, the usual stuff, painfully sore throat, streaming nose and eyes, hot sweats.
By the time I arrived at the airport the next day, I felt a whole lot worse, only to be greeted by an extremely long queue to check in, which snaked it`s way around the concourse. By the time I made the check in desk I was sweating profusely and my mood was not helped when I was informed,
“The flight is overbooked and we have put you on standby”!
“Standby?”
“Yes. Maybe you can stay in Panama one more night and we give you a hotel…..”
“I don`t want to stay in Panama. I need to get to Bogota today” I said, not allowing him to finish his sales pitch. He finally gave me a boarding pass with no seat number and told me to speak to the person at the departure gates. He obviously didn`t want to get involved in an argument and decided to pass me on to someone else.
Another huge queue to get through security finally got me flight side where I could sit down and get some food inside me. While really not relishing the prospect of another day in Panama, there was nothing I could do except “go with the flow” and see what would happen as we began to board.
It`s amazing how much more difficult everything becomes when you are physically below par, but this was yet again something to test my resolve and attitude. It was beginning to wear thin.
At the departure gate I noticed a young girl waiting at the desk and I guessed she was in the same situation. I guessed right. She was Colombian and was returning for Christmas and was eager not to miss her family reunion, and so we both put our best pleading case forwards (well she interpreted for me).
They must have liked her smile because minutes before departure we had our seats allocated.
“What about our luggage?” I asked her.
“That`s a good point” she said, “I`ll ask them”
She was assured there would be no problem and so we could finally relax safe in the knowledge that we would soon be on South American soil.
“The best laid plans…………….”
I arrived on schedule in Bogota, but sadly my luggage didn`t. So sneezing and sweating my way through the “lost luggage” process, I was finally assured that my luggage would be delivered to my hostel that night at 9.00 p.m. Needless to say, it didn`t arrive that night and to compound things my bike not only didn`t arrive either but hadn`t even left Panama!
Having paid for next day shipping, it still wasn’t there 5 days later. But at that stage I was feeling so ill I couldn`t get worked up about anything.
The temperature in Bogota was considerably lower than Panama and I had no warm clothes to wear (all being still in Panama) so I borrowed a jacket from the hostel manager and went to bed fully clothed, with 3 blankets and was still shivering uncontrollably.
I`d gone to a 24hr pharmacy and got some over the counter antibiotics and just hoped they would do the trick because I was feeling like shit. The only thing worse than feeling ill, is feeling ill thousands of miles from home and being alone and isolated.
As I lay in my bed feeling sorry for myself and sweating heavily, I was thinking, my plan of spending New Year in Quito was looking less and less likely. There were still some huge bureaucratic mountains to climb to get the necessary insurance and clear the bike through customs (whenever it might arrive in the country) and find a BMW garage to get the service done, and all before Christmas in a week`s time.
Should prove interesting.
I decided to move from my hostel to a hotel in downtown Bogota in the Candalaria district which is the old part of town and also a little more dangerous, but the hotel had been recommended to me by Juan, a rider Andy had met while trying to sort out the bike problems. Juan is an Argentinian who is now living in Costa Rica. He is also on a trip south back to Argentina.
It also made sense to work together to get the bikes through customs and Juan`s Spanish would prove invaluable.
On the day of the move I was still feeling extremely unwell, the antibiotics made me feel nauseous and upset my stomach every time I took them, but I had to drag myself up and get on with it. When I checked in and opened my e mail I discovered that the bikes had arrived at last and we had a cab ordered for 11.30 a.m. that day to all go down and sort out the paperwork.
I had a feeling it was going to be a long day.
Girag Air Cargo was as laid back at Bogota as it had been in Panama. No hurry. Everything done, if at all, at a snail`s pace. After the mandatory paperwork, photocopies, and long walk to the customs and back again, we eventually got to see our bikes. I was anxious to see what if any damage had been done. To my relief, only a slight break in the windscreen. So within 2 hours we had liberated our bikes!
While Andy went straight to the BMW garage for a long overdue service, I said to Juan,
“What about asking them for some compensation for the delay?”
“Yes, I think we should. If you watch the bikes I will go and see what we can get”
There followed a 3 hour wait while Juan negotiated with the man who could make the necessary decisions. More paperwork followed, but we eventually rode away with the princely sum of $100 each. At least that will cover 3 day`s accommodation I thought. Better than nothing and as Juan said, there was a principle at stake.
With that major hurdle overcome, the next step was to find the BMW garage and get them to do some basic work on the bike. The truth is, I could have done most of it but it would have taken just too much energy. Each day after taking the antibiotics, I feel nauseous and generally worse for several hours.
The garage turned out to be 8 miles away in the north of the city, but at least they were extremely friendly and helpful. Enrique, the service manager spoke good enough English and promised to have all the work done by the next day, which was good because the next day would be Christmas Eve, and if it couldn’t be completed by then it would mean waiting in Bogota until after Christmas.
In the midst of all this hassle with the bikes, Lenny had also arrived in Bogota! He had caught me up after we had gone our seperate ways back in Nicaragua. Having failed to find a boat to transport his bike to Colombia he had been forced to use Girag Air to fly across. Fortunately for him, everything went to plan!
I had decided to set off on Christmas day with Andy no matter how I was feeling. Maybe being back on the bike would help me re-focus my attention on something other than how shit I was feeling.
So it looks like Christmas Day will be spent on 6/7 hr ride to Cali.
Merry Christmas!
Friday, 24 December 2010
Friday, 17 December 2010
"Stormin` Norman and the Crazy Monkey"
I was up early on the day of the border crossing because you just never know how long these things will take. I didn`t expect it to be as bad as Honduras but I didn`t want to be complacent. This would be my first solo crossing since Mexico (it seems a long time ago now), but with the experience of Guatemala, Belize, El Salvador, Honduras and Nicaragua behind me I felt confident in the process. Apart from the ability to speak even a little Spanish, the key to border crossings is huge amounts of patience. With enough time, you can figure out most things. Never attempt to cross a border if you are pushed for time. The Pihranas (aka helpers) will sense that and basically you`ll get screwed.
As I approached the border I passed what seemed like several miles of queuing, stationary trucks. There must have been 100`s of them and by the look the hammocks slung between the wheels they had obviously been there for a while. This could be a busier crossing than I thought, I mused as I weaved past them to the front.
There was certainly less pressure than Honduras but the whole process still took
over two hours of being shunted from building to building getting the mandatory photocopies and stamped paperwork. Considering my previous struggle with anything involving queuing, this process would have driven me crazy, but now I just take it as it comes. What a transformation! I wonder if it will last?
"It`s like deja vu all over again!" - Yogi Berra
With all the paperwork complete and sweat pouring from me I fired up the engine and crossed into Costa Rica for the second time. It seemed very strange to be riding the same roads Jane and I had driven down only 6 weeks previously, and at the same time it was reassuring. It felt familiar and comfortable. The key difference this time would be I would be roughing it instead of enjoying the good life!
I made for the coastal town of Jaco which I`d noticed 6 weeks earlier. It was another surfer type town with Costa Rican type prices. Nicaraguan value for money seemed like another world. Costa Rica is well known for being the most developed and expensive of all the Central American countries. I wouldn`t be spending too much time here although I really like the place. The people are nice, language isn`t a problem, they are very geared up for tourism and they have great coffee.
I spent a couple of nights in Jaco mainly to recover from the ride. My back was feeling the strain so I thought it best give it an extra night and try to book a massage to speed up the recovery time. From Jaco I followed the coast road and was trying to get as near the border as I could to make it a quicker crossing the following day, but every likely town I came across looked depressingly run down so I just kept on riding. I noticed a large town on the map and decided that Ciudad Neily would definitely be my stopover point as it was only 20 minutes from the border and I was bound to find somewhere decent to stay.
The town was much smaller than it appeared on the map and after riding around for a while I was drawing a blank. As I pulled over to ask for help, a man on a little 125 cc rode up to me and asked if I was looking for a hotel.
“Follow me. I`ll show you” he said, and so an few minutes and couple of dirt tracks later we pulled up in front of what appeared to be a decent place, with a/c and internet. Perfect! The only drawback being they were full.
“Can you recommend anywhere else?” I asked hopefully.
“Everywhere is full” was the reply. “Everywhere? But there must be a room somewhere?” I added, trying to mask the mounting frustration. After a long ride, with sweat pouring off you and rain now looking imminent, this is not the situation you want.
“Everywhere is full because of the festival”
“Festival?”
“Si, Festival de La Luces”
Apparently I`d arrived at a bad time. “The Festival of the Lights” is a huge celebration in parts of Costa Rica and people from miles around had descended on this little town to celebrate it. I sat in a local restaurant, ordered some food and thought through my options. I could wait for a couple of hours to see if they had any cancellations or push on further. As I drank my coffee, the threatened rain appeared. That was it. I wasn’t riding anywhere today. There must be a room somewhere. As I drained the coffee and finished my chicken sandwich the man on the 125 appeared again,
“I have found a place with one room left. It`s very nice and just around the corner, but they want $50 for the night”
“$50!” I exclaimed, “That`s crazy!”
He shrugged his shoulders in agreement. They were obviously cashing in on the situation. With no other options available and with heavy rain falling I found the hospedaje and was determined not to pay their asking price,
“Yo recaudo fundos para la gente sin hogares y no tengo mucho dinero. Si es possible hacerlo mas barata por favor?”
(So basically, I`m fundraising for homeless people and I haven`t got much money.) I offered $30 (which was still over the odds) and we had an agreement.
That night I went to a bar and watched the huge celebrations from the capital, San Jose before heading out into the streets for what was the longest parade I`d seen in years. Very colourful and very loud, but after 1 ½ hours I was beginning to tire somewhat. Still, now I knew what “La Festival de la Luces” was all about. The next day I was up early for another border crossing into Panama. Surely this would be a simple affair compared to the others. Either way, armed with my new “laid back” philosophy, I was optimistic and confident.
Exiting Costa Rica was fairly straightforward and so when I arrived at migracion to get my passport stamped into Panama I expected it to be equally simple. Even the long queue didn`t phase me (initially). I waited in line for well over an hour, pouring with sweat, and the queue didn`t move an inch. NOT AN INCH!! And nobody bothered! I`ve come to the conclusion that Central Americans are either born with an exceptional “laid back gene” or they`re just resigned to the bumbling incompetence and pointless red tape that their countries thrive on. One thing`s for sure, no border official will EVER die of stress related illness.
Whilst watching this object lesson in ineptitude unfold, I noticed another bike pull up behind me. It had U.S. plates so I naturally assumed Andy was American. He was in fact from Grimsby (!) but now lived and worked in New York. He too was heading south. I was on my way to stay with an ex pat from England in a town not far away, so I suggested he join me and maybe we could both stay with Norman.
Norman had responded to a post I`d put on the net offering me a place to stay for the night, and since I never refuse offers of help I readily accepted. When we eventually found his place in the country it certainly wasn`t what I was expecting.
Villa Paula was a huge sprawling place. We rode in and pulled up in front of several bikes with a party seemingly in full swing. A tall bearded man in combat trousers greeted us with,
“You must be Brian, help yourself to a beer!”
“You must be Norman, thanks I will!”
“This is Andy. We met at the border. I hope you don`t mind both of us staying?”
“No problem. We have plenty of room”
There must have been nearly 20 people, Brits, Americans and Panamanians having a BBQ and drinking beer. Norman introduced us to everyone and as we relaxed and chatted over several beers, it transpired that all of the Brits and Americans had moved to Panama after years of disillusionment with their respective countries. A theme I had heard many times during my journey. I asked Billy from the U.S.,
“Yes, but what do you do all day?”
“Drink beer and have sex”, he replied.
“Yes but are you happy?”
He didn`t answer, just gave me one of those looks. And with that $1,000,000 question left hanging in the air I went to talk to Norman. On the way I was accosted by a monkey. One of 6 that seemed to live with Norman, only this one was a relative baby and was free to roam and terrorise. He had clearly taken a liking to me.
“It`s the colour of your hair. He`s attracted to fair haired people. I think it reminds him of his mother!”
“Thanks Norman!".
None taken! From that moment on, the bloody monkey wouldn`t leave me alone. I had my very own simian stalker. Later in the afternoon, most of the bikers headed off and things quietened down (apart from the monkey).
“Is it like this every Sunday?”
“More or less!” Norman replied.
Not surprising then that many bikers on their way south call in and sample Norman`s legendary hospitality.
“This reminds me of Apocalypse Now”, I said, “You`re Marlon Brando. You`ve gone native and set up a biker commune!”
The next morning we set off early (though not early enough to avoid the monkey) to get as close to Panama City as possible. As the sky turned dark and began to rain I was leading the way along a dual carriage way when up ahead I spotted an policeman by the roadside waving me down. Not another check, I thought as I switched off my engine,
“Como esta?” he enquired (very politely I thought)
“Muy bien, gracias”
It was then I saw the speed gun in his hand and with a smile he mentioned several numbers in Spanish and then pointed to the readout on the radar gun,
“96 kph”, he said.
Apparently the speed limit was 50 kph. Which is crazy! That`s just 25mph! On a dual carriage way? Bugger, for the first time on the whole trip I been caught speeding. It was almost funny. Me, speeding? On my bike? Nevertheless, I was guilty as charged. I pointed out the “Journey for Hope” and what I was doing it for hoping it would make a difference. He said something I didn`t understand and then mentioned “bolleto” and in English “ticket” which I did understand, followed by “pero”……
In essence, he said he should give you a ticket but this time he won`t. With profuse apologies and thanks and not a little relief, we waved an adios and rode off sticking to the ridiculous speed limits from then on. By midday I had ridden enough and decided to find a hotel and Andy decided to push on and find somewhere by a beach. I`d noticed a decent looking hotel in the town of Penonome and checked in just as the rain began to fall again. The room was clean and had a/c and they let me park the bike in the hotel lobby but sadly, the promised wifi didn`t work and after a tiring and fruitless search through the town I called it a day and had an early night.
Another early start saw me on the road to Panama City. I wanted to get there with plenty of time to find The Mamallena Hostel which had been recommended to me. I`d managed to locate it on my GPS which although not very detailed, was proving useful enough to navigate around and through cities and towns. Panama City I had been told, looked remarkably like Miami and as I approached, I noticed the skyline from distance full of high rise buildings and sky scrapers. After negotiating heavy traffic I knew I was very close to the hostel but unfortunately, the GPS didn’t seem to recognise the city`s one way system and so there followed a very frustrating 45 mins riding in circles trying to get into the road I needed. After asking a couple of locals I eventually managed to find the right road.
The hostel was obviously the main backpacker`s destination in the city. It was almost full with the only bed available in a dorm with 7 other people. Still, any port in a storm, and it was only $12. As I checked in I was told,
“Unfortunately, we don`t have any water. The water`s been off since yesterday. Panama has had too much rain”
“No water! No shower and no toilet?” She just shrugged and said, “Hopefully it will be back on tonight”
The sweat was pouring off me and my clothes were probably capable of standing up by themselves but judging by the squalor in my dorm, everyone else stank just as much as me. And as the saying goes, “Pigs don`t know that pigs stink”.
For the next few hours I sat around in my sweaty clothes and caught up with my e mails. I heard a whisper around the hostel that the water was back on, so I rushed (in a very dignified way of course) for my towel and found the showers. There was indeed water, but just a trickle of cold water. Nevertheless it was water and I did my best to shower as the trickle downgraded itself to a few drips. Feeling strangely refreshed from the “shower”, I reflected on how the very basic things in life can raise your spirits.
The next morning I had planned to ride to the cargo terminal of the airport where I had to find Girag, the shipping company I had corresponded with by e mail. According to my contact there, all I had to do was take my bike in the day before I wanted it shipped and it would all be very straightforward. Feeling skeptical about anything being “straightforward” in Central America I set off early and arrived just after 9.00 a.m. Andy was already there and was half way through the process,
“How`s it going?” I asked.
“No problem. They just inspected the bike and didn`t even ask about the petrol!”
When shipping a bike, most companies insist on the tank being virtually empty and often you also need to disconnect the battery. My bike was processed in the same way. Nobody mentioned fuel, battery or anything for that matter. A couple of hours later, and having both been relieved of $901 cash (!), we were sitting in a taxi on our way back to the city. Andy would be flying out in a couple of days while I had to wait for another four days. We both agreed that there was nothing in Panama City to tempt us to stay a day longer than necessary. When I arrived back at the hostel I enquired as to the possibility of upgrading to a private room,
“Don’t like the dorm life?” he asked with a wry smile.
“I just can`t get any sleep” I replied.
The previous night just reinforced the fact that I`m not cut out for the backpacker`s life. Every few minutes someone would be getting up, going to the toilet, opening doors, closing doors, tossing and turning, snoring. How the hell can people sleep through that stuff!! I knew I`d been spoilt in Cost Rica with Jane but this was definitely the sublime to the ridiculous.
“Well there are a couple of hotels around the corner for about $25-30”
“Thanks. I`ll check out in an hour”
The next few days were spent in the relative luxury of a single room, comfortable bed and a noisy generator outside my window! Still, at least it didn`t make snoring noises. With time on my hands I took a taxi to see the Panama Canal. As a major landmark I thought it had to be seen and indeed I did find it interesting, especially the politics surrounding it`s transference from U.S. rule to Panama in 1999. The rest of the time was spent catching up with my blog and waiting for my flight to Bogota and the prospect of setting foot on South American soil for the third and final leg of my Journey for Hope.
As I approached the border I passed what seemed like several miles of queuing, stationary trucks. There must have been 100`s of them and by the look the hammocks slung between the wheels they had obviously been there for a while. This could be a busier crossing than I thought, I mused as I weaved past them to the front.
There was certainly less pressure than Honduras but the whole process still took
over two hours of being shunted from building to building getting the mandatory photocopies and stamped paperwork. Considering my previous struggle with anything involving queuing, this process would have driven me crazy, but now I just take it as it comes. What a transformation! I wonder if it will last?
"It`s like deja vu all over again!" - Yogi Berra
With all the paperwork complete and sweat pouring from me I fired up the engine and crossed into Costa Rica for the second time. It seemed very strange to be riding the same roads Jane and I had driven down only 6 weeks previously, and at the same time it was reassuring. It felt familiar and comfortable. The key difference this time would be I would be roughing it instead of enjoying the good life!
I made for the coastal town of Jaco which I`d noticed 6 weeks earlier. It was another surfer type town with Costa Rican type prices. Nicaraguan value for money seemed like another world. Costa Rica is well known for being the most developed and expensive of all the Central American countries. I wouldn`t be spending too much time here although I really like the place. The people are nice, language isn`t a problem, they are very geared up for tourism and they have great coffee.
I spent a couple of nights in Jaco mainly to recover from the ride. My back was feeling the strain so I thought it best give it an extra night and try to book a massage to speed up the recovery time. From Jaco I followed the coast road and was trying to get as near the border as I could to make it a quicker crossing the following day, but every likely town I came across looked depressingly run down so I just kept on riding. I noticed a large town on the map and decided that Ciudad Neily would definitely be my stopover point as it was only 20 minutes from the border and I was bound to find somewhere decent to stay.
The town was much smaller than it appeared on the map and after riding around for a while I was drawing a blank. As I pulled over to ask for help, a man on a little 125 cc rode up to me and asked if I was looking for a hotel.
“Follow me. I`ll show you” he said, and so an few minutes and couple of dirt tracks later we pulled up in front of what appeared to be a decent place, with a/c and internet. Perfect! The only drawback being they were full.
“Can you recommend anywhere else?” I asked hopefully.
“Everywhere is full” was the reply. “Everywhere? But there must be a room somewhere?” I added, trying to mask the mounting frustration. After a long ride, with sweat pouring off you and rain now looking imminent, this is not the situation you want.
“Everywhere is full because of the festival”
“Festival?”
“Si, Festival de La Luces”
Apparently I`d arrived at a bad time. “The Festival of the Lights” is a huge celebration in parts of Costa Rica and people from miles around had descended on this little town to celebrate it. I sat in a local restaurant, ordered some food and thought through my options. I could wait for a couple of hours to see if they had any cancellations or push on further. As I drank my coffee, the threatened rain appeared. That was it. I wasn’t riding anywhere today. There must be a room somewhere. As I drained the coffee and finished my chicken sandwich the man on the 125 appeared again,
“I have found a place with one room left. It`s very nice and just around the corner, but they want $50 for the night”
“$50!” I exclaimed, “That`s crazy!”
He shrugged his shoulders in agreement. They were obviously cashing in on the situation. With no other options available and with heavy rain falling I found the hospedaje and was determined not to pay their asking price,
“Yo recaudo fundos para la gente sin hogares y no tengo mucho dinero. Si es possible hacerlo mas barata por favor?”
(So basically, I`m fundraising for homeless people and I haven`t got much money.) I offered $30 (which was still over the odds) and we had an agreement.
That night I went to a bar and watched the huge celebrations from the capital, San Jose before heading out into the streets for what was the longest parade I`d seen in years. Very colourful and very loud, but after 1 ½ hours I was beginning to tire somewhat. Still, now I knew what “La Festival de la Luces” was all about. The next day I was up early for another border crossing into Panama. Surely this would be a simple affair compared to the others. Either way, armed with my new “laid back” philosophy, I was optimistic and confident.
Exiting Costa Rica was fairly straightforward and so when I arrived at migracion to get my passport stamped into Panama I expected it to be equally simple. Even the long queue didn`t phase me (initially). I waited in line for well over an hour, pouring with sweat, and the queue didn`t move an inch. NOT AN INCH!! And nobody bothered! I`ve come to the conclusion that Central Americans are either born with an exceptional “laid back gene” or they`re just resigned to the bumbling incompetence and pointless red tape that their countries thrive on. One thing`s for sure, no border official will EVER die of stress related illness.
Whilst watching this object lesson in ineptitude unfold, I noticed another bike pull up behind me. It had U.S. plates so I naturally assumed Andy was American. He was in fact from Grimsby (!) but now lived and worked in New York. He too was heading south. I was on my way to stay with an ex pat from England in a town not far away, so I suggested he join me and maybe we could both stay with Norman.
Norman had responded to a post I`d put on the net offering me a place to stay for the night, and since I never refuse offers of help I readily accepted. When we eventually found his place in the country it certainly wasn`t what I was expecting.
Villa Paula was a huge sprawling place. We rode in and pulled up in front of several bikes with a party seemingly in full swing. A tall bearded man in combat trousers greeted us with,
“You must be Brian, help yourself to a beer!”
“You must be Norman, thanks I will!”
“This is Andy. We met at the border. I hope you don`t mind both of us staying?”
“No problem. We have plenty of room”
There must have been nearly 20 people, Brits, Americans and Panamanians having a BBQ and drinking beer. Norman introduced us to everyone and as we relaxed and chatted over several beers, it transpired that all of the Brits and Americans had moved to Panama after years of disillusionment with their respective countries. A theme I had heard many times during my journey. I asked Billy from the U.S.,
“Yes, but what do you do all day?”
“Drink beer and have sex”, he replied.
“Yes but are you happy?”
He didn`t answer, just gave me one of those looks. And with that $1,000,000 question left hanging in the air I went to talk to Norman. On the way I was accosted by a monkey. One of 6 that seemed to live with Norman, only this one was a relative baby and was free to roam and terrorise. He had clearly taken a liking to me.
“It`s the colour of your hair. He`s attracted to fair haired people. I think it reminds him of his mother!”
“Thanks Norman!".
None taken! From that moment on, the bloody monkey wouldn`t leave me alone. I had my very own simian stalker. Later in the afternoon, most of the bikers headed off and things quietened down (apart from the monkey).
“Is it like this every Sunday?”
“More or less!” Norman replied.
Not surprising then that many bikers on their way south call in and sample Norman`s legendary hospitality.
“This reminds me of Apocalypse Now”, I said, “You`re Marlon Brando. You`ve gone native and set up a biker commune!”
The next morning we set off early (though not early enough to avoid the monkey) to get as close to Panama City as possible. As the sky turned dark and began to rain I was leading the way along a dual carriage way when up ahead I spotted an policeman by the roadside waving me down. Not another check, I thought as I switched off my engine,
“Como esta?” he enquired (very politely I thought)
“Muy bien, gracias”
It was then I saw the speed gun in his hand and with a smile he mentioned several numbers in Spanish and then pointed to the readout on the radar gun,
“96 kph”, he said.
Apparently the speed limit was 50 kph. Which is crazy! That`s just 25mph! On a dual carriage way? Bugger, for the first time on the whole trip I been caught speeding. It was almost funny. Me, speeding? On my bike? Nevertheless, I was guilty as charged. I pointed out the “Journey for Hope” and what I was doing it for hoping it would make a difference. He said something I didn`t understand and then mentioned “bolleto” and in English “ticket” which I did understand, followed by “pero”……
In essence, he said he should give you a ticket but this time he won`t. With profuse apologies and thanks and not a little relief, we waved an adios and rode off sticking to the ridiculous speed limits from then on. By midday I had ridden enough and decided to find a hotel and Andy decided to push on and find somewhere by a beach. I`d noticed a decent looking hotel in the town of Penonome and checked in just as the rain began to fall again. The room was clean and had a/c and they let me park the bike in the hotel lobby but sadly, the promised wifi didn`t work and after a tiring and fruitless search through the town I called it a day and had an early night.
Another early start saw me on the road to Panama City. I wanted to get there with plenty of time to find The Mamallena Hostel which had been recommended to me. I`d managed to locate it on my GPS which although not very detailed, was proving useful enough to navigate around and through cities and towns. Panama City I had been told, looked remarkably like Miami and as I approached, I noticed the skyline from distance full of high rise buildings and sky scrapers. After negotiating heavy traffic I knew I was very close to the hostel but unfortunately, the GPS didn’t seem to recognise the city`s one way system and so there followed a very frustrating 45 mins riding in circles trying to get into the road I needed. After asking a couple of locals I eventually managed to find the right road.
The hostel was obviously the main backpacker`s destination in the city. It was almost full with the only bed available in a dorm with 7 other people. Still, any port in a storm, and it was only $12. As I checked in I was told,
“Unfortunately, we don`t have any water. The water`s been off since yesterday. Panama has had too much rain”
“No water! No shower and no toilet?” She just shrugged and said, “Hopefully it will be back on tonight”
The sweat was pouring off me and my clothes were probably capable of standing up by themselves but judging by the squalor in my dorm, everyone else stank just as much as me. And as the saying goes, “Pigs don`t know that pigs stink”.
For the next few hours I sat around in my sweaty clothes and caught up with my e mails. I heard a whisper around the hostel that the water was back on, so I rushed (in a very dignified way of course) for my towel and found the showers. There was indeed water, but just a trickle of cold water. Nevertheless it was water and I did my best to shower as the trickle downgraded itself to a few drips. Feeling strangely refreshed from the “shower”, I reflected on how the very basic things in life can raise your spirits.
The next morning I had planned to ride to the cargo terminal of the airport where I had to find Girag, the shipping company I had corresponded with by e mail. According to my contact there, all I had to do was take my bike in the day before I wanted it shipped and it would all be very straightforward. Feeling skeptical about anything being “straightforward” in Central America I set off early and arrived just after 9.00 a.m. Andy was already there and was half way through the process,
“How`s it going?” I asked.
“No problem. They just inspected the bike and didn`t even ask about the petrol!”
When shipping a bike, most companies insist on the tank being virtually empty and often you also need to disconnect the battery. My bike was processed in the same way. Nobody mentioned fuel, battery or anything for that matter. A couple of hours later, and having both been relieved of $901 cash (!), we were sitting in a taxi on our way back to the city. Andy would be flying out in a couple of days while I had to wait for another four days. We both agreed that there was nothing in Panama City to tempt us to stay a day longer than necessary. When I arrived back at the hostel I enquired as to the possibility of upgrading to a private room,
“Don’t like the dorm life?” he asked with a wry smile.
“I just can`t get any sleep” I replied.
The previous night just reinforced the fact that I`m not cut out for the backpacker`s life. Every few minutes someone would be getting up, going to the toilet, opening doors, closing doors, tossing and turning, snoring. How the hell can people sleep through that stuff!! I knew I`d been spoilt in Cost Rica with Jane but this was definitely the sublime to the ridiculous.
“Well there are a couple of hotels around the corner for about $25-30”
“Thanks. I`ll check out in an hour”
The next few days were spent in the relative luxury of a single room, comfortable bed and a noisy generator outside my window! Still, at least it didn`t make snoring noises. With time on my hands I took a taxi to see the Panama Canal. As a major landmark I thought it had to be seen and indeed I did find it interesting, especially the politics surrounding it`s transference from U.S. rule to Panama in 1999. The rest of the time was spent catching up with my blog and waiting for my flight to Bogota and the prospect of setting foot on South American soil for the third and final leg of my Journey for Hope.
Saturday, 11 December 2010
"Lazybones and Bearded Monkeys......"
As we rode into Nicaragua, I was surprised by the quality of the roads. I had heard that this was the poorest of all the Central American countries and yet the roads seemed as good as anywhere else and maybe even better. Apart from the random potholes that appeared occasionally for brief stretches. Dave, a Canadian rider we`d met on the road described some of them as “coffin sized!” A salutary thought.
The first stop in Nicaragua was the small colonial town of Leon where we stayed for a couple of nights in the “Lazybones” hostel. A single room, shared bathroom and no hot water for $16. Having spent so much money on physiotherapy I had to be careful with the budget.
Our next stop was Granada where we`d had a recommendation of a good hostel and thought it wouldn`t be too hard to find. Just stop and ask. We stopped, we asked and still couldn`t find it, which was a pity as it turned out to be infinitely nicer than “The Bearded Monkey” hostel we eventually ended up in.
For three nights I felt like Papillon in my dark cell and had to pay $12 for the privilege! Granada is another example of old, colonial splendour, sitting on the shores of Lake Nicaragua. Very much like a bigger version of Antigua it had plenty to offer in the way of great cafes and restaurants at affordable prices.
It`s interesting how travelling in this part of the world makes you re evaluate the cost of things. One of the things I am learning is that the U.K. is ridiculously expensive. Of course everyone living at home is aware of the fact but being here brings it into stark contrast.
After a couple of days savouring Granada`s colonial style I decided it was time to head further south. Lenny was planning on signing up for another week`s Spanish school, so I wished him all the best and set off for the beach resort of San Juan Del Sur about an hour`s ride south. Lenny had heard good reports about the place and it wasn`t far from the next border crossing. I thought a couple of days by the beach relaxing and reading would be a good way to prepare for the solo crossing into Costa Rica.
San Juan Del Sur
As soon as I rode into town I got a good feeling. It just felt right. I`d found the perfect place for some R+R. Any place that`s populated by hippies and surfers has to be stress free! Finding the right accommodation however wasn`t so easy. The prices were higher (as you`d expect by the beach) but there was a distinct lack of places with secure parking.
After about my third lap around the town someone stopped me,
“Are you looking for a place to stay?” he enquired in perfect English.
“Yes, but I need secure parking for my bike”
“No problem. I have a friend who has a good hotel up there on the hill. Very clean rooms, cheap and your bike will be safe”
“How much?” was the obvious next question.
“$10 a night”
That`ll do nicely I thought. Two minutes later his friend rolled up in a 4x4 and escorted me up a steep hill to a little hotel/hostel. He was right. $10 for a nice, clean room and it even had a kitchen! Perfect.
The town was a hangout for backpackers and the bleached haired, tanned surfing community. It had plenty of wifi spots and a very funky café/book shop called El Gato Negro which rapidly became my favourite place to relax, read and check e mails. This place was as trendy as anything you`d find in Crouch End, Hampstead or Notting Hill (except half the price). They ground their own organic coffee and baked some of the best chocolate muffins I`ve ever tasted.
I could easily have spent a few days in San Juan, but I was eager to push on to Panama City and organize my bike`s transport across the Darien Gap to Colombia before Christmas. So that meant the small matter of crossing Costa Rica.
The first stop in Nicaragua was the small colonial town of Leon where we stayed for a couple of nights in the “Lazybones” hostel. A single room, shared bathroom and no hot water for $16. Having spent so much money on physiotherapy I had to be careful with the budget.
Our next stop was Granada where we`d had a recommendation of a good hostel and thought it wouldn`t be too hard to find. Just stop and ask. We stopped, we asked and still couldn`t find it, which was a pity as it turned out to be infinitely nicer than “The Bearded Monkey” hostel we eventually ended up in.
For three nights I felt like Papillon in my dark cell and had to pay $12 for the privilege! Granada is another example of old, colonial splendour, sitting on the shores of Lake Nicaragua. Very much like a bigger version of Antigua it had plenty to offer in the way of great cafes and restaurants at affordable prices.
It`s interesting how travelling in this part of the world makes you re evaluate the cost of things. One of the things I am learning is that the U.K. is ridiculously expensive. Of course everyone living at home is aware of the fact but being here brings it into stark contrast.
After a couple of days savouring Granada`s colonial style I decided it was time to head further south. Lenny was planning on signing up for another week`s Spanish school, so I wished him all the best and set off for the beach resort of San Juan Del Sur about an hour`s ride south. Lenny had heard good reports about the place and it wasn`t far from the next border crossing. I thought a couple of days by the beach relaxing and reading would be a good way to prepare for the solo crossing into Costa Rica.
San Juan Del Sur
As soon as I rode into town I got a good feeling. It just felt right. I`d found the perfect place for some R+R. Any place that`s populated by hippies and surfers has to be stress free! Finding the right accommodation however wasn`t so easy. The prices were higher (as you`d expect by the beach) but there was a distinct lack of places with secure parking.
After about my third lap around the town someone stopped me,
“Are you looking for a place to stay?” he enquired in perfect English.
“Yes, but I need secure parking for my bike”
“No problem. I have a friend who has a good hotel up there on the hill. Very clean rooms, cheap and your bike will be safe”
“How much?” was the obvious next question.
“$10 a night”
That`ll do nicely I thought. Two minutes later his friend rolled up in a 4x4 and escorted me up a steep hill to a little hotel/hostel. He was right. $10 for a nice, clean room and it even had a kitchen! Perfect.
The town was a hangout for backpackers and the bleached haired, tanned surfing community. It had plenty of wifi spots and a very funky café/book shop called El Gato Negro which rapidly became my favourite place to relax, read and check e mails. This place was as trendy as anything you`d find in Crouch End, Hampstead or Notting Hill (except half the price). They ground their own organic coffee and baked some of the best chocolate muffins I`ve ever tasted.
I could easily have spent a few days in San Juan, but I was eager to push on to Panama City and organize my bike`s transport across the Darien Gap to Colombia before Christmas. So that meant the small matter of crossing Costa Rica.
Friday, 3 December 2010
"Even if it is only $10, I still expect a toilet seat........".."
We left Belize the following morning and headed back to Flores. The idea was to retrace our steps from Flores to Rio Dulce, stay there one night and then make the run to the El Salvador border the next day which would hopefully give us enough time to put a good two hours ride down through El Salvador to the coast and the little town of Acajutla.
The border crossing was very quiet and uneventful. In fact there was only Lenny, me and two nuns, but it still took 1 ½ hours. We`d looked on the map and found this little town right on the coast and thought a little sojourn by the sea would be pleasant.
When we arrived in Acajutla it was disappointingly drab and run down, but nevertheless there were several “hotels” right on the beach. The first one we looked at wanted $15 which seemed a little on the high side so I suggested we check out another one.
“Tiene una habitacion por una noche?”
“Si”
"Cuanta cuesta por favor?”
“Diez”
That sounded much better so I asked to see the room. Ducking under three washing lines full of clothes he pointed towards a room. Call me old fashioned, but even for $10 I still expect a toilet seat. The bedding looked like it had never seen the inside of a washing machine. So back to the first one again.
We rode into the courtyard and asked to see the room. The good news was at least it had a toilet seat, the bad news was the whole room stank like a toilet. There was more sand and dirt in the bedroom than on the beach and again the bedding looked disgusting. With the light beginning to fade we had to make a decision quickly. We`d passed a couple of places on the way in, one was a “Love Hotel” (can`t imagine who uses such places!) which are always fairly clean and very secure (apparently) but Lenny had spotted what looked like a truckers hotel which had a restaurant so we opted for that. A ridiculously expensive $26 bought us basic rooms but at least we could get some food.
El Salvador was proving much more expensive than either of us thought. After the turmoil and misery of the civil war that raged during the 70`s and 80`s, the capital San Salvador is becoming a major financial centre for Central America and with foreign investment in the roads and infrastructure, the country is clearly not as poor and therefore cheap as it once was.
Still not giving up on the idea of a beachside stay we set off the next morning for the town of La Libertad, around which were supposed to be lots of surfer type accommodation. I found a hotel in the town with wifi so decided to stay there while Lenny opted for something on the beach. It was nice for one night to have air conditioning and a comfortable, clean bed to sleep in. After dinner in a local restaurant I came back to find the hotel car park packed with cars, which was unusual as there was hardly anyone else in the hotel. It turns out I`d stumbled upon an Amway meeting in full swing! I observed with fascination as the speaker explained the sales and marketing plan to a full house. Needless to say, I was approached twice in 5 minutes to join the group.
"No entiendo" I replied, and went for an early night.
The next day was going to be interesting. This was the day we would cross into Honduras. Of all the Central American countries, Honduras is the one with the reputation of being the most corrupt, bureaucratic and time consuming crossing. We`d both read many internet postings so we were as prepared as we could be for what was likely to come. Our strategy was to be as patient as possible and not be hurried or hassled by the gang of “helpers” we would encounter at the border. Nor would we hire any of the aforementioned helpers to navigate our way through the mound of complex paperwork. If we were patient and methodical, we believed we could do it alone.
About a mile or so from the border itself we had to slow down as several men rushed onto the road waving us down and offering their help. This was an obvious precursor to what was about to come. As soon as we had pulled up at the El Salvador side to process the paperwork to exit the country, we were inundated by a crowd of people offering their services,
“Hey amigo, I can help you. I speak good English”
“No thanks, we`re O.K.”
“I`m his brother. We will help you with the paperwork”
“No thanks, we don`t need any help”
And so it went on. Like pirahnas sensing blood! Lenny just pointed at each one of them and said calmly,
“No, no, no, no, no!”
The one with good English said,
“If you need anyone I can help you”
“Thanks. If we need anyone we`ll let you know”
And this was just to get out of El Salvador! Before we crossed to the Honduran side, we had to get photocopies of our exit papers. Lenny watched the bikes while I was directed to a small office to get the copies.
“Dos copias por favor”, I said to the woman behind the desk. With a look of total disdain she dragged herself from behind the desk, copied the paperwork and said,
“Veinte cinco”
I wasn`t sure I heard her right, so I asked again,
“Veinte cinco”, she repeated.
“$25 dollars! Are you kidding? For two photocopies?” I exclaimed in English. My Spanish wasn`t good enough to formulate “you`re taking the piss”.
She just shrugged her shoulders and repeated the amount, but I could tell from her body language that this was just another scam, so I just shook my head and started to walk away, refusing to give her anything at all. The crossing into Honduras was certainly living up (or down) to its reputation.
Once again we were hassled by “helpers” who insisted on trying to guide us through the totally ridiculous process, which is basically a simple 3 step process.
Step 1 Migracion - Get your passport stamped and officially enter the country
Step 2 Aduana – Import your bike on a temporary import permit
Step 3 Fumigacion – Pay for someone to spray your bike (for no apparent reason)
That 3 step process took between 2 – 3 hours in the fierce heat of the mid day sun.
We were sent to various offices were we had to provide our passports, vehicle documentation, drivers licence and exit paperwork from the previous country. At each stage we had to get multiple photocopies of each document at a different building. All down the line, the unhired “helpers” were insistent we gave them all our paperwork and they would expedite the whole thing much quicker (for a fee of course). Having been scammed for a ficticious $35 “road tax” early on in the process, I then had to go to the bank and pay 700 Lempiras for the official paperwork but it was closed,
“It`s closed for lunch and won`t be open for 1 ½ hours” my “helper” said, “but if you give me the money and paperwork I can go to another window and get it done sooner for you”.
“Great. Let`s go to the other window”
On the way there he insisted I give him my paperwork.
“No. I`ll come with you” I replied. At which he thrust my paperwork back in my hand and stormed off! Not surprisingly, the bank was now open and I processed the whole thing by myself and it cost 636 Lempiras! And so the whole fiasco went on and on as the temperature pushed into the high 90`s.
Rarely have I witnessed such a blatant process designed specifically to relieve the “Gringo” from his money and create mounds of pointless paperwork and meaningless bureaucracy. The Honduran border crossing must contribute massively to Rank Xerox`s and Canon`s bottom line.
We eventually did give our “helper`s” two dollars because at least they steered us in the right direction, but we managed to limit the damage by doing most of the leg work ourselves. It`s a shame because that experience leaves a distinctly unfavourable impression of the country before you even cross the border. (This is the abridged version of the border crossing, the full story can be found in Lenny`s blog at www.fromdeadhorsedown.com)
Having been checked several times in the first few miles we were also stopped at a police check point within the first ten minutes were the policeman attempted to give us a ticket because we hadn`t got reflective stickers!
The "Reflective Sticker" Scam!
“Yo tengo dos!” I said, as I climbed off the bike and pointed to the two yellow, smiley faces I had stuck on my panniers(bought at the NEC bike show for just such an occasion!)Lenny did likewise and the policeman just shrugged and waved us on.
Yet another blatant attempt to extract more money. We rode quickly across country and headed for the town of Choluteca, which was about halfway across Honduras. Our plan was to spend one night there and exit the country as fast as possible and cross into Nicaragua the next day.
The border crossing was very quiet and uneventful. In fact there was only Lenny, me and two nuns, but it still took 1 ½ hours. We`d looked on the map and found this little town right on the coast and thought a little sojourn by the sea would be pleasant.
When we arrived in Acajutla it was disappointingly drab and run down, but nevertheless there were several “hotels” right on the beach. The first one we looked at wanted $15 which seemed a little on the high side so I suggested we check out another one.
“Tiene una habitacion por una noche?”
“Si”
"Cuanta cuesta por favor?”
“Diez”
That sounded much better so I asked to see the room. Ducking under three washing lines full of clothes he pointed towards a room. Call me old fashioned, but even for $10 I still expect a toilet seat. The bedding looked like it had never seen the inside of a washing machine. So back to the first one again.
We rode into the courtyard and asked to see the room. The good news was at least it had a toilet seat, the bad news was the whole room stank like a toilet. There was more sand and dirt in the bedroom than on the beach and again the bedding looked disgusting. With the light beginning to fade we had to make a decision quickly. We`d passed a couple of places on the way in, one was a “Love Hotel” (can`t imagine who uses such places!) which are always fairly clean and very secure (apparently) but Lenny had spotted what looked like a truckers hotel which had a restaurant so we opted for that. A ridiculously expensive $26 bought us basic rooms but at least we could get some food.
El Salvador was proving much more expensive than either of us thought. After the turmoil and misery of the civil war that raged during the 70`s and 80`s, the capital San Salvador is becoming a major financial centre for Central America and with foreign investment in the roads and infrastructure, the country is clearly not as poor and therefore cheap as it once was.
Still not giving up on the idea of a beachside stay we set off the next morning for the town of La Libertad, around which were supposed to be lots of surfer type accommodation. I found a hotel in the town with wifi so decided to stay there while Lenny opted for something on the beach. It was nice for one night to have air conditioning and a comfortable, clean bed to sleep in. After dinner in a local restaurant I came back to find the hotel car park packed with cars, which was unusual as there was hardly anyone else in the hotel. It turns out I`d stumbled upon an Amway meeting in full swing! I observed with fascination as the speaker explained the sales and marketing plan to a full house. Needless to say, I was approached twice in 5 minutes to join the group.
"No entiendo" I replied, and went for an early night.
The next day was going to be interesting. This was the day we would cross into Honduras. Of all the Central American countries, Honduras is the one with the reputation of being the most corrupt, bureaucratic and time consuming crossing. We`d both read many internet postings so we were as prepared as we could be for what was likely to come. Our strategy was to be as patient as possible and not be hurried or hassled by the gang of “helpers” we would encounter at the border. Nor would we hire any of the aforementioned helpers to navigate our way through the mound of complex paperwork. If we were patient and methodical, we believed we could do it alone.
About a mile or so from the border itself we had to slow down as several men rushed onto the road waving us down and offering their help. This was an obvious precursor to what was about to come. As soon as we had pulled up at the El Salvador side to process the paperwork to exit the country, we were inundated by a crowd of people offering their services,
“Hey amigo, I can help you. I speak good English”
“No thanks, we`re O.K.”
“I`m his brother. We will help you with the paperwork”
“No thanks, we don`t need any help”
And so it went on. Like pirahnas sensing blood! Lenny just pointed at each one of them and said calmly,
“No, no, no, no, no!”
The one with good English said,
“If you need anyone I can help you”
“Thanks. If we need anyone we`ll let you know”
And this was just to get out of El Salvador! Before we crossed to the Honduran side, we had to get photocopies of our exit papers. Lenny watched the bikes while I was directed to a small office to get the copies.
“Dos copias por favor”, I said to the woman behind the desk. With a look of total disdain she dragged herself from behind the desk, copied the paperwork and said,
“Veinte cinco”
I wasn`t sure I heard her right, so I asked again,
“Veinte cinco”, she repeated.
“$25 dollars! Are you kidding? For two photocopies?” I exclaimed in English. My Spanish wasn`t good enough to formulate “you`re taking the piss”.
She just shrugged her shoulders and repeated the amount, but I could tell from her body language that this was just another scam, so I just shook my head and started to walk away, refusing to give her anything at all. The crossing into Honduras was certainly living up (or down) to its reputation.
Once again we were hassled by “helpers” who insisted on trying to guide us through the totally ridiculous process, which is basically a simple 3 step process.
Step 1 Migracion - Get your passport stamped and officially enter the country
Step 2 Aduana – Import your bike on a temporary import permit
Step 3 Fumigacion – Pay for someone to spray your bike (for no apparent reason)
That 3 step process took between 2 – 3 hours in the fierce heat of the mid day sun.
We were sent to various offices were we had to provide our passports, vehicle documentation, drivers licence and exit paperwork from the previous country. At each stage we had to get multiple photocopies of each document at a different building. All down the line, the unhired “helpers” were insistent we gave them all our paperwork and they would expedite the whole thing much quicker (for a fee of course). Having been scammed for a ficticious $35 “road tax” early on in the process, I then had to go to the bank and pay 700 Lempiras for the official paperwork but it was closed,
“It`s closed for lunch and won`t be open for 1 ½ hours” my “helper” said, “but if you give me the money and paperwork I can go to another window and get it done sooner for you”.
“Great. Let`s go to the other window”
On the way there he insisted I give him my paperwork.
“No. I`ll come with you” I replied. At which he thrust my paperwork back in my hand and stormed off! Not surprisingly, the bank was now open and I processed the whole thing by myself and it cost 636 Lempiras! And so the whole fiasco went on and on as the temperature pushed into the high 90`s.
Rarely have I witnessed such a blatant process designed specifically to relieve the “Gringo” from his money and create mounds of pointless paperwork and meaningless bureaucracy. The Honduran border crossing must contribute massively to Rank Xerox`s and Canon`s bottom line.
We eventually did give our “helper`s” two dollars because at least they steered us in the right direction, but we managed to limit the damage by doing most of the leg work ourselves. It`s a shame because that experience leaves a distinctly unfavourable impression of the country before you even cross the border. (This is the abridged version of the border crossing, the full story can be found in Lenny`s blog at www.fromdeadhorsedown.com)
Having been checked several times in the first few miles we were also stopped at a police check point within the first ten minutes were the policeman attempted to give us a ticket because we hadn`t got reflective stickers!
The "Reflective Sticker" Scam!
“Yo tengo dos!” I said, as I climbed off the bike and pointed to the two yellow, smiley faces I had stuck on my panniers(bought at the NEC bike show for just such an occasion!)Lenny did likewise and the policeman just shrugged and waved us on.
Yet another blatant attempt to extract more money. We rode quickly across country and headed for the town of Choluteca, which was about halfway across Honduras. Our plan was to spend one night there and exit the country as fast as possible and cross into Nicaragua the next day.
Saturday, 27 November 2010
"It`s not over till the fat lady sings........!"
After a week of running through all the possible outcomes and "What ifs" I finally got the feedback from Nick Birch, the back specialist in the U.K.
“The possible risks of continuing your journey are, recurrence of pain, and needing more treatment in countries where that might be difficult to access. The worst case is that the problem, i.e. your pain, doesn’t settle and that the trip is then effectively over. I would suggest that to begin with, you ride less hours a day and take regular breaks to stretch your back. . ……………. you won’t cause any further actual damage to your spine by continuing to ride, although you might get a recurrence of symptoms because of the ordinary wear and tear changes in your back being irritated by bouncing along rutted roads. “
No mention at all of Montserrat Caballe (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PomIF3s2-OY - 130k) So that was it. “The Journey for Hope” was back on the road!
With a commitment to exercise religiously every day, I decided I would just keep going and see how far I could go. Anything after Panama was going to be a bonus.
Getting back on the bike after a break of nearly 5 weeks was a strange experience. I approached every speed bump and pothole with extra caution. I had planned to ride north from Antigua,through Guatemala City and head for the small island town of Flores. From there I could take the short trip to Tikal the site of the biggest Mayan ruins in Central America.
I decided to break the journey in the small town of Rio Dulce which was still a longer ride than I would have liked and by the time I arrived there I was tired and my back was aching. (If I was Ewen McGregor I would have a back up crew of a masseuse and a mechanic.)
Rio Dulce was a favourite stopover for the affluent, yachting set, so obviously I fit in perfectly.
I was up early the following day for the relatively short 3 hour ride to Flores. In Flores I was due to meet up with another American rider who was heading the same way. Lenny was riding his Kawasaki 650 all the way to Tierra Del Fuego so it made sense to ride together for a while. While I was waiting for Lenny to arrive I was apprehended by a Guatemalan TV crew who wanted to “interview” me (there was obviously no one else around!) about my views on Flores. The interview was brief. I think “Muy bonita” figured heavily.
Shortly after, Lenny arrived, and as we discussed our past experiences and future plans over a beer or two it was clear that Belize was in Lenny`s plans. Belize wasn`t even on my original route, but when he said he was going there, I thought, why not, a short hop across the border and another border crossing would be good practice.
Belize is a strange country. The only Central American country where everything is written in English and everyone speaks English, they even have the Queen on all their bank notes.
The border crossing was easy and marred only by Christmas songs blasting out of the two little speakers on the customs desk.Belize customs and Nat King Cole? It seemed rather incongruous until I realised that we were well into November, and back in the U.K. this would have been happening in every store throughout the country for weeks.
Twenty minutes from the border we arrived in the town of San Ignacio. Within minutes someone approached us and “guided” us to “Nefry`s Retreat” which turned out to be a cheap and clean (well, only one dead cockroach under my bed) hotel. The following day Lenny took off to the islands and I decided to spend a couple of days resting, exercising and attempting to fix an electrical problem.
The recurring issue with the horn not working had returned and was further compounded by the headlight not working. Both of which were pretty critical to safe riding. They had to be fixed. I stripped off the panels and did what I always do in these situations, poke around a little and scratch my head a lot. It`s never really been the best strategy and this time proved equally fruitless. I was still debating what to do as I sipped on my beer in a local bar when a lively group of people beckoned me to join them. The rest of the night was spent in the company of Phil and Maria.
Phil was from the U.S. and was involved in real estate, spending his time developing land in Belize and commuting back to the U.S. Maria, was a Russian accountant who now lived in New York and had travelled extensively. Both had fascinating stories to tell. When I explained what I was doing there and my electrical problem, Phil said,
“You should try Mad Dog”
“Mad Dog?”
“Yea, he`s the best mechanic in town. Everyone calls him Mad Dog”
The Mad Dog and the Englishman
And so the next day, in the mid day sun, the Englishman went to find Mad Dog.
“Hi, I`m looking for Mad Dog”, I said to the man under the bonnet of a car.
“You`ve found him!”
It turned out that Nat (aka Mad Dog) had ridden from Alaska with his son, two years before, but ran out of money in Guyana where his bike still remains. I explained my situation to him.
“Yea, that`ll be no problem. Bring it by this afternoon and I`ll take a look”
I rode the bike up that afternoon and left feeling confident that it would be fixed by the next day. In the evening I headed back to my favourite bar to meet up with my new friends Maria and Phil for a farewell drink (to be honest, several farewell drinks). The following day Phil was off back to the States for Thanksgiving and Maria was going to the islands.
True to his word, the following day, my bike was ready and waiting. Mad Dog had worked his magic and found the faulty relay. His wife Debbie gave me a card with contact details saying,
“If you get into trouble anywhere just call us or e mail and I`m sure he can help you”
I rode off reflecting on how comforting it must be for someone like Nat to know that whatever goes wrong with the bike he could fix it or at least confidently diagnose the problem. Not for the first time I wished I had more technical competence instead of relying on others to help me out. But, “it is what it is”, I reminded myself as I headed for more help with my other priority – my body.
Shortly after arriving in San Ignacio I came across a sign for a massage therapist and decided my back could do with some attention. Gretel turned out to be an excellent masseuse who gave my back a thorough deep tissue (and painful) going over.
“What are you doing in Belize?” she enquired.
I explained about the “Journey for Hope” and my recent problems.
“When are you leaving?”
“In a day or two”
“Come and see me before you go and I`ll give you a complimentary back massage”
So now my bike was fixed, I made my way to see Gretel and get my body fixed.
“The possible risks of continuing your journey are, recurrence of pain, and needing more treatment in countries where that might be difficult to access. The worst case is that the problem, i.e. your pain, doesn’t settle and that the trip is then effectively over. I would suggest that to begin with, you ride less hours a day and take regular breaks to stretch your back. . ……………. you won’t cause any further actual damage to your spine by continuing to ride, although you might get a recurrence of symptoms because of the ordinary wear and tear changes in your back being irritated by bouncing along rutted roads. “
No mention at all of Montserrat Caballe (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PomIF3s2-OY - 130k) So that was it. “The Journey for Hope” was back on the road!
With a commitment to exercise religiously every day, I decided I would just keep going and see how far I could go. Anything after Panama was going to be a bonus.
Getting back on the bike after a break of nearly 5 weeks was a strange experience. I approached every speed bump and pothole with extra caution. I had planned to ride north from Antigua,through Guatemala City and head for the small island town of Flores. From there I could take the short trip to Tikal the site of the biggest Mayan ruins in Central America.
I decided to break the journey in the small town of Rio Dulce which was still a longer ride than I would have liked and by the time I arrived there I was tired and my back was aching. (If I was Ewen McGregor I would have a back up crew of a masseuse and a mechanic.)
Rio Dulce was a favourite stopover for the affluent, yachting set, so obviously I fit in perfectly.
I was up early the following day for the relatively short 3 hour ride to Flores. In Flores I was due to meet up with another American rider who was heading the same way. Lenny was riding his Kawasaki 650 all the way to Tierra Del Fuego so it made sense to ride together for a while. While I was waiting for Lenny to arrive I was apprehended by a Guatemalan TV crew who wanted to “interview” me (there was obviously no one else around!) about my views on Flores. The interview was brief. I think “Muy bonita” figured heavily.
Shortly after, Lenny arrived, and as we discussed our past experiences and future plans over a beer or two it was clear that Belize was in Lenny`s plans. Belize wasn`t even on my original route, but when he said he was going there, I thought, why not, a short hop across the border and another border crossing would be good practice.
Belize is a strange country. The only Central American country where everything is written in English and everyone speaks English, they even have the Queen on all their bank notes.
The border crossing was easy and marred only by Christmas songs blasting out of the two little speakers on the customs desk.Belize customs and Nat King Cole? It seemed rather incongruous until I realised that we were well into November, and back in the U.K. this would have been happening in every store throughout the country for weeks.
Twenty minutes from the border we arrived in the town of San Ignacio. Within minutes someone approached us and “guided” us to “Nefry`s Retreat” which turned out to be a cheap and clean (well, only one dead cockroach under my bed) hotel. The following day Lenny took off to the islands and I decided to spend a couple of days resting, exercising and attempting to fix an electrical problem.
The recurring issue with the horn not working had returned and was further compounded by the headlight not working. Both of which were pretty critical to safe riding. They had to be fixed. I stripped off the panels and did what I always do in these situations, poke around a little and scratch my head a lot. It`s never really been the best strategy and this time proved equally fruitless. I was still debating what to do as I sipped on my beer in a local bar when a lively group of people beckoned me to join them. The rest of the night was spent in the company of Phil and Maria.
Phil was from the U.S. and was involved in real estate, spending his time developing land in Belize and commuting back to the U.S. Maria, was a Russian accountant who now lived in New York and had travelled extensively. Both had fascinating stories to tell. When I explained what I was doing there and my electrical problem, Phil said,
“You should try Mad Dog”
“Mad Dog?”
“Yea, he`s the best mechanic in town. Everyone calls him Mad Dog”
The Mad Dog and the Englishman
And so the next day, in the mid day sun, the Englishman went to find Mad Dog.
“Hi, I`m looking for Mad Dog”, I said to the man under the bonnet of a car.
“You`ve found him!”
It turned out that Nat (aka Mad Dog) had ridden from Alaska with his son, two years before, but ran out of money in Guyana where his bike still remains. I explained my situation to him.
“Yea, that`ll be no problem. Bring it by this afternoon and I`ll take a look”
I rode the bike up that afternoon and left feeling confident that it would be fixed by the next day. In the evening I headed back to my favourite bar to meet up with my new friends Maria and Phil for a farewell drink (to be honest, several farewell drinks). The following day Phil was off back to the States for Thanksgiving and Maria was going to the islands.
True to his word, the following day, my bike was ready and waiting. Mad Dog had worked his magic and found the faulty relay. His wife Debbie gave me a card with contact details saying,
“If you get into trouble anywhere just call us or e mail and I`m sure he can help you”
I rode off reflecting on how comforting it must be for someone like Nat to know that whatever goes wrong with the bike he could fix it or at least confidently diagnose the problem. Not for the first time I wished I had more technical competence instead of relying on others to help me out. But, “it is what it is”, I reminded myself as I headed for more help with my other priority – my body.
Shortly after arriving in San Ignacio I came across a sign for a massage therapist and decided my back could do with some attention. Gretel turned out to be an excellent masseuse who gave my back a thorough deep tissue (and painful) going over.
“What are you doing in Belize?” she enquired.
I explained about the “Journey for Hope” and my recent problems.
“When are you leaving?”
“In a day or two”
“Come and see me before you go and I`ll give you a complimentary back massage”
So now my bike was fixed, I made my way to see Gretel and get my body fixed.
Saturday, 13 November 2010
"Healing Hands" and Hope..............
I arrived back in Antigua early in the morning after another bone shaking ride in the Chicken Bus. Before I`d left for the city I`d noticed a sign for X rays and ultra sound so I made my way down there and enquired as to how I could go about organizing a X ray. I was informed that first I would have to see a doctor and then if they agreed I could have the necessary X ray. Later that day I returned and proceeded to wait for over 2 hours until at last I got to see the doctor who of course spoke no English! I managed to explain in Spanish what the problem was and she agreed to sign off the X ray.
40 mins later I sat in her office as she interpreted what she saw. It didn`t sound good and it certainly didn`t look good. She pointed out that the gap between the first and second vertebrae was very small. If it got smaller due to more impact and punishment on my back it could be very serious.
I got the message.
Before sending it back to England for a second (and third) opinion, I`d discovered a physiotherapist in Antigua who came highly recommended, so I took it to Micky Morrison of “Healing Hands” who basically confirmed in English what the doctor had said.
“Can you fix it?” I asked, desperately hoping for a positive answer.
“We need to re-align your pelvis and then work on strengthening your core muscles. Yes, I think we can definitely help”
Those few positive words gave me some hope, and if there is one thing I`ve learned on this journey, it`s that you`ve got to hang on to hope.
When I decided to call this trip the “Journey for hope”, I`d no idea how significant that word was going to become.
Whether I could rehab to a sufficient level to finish the journey was still an unknown factor. I was hoping a further analysis back in the U.K. would give me a better idea. With that in mind I went straight to the DHL branch in Antigua and sent the X rays back home. The whole process would take 3 working days and then several more days before I could get the feedback I needed.
Rather than sit around with my thoughts in turmoil and major decisions to be made, I decided to stay in Antigua for the next 2 weeks and embark upon an intensive rehabilitation programme in the mornings, and in the afternoon I would sign up for intensive Spanish lessons.
I might as well get some benefit from my enforced sojourn.
The news from the U.K. was inconclusive.
“He says you really need an MRI scan because the X ray wasn`t clear enough”, Jane told me after having sweet talked her way into seeing Northampton`s best back specialist.
Back at “Healing Hands”, I asked Micky where I could get an MRI scan done,
“In Guatemala City. Let me call a doctor I know and arrange for an appointment”.
And so, the next day I was on my way to the city for a consultation with another back specialist with an MRI scan lined up for an hour later. The following day I was back in his office as he explained to me, half in English and half in Spanish, that I had a degenerative disease which was not uncommon and I should exercise everyday.
“You should continue with your activities, but if the pain gets very high you will have to stop and have surgery”
Continue with your activities……?
This all sounded very positive but I wasn`t sure whether he really understood what my “activities” entailed on this journey. But again, there was a ray of hope that all was not lost.
Maybe I could finish the journey after all.
On the drive back, my mind was racing through all the possible scenarios. Over the past two weeks I had been on an emotional rollercoaster as I tried to come to terms with my predicament and had virtually got my mind around the fact that it was over.
Now, maybe it wasn`t?
If I continue and risk it, what happens if I have a similar problem in Bolivia or Peru miles from good medical back up?
And will my back take the constant punishment from or poor roads even if I exercise every day?
If I have another fall from the bike, how will that affect my already weakened back?
With so many questions and no concrete answers I posted my scan back to the U.K. for Nick the back specialist to analyse. I decided I would trust his prognosis and follow whatever advice he was going to give. This would give me another week of deep thought and contemplation.
My options were clear:
1.I make it to Panama and fly home
2.I`m given the green light to head for Argentina.
In one week I would know.
40 mins later I sat in her office as she interpreted what she saw. It didn`t sound good and it certainly didn`t look good. She pointed out that the gap between the first and second vertebrae was very small. If it got smaller due to more impact and punishment on my back it could be very serious.
I got the message.
Before sending it back to England for a second (and third) opinion, I`d discovered a physiotherapist in Antigua who came highly recommended, so I took it to Micky Morrison of “Healing Hands” who basically confirmed in English what the doctor had said.
“Can you fix it?” I asked, desperately hoping for a positive answer.
“We need to re-align your pelvis and then work on strengthening your core muscles. Yes, I think we can definitely help”
Those few positive words gave me some hope, and if there is one thing I`ve learned on this journey, it`s that you`ve got to hang on to hope.
When I decided to call this trip the “Journey for hope”, I`d no idea how significant that word was going to become.
Whether I could rehab to a sufficient level to finish the journey was still an unknown factor. I was hoping a further analysis back in the U.K. would give me a better idea. With that in mind I went straight to the DHL branch in Antigua and sent the X rays back home. The whole process would take 3 working days and then several more days before I could get the feedback I needed.
Rather than sit around with my thoughts in turmoil and major decisions to be made, I decided to stay in Antigua for the next 2 weeks and embark upon an intensive rehabilitation programme in the mornings, and in the afternoon I would sign up for intensive Spanish lessons.
I might as well get some benefit from my enforced sojourn.
The news from the U.K. was inconclusive.
“He says you really need an MRI scan because the X ray wasn`t clear enough”, Jane told me after having sweet talked her way into seeing Northampton`s best back specialist.
Back at “Healing Hands”, I asked Micky where I could get an MRI scan done,
“In Guatemala City. Let me call a doctor I know and arrange for an appointment”.
And so, the next day I was on my way to the city for a consultation with another back specialist with an MRI scan lined up for an hour later. The following day I was back in his office as he explained to me, half in English and half in Spanish, that I had a degenerative disease which was not uncommon and I should exercise everyday.
“You should continue with your activities, but if the pain gets very high you will have to stop and have surgery”
Continue with your activities……?
This all sounded very positive but I wasn`t sure whether he really understood what my “activities” entailed on this journey. But again, there was a ray of hope that all was not lost.
Maybe I could finish the journey after all.
On the drive back, my mind was racing through all the possible scenarios. Over the past two weeks I had been on an emotional rollercoaster as I tried to come to terms with my predicament and had virtually got my mind around the fact that it was over.
Now, maybe it wasn`t?
If I continue and risk it, what happens if I have a similar problem in Bolivia or Peru miles from good medical back up?
And will my back take the constant punishment from or poor roads even if I exercise every day?
If I have another fall from the bike, how will that affect my already weakened back?
With so many questions and no concrete answers I posted my scan back to the U.K. for Nick the back specialist to analyse. I decided I would trust his prognosis and follow whatever advice he was going to give. This would give me another week of deep thought and contemplation.
My options were clear:
1.I make it to Panama and fly home
2.I`m given the green light to head for Argentina.
In one week I would know.
Saturday, 30 October 2010
"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.........."
Costa Rica
The spa centre manager was in a brief, but earnest conversation in Spanish, with the physiotherapist while I lay in pain awaiting the prognosis.
“Do you want the good news or the bad news?” he asked.
“Give me the whole lot”, I replied, not wanting to play games, but quietly steeling myself for the bad news.
“Well, she says you will get better, but it will take time and you should stay off the bike for at least three weeks
“Three weeks!”
“She says your back is in bad condition and if you continue your journey, you could end up with permanent damage”
“The worst of times…”
I lay there in silence as the words sank in.
“Your back isn`t in good enough shape to continue, and the roads further south will just get worse”, he added.
“She says you need lots of rest and then exercises to build up the muscles”
His words became background noise as I struggled with a wave of emotions.
"Three weeks off the bike - permanent damage – can`t continue"
I`d always thought that if anything might jeopardise the trip it would be bike related, mechanical; I never imagined that my body might let me down, and here I was, faced with the distinct possibility that my journey might be over……
24 hrs earlier……
I felt a real sense of excitement as I took the short taxi ride to San Jose International airport. I was on my way to meet my girlfriend, Jane who was flying in from England on a critical “underpant mercy mission” (replacing the two pairs I had left in some hotel somewhere in Mexico and also bringing me a whole new wardrobe!).
She was also coming for a 2 week holiday and helping me with a much needed break from the bike and some quality R+R.
That was the plan.
She had organised four different resorts across Costa Rica, each one was perfectly located to encourage relaxation and offered the ideal antidote to the stress of continual hard riding.
“I want it to be memorable!” She`d told me on Skype.
And memorable it proved to be. The first morning, in the tranquility of a tropical rainforest retreat, I bent down to put my shoe on and immediately felt a searing pain in my lower back. It was like someone stuck a red hot poker on my spine. I had trapped the sciatic nerve and my back was in spasm. Two hours later, I was lying on the physiotherapist`s table listening to the spa centre manager translating words I didn`t want to hear.
Key lesson: Be very careful what goals you set for yourself; be very careful what you wish for. The Universe has a way of delivering everything to your door.
Lying there, I reflected ruefully on my casual response back in England when people asked me about the journey,
“I want to challenge myself and step out of my comfort zone”
Now I was to face my biggest challenge so far, coming to terms with the possibility of failing to achieve my goal.
I have always prided myself on being focused and determined in most things I do. If I commit to something, I invariably get it done. In 2007 I had an epic battle with myself and Mt. Kilimanjaro. The mountain almost got the better of me, but in the end, after a huge physical and mental challenge I reached the summit.
My challenge now seemed even greater.
As Jane reminded me, the answer lay in letting go of my fixed idea of what the end result should be, and if necessary changing my goal. With that in mind, I focused for the moment, on enjoying our time in Costa Rica.
My friend and Sports Injury Specialist,Jeanette back in the U.K. suggested I need an X ray to determine just how bad the problem might be. When I get back to Antigua, I will have an x ray on my back. The result of that will determine whether my journey is over.
The spa centre manager was in a brief, but earnest conversation in Spanish, with the physiotherapist while I lay in pain awaiting the prognosis.
“Do you want the good news or the bad news?” he asked.
“Give me the whole lot”, I replied, not wanting to play games, but quietly steeling myself for the bad news.
“Well, she says you will get better, but it will take time and you should stay off the bike for at least three weeks
“Three weeks!”
“She says your back is in bad condition and if you continue your journey, you could end up with permanent damage”
“The worst of times…”
I lay there in silence as the words sank in.
“Your back isn`t in good enough shape to continue, and the roads further south will just get worse”, he added.
“She says you need lots of rest and then exercises to build up the muscles”
His words became background noise as I struggled with a wave of emotions.
"Three weeks off the bike - permanent damage – can`t continue"
I`d always thought that if anything might jeopardise the trip it would be bike related, mechanical; I never imagined that my body might let me down, and here I was, faced with the distinct possibility that my journey might be over……
24 hrs earlier……
I felt a real sense of excitement as I took the short taxi ride to San Jose International airport. I was on my way to meet my girlfriend, Jane who was flying in from England on a critical “underpant mercy mission” (replacing the two pairs I had left in some hotel somewhere in Mexico and also bringing me a whole new wardrobe!).
She was also coming for a 2 week holiday and helping me with a much needed break from the bike and some quality R+R.
That was the plan.
She had organised four different resorts across Costa Rica, each one was perfectly located to encourage relaxation and offered the ideal antidote to the stress of continual hard riding.
“I want it to be memorable!” She`d told me on Skype.
And memorable it proved to be. The first morning, in the tranquility of a tropical rainforest retreat, I bent down to put my shoe on and immediately felt a searing pain in my lower back. It was like someone stuck a red hot poker on my spine. I had trapped the sciatic nerve and my back was in spasm. Two hours later, I was lying on the physiotherapist`s table listening to the spa centre manager translating words I didn`t want to hear.
Key lesson: Be very careful what goals you set for yourself; be very careful what you wish for. The Universe has a way of delivering everything to your door.
Lying there, I reflected ruefully on my casual response back in England when people asked me about the journey,
“I want to challenge myself and step out of my comfort zone”
Now I was to face my biggest challenge so far, coming to terms with the possibility of failing to achieve my goal.
I have always prided myself on being focused and determined in most things I do. If I commit to something, I invariably get it done. In 2007 I had an epic battle with myself and Mt. Kilimanjaro. The mountain almost got the better of me, but in the end, after a huge physical and mental challenge I reached the summit.
My challenge now seemed even greater.
As Jane reminded me, the answer lay in letting go of my fixed idea of what the end result should be, and if necessary changing my goal. With that in mind, I focused for the moment, on enjoying our time in Costa Rica.
My friend and Sports Injury Specialist,Jeanette back in the U.K. suggested I need an X ray to determine just how bad the problem might be. When I get back to Antigua, I will have an x ray on my back. The result of that will determine whether my journey is over.
Monday, 18 October 2010
"This is definitely the wrong road.........."
After a few miles the beautiful tarmac ran out and we hit a dirt road. I pulled up and knew instantly I had taken the wrong road. Looking at the map, it was clear that this dirt track would eventually take us to Antigua, but it would be much longer and obviously more demanding. Had I been riding solo, I would have just turned around and got back on the main road but Mark was clearly relishing the prospect of a another dirt adventure,
“It`ll be O.K. And you know what, it`s good practice. You can`t avoid dirt all the way to Tierra Del Fuego!” He said, his face beaming. If I had my way, I`d ride paved roads all the way, I thought.
“O.K. let`s do it”
For the first few miles the track wasn`t too bad and then it turned a little rougher where they were carrying out some road maintenance, and it was at this point that I hit some heavier dirt, lost control and came off the bike. Cursing furiously at the stupidity, I had a quick check of the bike and with the help of some of the road workers picked it up, but as I was about to get back on noticed a slight pain in my right ankle. The anger and adrenaline masked the pain for a while but it was obvious I had sprained or twisted it and that was going to be a problem.
“******g dirt!” I screamed in my helmet, as images of my "altercation" with the Dalton Highway flashed through my mind. I just couldn`t afford a repeat of that incident. I hadn`t been this angry in nearly 4 months on the road. If only I hadn`t missed the turning.
I was still pretty furious with myself 20 minutes later as we finally arrived in Antigua. Our 1/2 hours ride had become nearly 6 hours.
Antigua was indeed a beautiful old colonial town surrounded by three volcanoes. Every street was made of badly laid, heavy cobbles and I winced as we bounced over them sending a regular, painful reminder of my recent carelessness.
It was also clear that Antigua was a very much on the tourist map as many of the expensive hotels advertised their rates in dollars. Passing up the very nice, but pricy $60 a night options, we found a much cheaper, but far more basic accommodation and settled there, negotiating a deal for the next 6 nights. I unpacked quickly and Mark went in search of some ice for my throbbing ankle. An ice pack and two Ibuprofens later, we went out in search of food and a much needed beer.
Antigua is a lovely place to chill out, wander around, shop, eat good food and drink some of the best coffee anywhere in the world. All of the above we did for the next few days, hampered only by my lack of mobility and therefore, the unfortunate need to endure those awful, bone shaking, Tuk Tuks . After all the appalling weather we had suffered since we entered Central America, we were blessed with a system of high pressure for our stay and every day we were greeted with beautiful sunshine and pleasant breezes. Sadly, Mark missed out on a couple of those days, for some reason preferring to indulge his love affair with Tequila! Being a relative light weight drinker, I had to abandon him on one of his attempts at all night partying. We decided afterwards that it wasn`t good for either of us to be wandering back to our hotel alone, since much of Central America can be unsafe after dark, and as laid back as Antigua is, common sense needed to prevail.
My next stop was going to be Guatemala City, which would be an altogether different proposition. Everything we had heard about the city was pretty frightening stuff. “No go areas” where gang warfare was rife, shootings, muggings, violence, etc. It was clearly a city where it might well prove fatal to take a wrong turning. This had been preying on both our minds, so I had to figure out a strategy to get to the city, couch surf for two days, securely store my bike for two weeks and get a flight to Costa Rica where I was to meet up with a VIP who was flying out from England.
As has often been the case, people turn up at the right time to help you out. An English ex pat called Dave runs a motorcycle touring company in Antigua and kindly agreed to store my bike in his property for the two weeks. Perfect! So now, I just have to get safely to Guatemala City for my couch surfing stay, get to the airport and get back again.
I must admit that I try not to over react to the many scare stories about dangerous countries and cities, but as I researched a hotel near the airport (just in case I needed a back up) it made pretty grim reading. The hotel was now part of a secure compound, in fact, this is what the hotel had to say,
“VERY IMPORTANT -PLEASE READ FOR SECURITY REASONS, THE NEIGHBORHOOD WHERE DOS LUNAS IS LOCATED (AURORA II) IS NOW GATED. PEOPLE COMING IN A FLIGHT WILL BE MET BY OUR DRIVER AT THE AIRPORT. TAXIS AND SHUTTLE DRIVERS THAT COME TO AURORA II, WILL BE REQUESTED TO SHOW THEIR VALID ID. IF YOU PLAN TO WALK, PLEASE LET US KNOW, WE CAN MEET YOU AT THE AIRPORT. WE STRONGLY ENCOURAGE YOU NOT TO TAKE PUBLIC TRANSPORTATION BECAUSE THEY ARE NOT SAFE AT THE MOMENT. ALSO FOR YOUR OWN SECURITY, PLEASE TRY TO MAKE YOUR BOOKING DIRECTLY AND IN ADVANCE IF IT IS POSSIBLE, YOU CAN CALL US OR EMAIL US. TRY NOT TO USE OTHER PEOPLE TO DO IT, WE HAVE IMPORTANT INFORMATION TO SHARE WITH YOU WE APOLOGIZE FOR THE INCONVINIENCE, BUT IT WILL BE A SAFER NEIGHBORHOOD FOR YOU, AND FOR ALL OF US.”
Mmmm, certainly provided food for thought as I packed my bag and jumped on a "Chicken Bus" for the short, but slightly nerve wracking ride to Guatemala City.
Guatemalan chicken bus drivers are fearless or reckless, depending upon your point of view; either way, they tear around bends at breakneck speeds in ex American school buses that have clearly seen much better days. Their motto must be, “In God we trust”, because every one of them is packed with religious artefacts. Every journey is a leap of faith – well it certainly was for me.
I`d arranged to meet my couch surfing host, Luis, at a big shopping mall in the city. The plan was to spend a couple of days in the city and then catch a plane to Costa Rica. I didn`t get a chance to see much of the city because Luis obviously had to work, and although his house was behind an armed, secure compound it wasn`t located in an area conducive to walking around! However, we did get a chance to experience his favourite bar in the centro historico.
“La Otra Puerta” is a very bohemian place, serving typical Guatemalan food, and an interesting line in DIY decoration. The entire place was covered from floor to ceiling with graffiti from all over the world. Here`s a place where you`re actually encouraged to write on the walls! Needless to say I obliged, and my “Journey for Hope” is now recorded for posterity (or as long as the building lasts).
“It`ll be O.K. And you know what, it`s good practice. You can`t avoid dirt all the way to Tierra Del Fuego!” He said, his face beaming. If I had my way, I`d ride paved roads all the way, I thought.
“O.K. let`s do it”
For the first few miles the track wasn`t too bad and then it turned a little rougher where they were carrying out some road maintenance, and it was at this point that I hit some heavier dirt, lost control and came off the bike. Cursing furiously at the stupidity, I had a quick check of the bike and with the help of some of the road workers picked it up, but as I was about to get back on noticed a slight pain in my right ankle. The anger and adrenaline masked the pain for a while but it was obvious I had sprained or twisted it and that was going to be a problem.
“******g dirt!” I screamed in my helmet, as images of my "altercation" with the Dalton Highway flashed through my mind. I just couldn`t afford a repeat of that incident. I hadn`t been this angry in nearly 4 months on the road. If only I hadn`t missed the turning.
I was still pretty furious with myself 20 minutes later as we finally arrived in Antigua. Our 1/2 hours ride had become nearly 6 hours.
Antigua was indeed a beautiful old colonial town surrounded by three volcanoes. Every street was made of badly laid, heavy cobbles and I winced as we bounced over them sending a regular, painful reminder of my recent carelessness.
It was also clear that Antigua was a very much on the tourist map as many of the expensive hotels advertised their rates in dollars. Passing up the very nice, but pricy $60 a night options, we found a much cheaper, but far more basic accommodation and settled there, negotiating a deal for the next 6 nights. I unpacked quickly and Mark went in search of some ice for my throbbing ankle. An ice pack and two Ibuprofens later, we went out in search of food and a much needed beer.
Antigua is a lovely place to chill out, wander around, shop, eat good food and drink some of the best coffee anywhere in the world. All of the above we did for the next few days, hampered only by my lack of mobility and therefore, the unfortunate need to endure those awful, bone shaking, Tuk Tuks . After all the appalling weather we had suffered since we entered Central America, we were blessed with a system of high pressure for our stay and every day we were greeted with beautiful sunshine and pleasant breezes. Sadly, Mark missed out on a couple of those days, for some reason preferring to indulge his love affair with Tequila! Being a relative light weight drinker, I had to abandon him on one of his attempts at all night partying. We decided afterwards that it wasn`t good for either of us to be wandering back to our hotel alone, since much of Central America can be unsafe after dark, and as laid back as Antigua is, common sense needed to prevail.
My next stop was going to be Guatemala City, which would be an altogether different proposition. Everything we had heard about the city was pretty frightening stuff. “No go areas” where gang warfare was rife, shootings, muggings, violence, etc. It was clearly a city where it might well prove fatal to take a wrong turning. This had been preying on both our minds, so I had to figure out a strategy to get to the city, couch surf for two days, securely store my bike for two weeks and get a flight to Costa Rica where I was to meet up with a VIP who was flying out from England.
As has often been the case, people turn up at the right time to help you out. An English ex pat called Dave runs a motorcycle touring company in Antigua and kindly agreed to store my bike in his property for the two weeks. Perfect! So now, I just have to get safely to Guatemala City for my couch surfing stay, get to the airport and get back again.
I must admit that I try not to over react to the many scare stories about dangerous countries and cities, but as I researched a hotel near the airport (just in case I needed a back up) it made pretty grim reading. The hotel was now part of a secure compound, in fact, this is what the hotel had to say,
“VERY IMPORTANT -PLEASE READ FOR SECURITY REASONS, THE NEIGHBORHOOD WHERE DOS LUNAS IS LOCATED (AURORA II) IS NOW GATED. PEOPLE COMING IN A FLIGHT WILL BE MET BY OUR DRIVER AT THE AIRPORT. TAXIS AND SHUTTLE DRIVERS THAT COME TO AURORA II, WILL BE REQUESTED TO SHOW THEIR VALID ID. IF YOU PLAN TO WALK, PLEASE LET US KNOW, WE CAN MEET YOU AT THE AIRPORT. WE STRONGLY ENCOURAGE YOU NOT TO TAKE PUBLIC TRANSPORTATION BECAUSE THEY ARE NOT SAFE AT THE MOMENT. ALSO FOR YOUR OWN SECURITY, PLEASE TRY TO MAKE YOUR BOOKING DIRECTLY AND IN ADVANCE IF IT IS POSSIBLE, YOU CAN CALL US OR EMAIL US. TRY NOT TO USE OTHER PEOPLE TO DO IT, WE HAVE IMPORTANT INFORMATION TO SHARE WITH YOU WE APOLOGIZE FOR THE INCONVINIENCE, BUT IT WILL BE A SAFER NEIGHBORHOOD FOR YOU, AND FOR ALL OF US.”
Mmmm, certainly provided food for thought as I packed my bag and jumped on a "Chicken Bus" for the short, but slightly nerve wracking ride to Guatemala City.
Guatemalan chicken bus drivers are fearless or reckless, depending upon your point of view; either way, they tear around bends at breakneck speeds in ex American school buses that have clearly seen much better days. Their motto must be, “In God we trust”, because every one of them is packed with religious artefacts. Every journey is a leap of faith – well it certainly was for me.
I`d arranged to meet my couch surfing host, Luis, at a big shopping mall in the city. The plan was to spend a couple of days in the city and then catch a plane to Costa Rica. I didn`t get a chance to see much of the city because Luis obviously had to work, and although his house was behind an armed, secure compound it wasn`t located in an area conducive to walking around! However, we did get a chance to experience his favourite bar in the centro historico.
“La Otra Puerta” is a very bohemian place, serving typical Guatemalan food, and an interesting line in DIY decoration. The entire place was covered from floor to ceiling with graffiti from all over the world. Here`s a place where you`re actually encouraged to write on the walls! Needless to say I obliged, and my “Journey for Hope” is now recorded for posterity (or as long as the building lasts).
Monday, 11 October 2010
"San Pedro - Hangin` with the hippies......."
As the traffic thinned we were making good progress to our destination of Panajechal on the shores of Lake Atitlan. This was great, we would be there by mid afternoon and settle in a nice hotel with a steaming hot shower. With these thoughts playing inside my head, we dropped down another steep and winding road right into another line of stationary traffic. I just shook my head in disbelief.
Overtaking the traffic we got to the head of the queue to be faced by a huge landslide completely blocking the road. People were picking their way over the rubble and a big group of men were attempting to remove what they could but it looked an impossible task. Mark was talking to one of them when a big shout went up and almost as one, the group of men began to scatter looking up at the crumbling rock face.
“Bloody hell, it might be coming down again!”
This was not a good place to be right now. I gunned the engine, hit the horn to try to warn Mark and attempted to manoeuvre my bike out of the tight spot I was in. Seeing Mark was doing the same we headed fast back up the road. When it was safe to pull over we got off to discuss our options again.
“I had a plan B”, Mark said as we removed our helmets,“but you just shot off!”
“You`re damn right I did. Didn`t you see everyone running from the landslide?”
“Listen, this is what we should do. We go back and pay some of these men to carry our bikes across the rubble”
“Are you serious!!??
“Yea, why not? Give `em a 100 Quetzals and they`ll do it I`m sure” He said matter of factly.
“Yea, and while they`re carrying the bikes over and another landslide hits, then what?”
I wasn`t convinced. A couple of locals pointed us in the direction of an alternative route to another little town on the other side of the lake,
“We can take that route, stay in San Pedro for a couple of days and when they`ve cleared the road come back to Panajechal”.
So with Plan C now in operation we rode in the rain towards the little town of San Pedro about an hour away. On the map, the road looked fairly straightforward. Never trust a map!
The route took us down another long, circuitous dirt track, over huge potholes and fast running streams. It was the most demanding riding I`d done since the Dalton Highway. My fear and anxiety was matched in equal measure by Mark`s obvious delight in the appalling conditions! This man loves the dirt! He enjoyed every pot hole and water crossing. When we finally arrived and got off our bikes his face had a permanent grin,
“Isn`t this just fantastic!”
“You must be bloody joking”
“Yea man, it must have been really hard on your bike. I kept looking in my mirror to check you were O.K.. I was feeling sorry for you”
“Not half as sorry as I was feeling”
I was just so relieved to get down unscathed, and in the back of my mind was trying not to think of the return journey. We found a hotel right on the shore and he was right, it was a fantastic place. I just wanted to be able to see it without the constant rain and low cloud. Maybe tomorrow would be better. That night we had a few beers in a local bar run by an Englishman,
“Hi, I`m Brian!”
“I`m Nick”
“Where are you from Nick?”
“Morecambe”
“Morecambe! Bloody hell!” I spent half my childhood on holiday in Morecambe!“What on earth brought you to Guatemala?”
He travelled the world ended up in Central America and had put money into this bar, but because of the weather his business was in serious jeopardy.
“If it keeps raining, my bar will soon be under water”
He told us that Guatemala had been under a state of emergency for several months and this was the worst weather in 60 yrs. Hundreds of people had died because of the landslides. Another very sobering conversation.
“What`s the forecast like?”
“Another storm is coming through” And with that comforting thought to dwell on, we headed off to bed.
The next day during a brief dry spell we went out to explore the town and in the process happened upon a great little cafe down by a very small harbour which sold an excellent cappuccino. Over coffee we made a decision to base ourselves in San Pedro and take the boat across the lake to Panajachel. After the extremely demanding ride the previous day, I was more than happy to take a few days off.
San Pedro turned out to be a very chilled place with a couple of lively bars and brilliant food. It has attracted many ex pats who escaped the rat race and are clearly living a much less stressful life. A point that appealed to Mark in particular. In one little cafe, we got chatting to a Canadian,
“How long have you been here?”
“I moved down from Vancouver a couple of years ago”
He ran his own software business and regaled us with the usual stressful stories of self employment. He just seemed amazingly happy and contented.
“Do you miss anything from your previous lifestyle” I asked, pretty much knowing what his response would be,
“Hell no! I lost most of my money in the recession. Now I`ve got nothing but I`m happier than I ever was! I just chill out, smoke a joint a day, read lots of books, don`t wear a watch! What`s not to love!”
“I`m thinking of doing the same”, said Mark.
“Do it man, check out as soon as you can. It`s crazy up there. Seriously, you don`t need the stress and it`s so much cheaper to live down here!”
We met several people who it seemed, had done just that and none of them seemed to be frowning, even in the worst weather for 60 yrs. It provided an ongoing topic of conversation between the two of us for several days.
San Pedro proved to be the perfect place for some much needed R+R, but all too soon it was time to get back on the road. La Antigua was to be our next destination and I was really looking forward to seeing this famous old colonial town. Before we left I enquired about the road conditions and an estimate of how long the ride would take. The roads were clear and on a bike should take no more than 1/ 2 hours.
The sun was shining, and for the first time, we had a clear view of the volcanoes as we set off. Finding our way back on to the main road, for some reason, proved amazingly difficult, as we attempted to navigate our way through several little villages. Every street looked the same and no signposts existed. After riding in circles and asking several locals, we did eventually get back on track and started to climb the twisty mountain roads.
An hour into the ride and we were making good time on the main road when we the traffic ahead suddenly began to slow and eventually we ground to a halt. Not again! It surely couldn`t be another landslide, this was the Pan American highway! People were getting out of their cars and walking about trying to find out how far ahead the blockage was. I noticed intermittent traffic coming the other way so I guessed that at least there must be some way through. It was clear that there was only one lane open somewhere up the road and it would just be a matter of time when it was our turn. Sure enough, a few minutes later and we started to slowly make some progress. This hold up had set us back at least a couple of hours and a further traffic jam coming into the city of Chimaltenango delayed us even further. Noticing a sign for Antigua, I turned out of the heavy traffic and took an empty road. This was much better, I reckoned we were only about 20 minutes from Antigua when we passed through a little town, and without any signage to the contrary, I assumed the route just continued along the same road. This was to prove a costly and painful mistake.
Overtaking the traffic we got to the head of the queue to be faced by a huge landslide completely blocking the road. People were picking their way over the rubble and a big group of men were attempting to remove what they could but it looked an impossible task. Mark was talking to one of them when a big shout went up and almost as one, the group of men began to scatter looking up at the crumbling rock face.
“Bloody hell, it might be coming down again!”
This was not a good place to be right now. I gunned the engine, hit the horn to try to warn Mark and attempted to manoeuvre my bike out of the tight spot I was in. Seeing Mark was doing the same we headed fast back up the road. When it was safe to pull over we got off to discuss our options again.
“I had a plan B”, Mark said as we removed our helmets,“but you just shot off!”
“You`re damn right I did. Didn`t you see everyone running from the landslide?”
“Listen, this is what we should do. We go back and pay some of these men to carry our bikes across the rubble”
“Are you serious!!??
“Yea, why not? Give `em a 100 Quetzals and they`ll do it I`m sure” He said matter of factly.
“Yea, and while they`re carrying the bikes over and another landslide hits, then what?”
I wasn`t convinced. A couple of locals pointed us in the direction of an alternative route to another little town on the other side of the lake,
“We can take that route, stay in San Pedro for a couple of days and when they`ve cleared the road come back to Panajechal”.
So with Plan C now in operation we rode in the rain towards the little town of San Pedro about an hour away. On the map, the road looked fairly straightforward. Never trust a map!
The route took us down another long, circuitous dirt track, over huge potholes and fast running streams. It was the most demanding riding I`d done since the Dalton Highway. My fear and anxiety was matched in equal measure by Mark`s obvious delight in the appalling conditions! This man loves the dirt! He enjoyed every pot hole and water crossing. When we finally arrived and got off our bikes his face had a permanent grin,
“Isn`t this just fantastic!”
“You must be bloody joking”
“Yea man, it must have been really hard on your bike. I kept looking in my mirror to check you were O.K.. I was feeling sorry for you”
“Not half as sorry as I was feeling”
I was just so relieved to get down unscathed, and in the back of my mind was trying not to think of the return journey. We found a hotel right on the shore and he was right, it was a fantastic place. I just wanted to be able to see it without the constant rain and low cloud. Maybe tomorrow would be better. That night we had a few beers in a local bar run by an Englishman,
“Hi, I`m Brian!”
“I`m Nick”
“Where are you from Nick?”
“Morecambe”
“Morecambe! Bloody hell!” I spent half my childhood on holiday in Morecambe!“What on earth brought you to Guatemala?”
He travelled the world ended up in Central America and had put money into this bar, but because of the weather his business was in serious jeopardy.
“If it keeps raining, my bar will soon be under water”
He told us that Guatemala had been under a state of emergency for several months and this was the worst weather in 60 yrs. Hundreds of people had died because of the landslides. Another very sobering conversation.
“What`s the forecast like?”
“Another storm is coming through” And with that comforting thought to dwell on, we headed off to bed.
The next day during a brief dry spell we went out to explore the town and in the process happened upon a great little cafe down by a very small harbour which sold an excellent cappuccino. Over coffee we made a decision to base ourselves in San Pedro and take the boat across the lake to Panajachel. After the extremely demanding ride the previous day, I was more than happy to take a few days off.
San Pedro turned out to be a very chilled place with a couple of lively bars and brilliant food. It has attracted many ex pats who escaped the rat race and are clearly living a much less stressful life. A point that appealed to Mark in particular. In one little cafe, we got chatting to a Canadian,
“How long have you been here?”
“I moved down from Vancouver a couple of years ago”
He ran his own software business and regaled us with the usual stressful stories of self employment. He just seemed amazingly happy and contented.
“Do you miss anything from your previous lifestyle” I asked, pretty much knowing what his response would be,
“Hell no! I lost most of my money in the recession. Now I`ve got nothing but I`m happier than I ever was! I just chill out, smoke a joint a day, read lots of books, don`t wear a watch! What`s not to love!”
“I`m thinking of doing the same”, said Mark.
“Do it man, check out as soon as you can. It`s crazy up there. Seriously, you don`t need the stress and it`s so much cheaper to live down here!”
We met several people who it seemed, had done just that and none of them seemed to be frowning, even in the worst weather for 60 yrs. It provided an ongoing topic of conversation between the two of us for several days.
San Pedro proved to be the perfect place for some much needed R+R, but all too soon it was time to get back on the road. La Antigua was to be our next destination and I was really looking forward to seeing this famous old colonial town. Before we left I enquired about the road conditions and an estimate of how long the ride would take. The roads were clear and on a bike should take no more than 1/ 2 hours.
The sun was shining, and for the first time, we had a clear view of the volcanoes as we set off. Finding our way back on to the main road, for some reason, proved amazingly difficult, as we attempted to navigate our way through several little villages. Every street looked the same and no signposts existed. After riding in circles and asking several locals, we did eventually get back on track and started to climb the twisty mountain roads.
An hour into the ride and we were making good time on the main road when we the traffic ahead suddenly began to slow and eventually we ground to a halt. Not again! It surely couldn`t be another landslide, this was the Pan American highway! People were getting out of their cars and walking about trying to find out how far ahead the blockage was. I noticed intermittent traffic coming the other way so I guessed that at least there must be some way through. It was clear that there was only one lane open somewhere up the road and it would just be a matter of time when it was our turn. Sure enough, a few minutes later and we started to slowly make some progress. This hold up had set us back at least a couple of hours and a further traffic jam coming into the city of Chimaltenango delayed us even further. Noticing a sign for Antigua, I turned out of the heavy traffic and took an empty road. This was much better, I reckoned we were only about 20 minutes from Antigua when we passed through a little town, and without any signage to the contrary, I assumed the route just continued along the same road. This was to prove a costly and painful mistake.
Wednesday, 6 October 2010
"Wanted: Conservative Englishman seeks crazy American for motorcycle adventures in Guatemala"
That night, the now usual thunderstorms lit up the sky and I was hoping they would clear by morning. I packed the bike in the half light of drizzly morning and set off for the long ride to San Cristobal. I opted for a long stint on the toll roads because I was just eager to get there and avoid the rain that was forecast for later that day. Sadly, I didn`t quite make it. About an hour from San Cristobal, as the road climbed steadily into the mountains, the now dark and brooding skies unleashed a torrent of rain and by the time I arrived it was raining very heavily, so I just headed straight for the centre and quickly found a cheap, little hotel with secure, dry parking a few blocks from the central plaza.
After a short while the rain abated and lulled me into a false sense of security so I went out to have a look around and find somewhere to eat. I`d been on the road early and hadn`t eaten for over 6 hours. As I wandered the streets, it began to rain again, but this time I`d remembered to bring my trusty umbrella! I sat out the next deluge in a small cafe on the plaza and watched again as the street in front of me turned into a small river within a matter of minutes. Beginning to tire of the constant downpours I made my way back to dry out my now sodden shoes and socks and decided to try again later in the day.
When I finally made it to the central plaza at night, it was all I expected it to be. San Cristobal is an attractive, bohemian type of town that attracts artists, musicians, and those seeking an alternative type of lifestyle. You could easily spend hours wandering around the many bars and cafes soaking up the rich cultural atmosphere, which is exactly what I did for a day or so. At the same time I was also feeling a little unwell. I thought maybe I`d eaten something that disagreed with me, but I`d been really careful with my food. Maybe it was a side effect of the anti malarials I`d started taking, or maybe I was just totally worn out from the constant long days travelling. Whatever it was, I was beginning to feel very rough. I would have stayed another day to recover but I had been in contact with an American rider called Mark and had agreed to meet up with him the next day so we could cross the border into Guatemala together. He had also been on the road for over 3 months and like me, was looking for a bit of company on the road.
The next day I was on the road for the city of Comitan and my rendezvous with Mark. Comitan was just a short 80 km ride from the Guatemalan border so it was a good place to stay and do some final checks and maintenance on the bike before the next big challenge of Central America. Inevitably, it started to rain as I set off and by the time I arrived in Comitan I was thoroughly soaked. I`d followed directions from Mark and happily found the hotel very easily.
As I pulled up I was quite relieved to see it was a very nice hotel compared to the cheap and cheerful places I`d been recently staying in. The price reflected the quality, but it was worth it for the lovely hot shower and nice towels and wonderfully comfortable bed. After checking in I went to introduce myself to my new riding companion.
My usual habit of early mornings was clearly not followed by everyone, as a very bleary eyed Mark answered his door and mumbled something about having had a heavy night. It was only over breakfast that I realised he had been "entertaining" a "friend" over night!
We went out for breakfast and chatted about our experiences in Mexico. He had ridden down from New Jersey and was heading for Panama. It became clear that Mark`s experiences had been totally different from mine. Whereas I had ridden from Alaska to Mexico in 3 ½ months, he had spent the same amount of time just meandering around Mexico! His virtually fluent grasp of Spanish had enabled him to immerse himself in the culture of the country, meet people and go to places I could never have experienced. It became immediately apparent to me that I had to slow down. I had been riding too hard for too long. No wonder I was feeling burnt out and constantly tired.
We decided not to head for the border the next day but instead, take another day for me to rest and recover. That night Mark enlisted the services of Paco, a local taxi driver he had befriended, to take us to a couple of bars. It was so nice to have some company and it would certainly be much easier crossing the border with Mark`s ability to speak the language. I had been getting by with my limited Spanish but often felt the frustration of not being able to converse in anything other than short, carefully thought out sentences. I was envious of Mark`s ability to talk to anyone and knew that in the days and weeks to come this would prove invaluable. I was also hoping that his “meandering philosophy” would rub off on me and slow me down.
The night before our border crossing I endured a fitful sleep, happy I had company, but still apprehensive of what the next day would bring. My Mexican crossing hadn`t been as easy as it was supposed to be and all the Central American border crossings have notorious reputations for being at best, longwinded, bureaucratic nightmares and at worst full of corruption and extortion. We would have to be mentally switched on and totally prepared with all our paperwork in good order. Any mistakes made at the border could have serious ramifications later.
We loaded the bikes and with a final farewell and photo call rode towards the border. Before leaving Mexico, we had to go to the Mexican customs near the border and cancel out temporary import visa for the bikes and get our exit stamps in our passports. Failure to do so, could result in a hefty fine should we want to return to Mexico in the future. As my paperwork was being processed, the customs officer told us that due to the torrential rain Guatemala had been suffering (Tropical storm “Matthew” had been devastating Central America for days), there were many landslides and many of the roads were blocked. If we were to cancel our permits and we got stuck inside Guatemala and had to return and find another crossing, we would have to pay again. He suggested we take another border crossing 4 hrs away, but we decided to chance our luck. If the roads were blocked we thought we`d have a better chance of getting through on our bikes. So with even more trepidation we headed for the Guatemalan border.
With almost no hold ups or unnecessary bureaucracy, we negotiated customs, the banjercito (importing the bikes), the mandatory fumigation of the bikes (just another opportunity to extract a small payment) and the money changers (Pesos to Quetzals). The whole process was completed in less than an hour! Once again we were warned that the roads were blocked but we decided to go as far as we could. The other option was to find a hotel at the border town, but like all border towns it looked like bandit country, so that wasn`t an appealing thought.
Pleasantly surprised at the relative ease of the crossing we rode optimistically into Guatemala. We rode through many towns with no signs of any problems. With each passing mile I was feeling more confident that we might reach our destination of Huehuetenango, then, as we rounded a bend we ran into backed up traffic. We overtook the stationary line of cars, trucks and buses until we could go no further. Mark asked several people what was happening. Sure enough, the road was completely blocked and had been for days. It wouldn`t be clear today, maybe tomorrow he was told. A couple of people had said there was an alternative route over the mountains on a dirt road. If I had been travelling alone there was no way I would have even considered such a route, but Mark was keen to try, as he would be given his skill in off road riding and a much more suitable bike! I must admit, I was much more reluctant for obvious reasons.
We agreed to give it a go on the basis we could always turn back if it got too difficult and find a hotel for the night. With one final confirmation from another local that it was the right road, we headed up a steep, cobbled track which quickly turned to dirt (or mud, as it was by then). After climbing for what seemed like a long time but was probably only 20 mins, up a winding, twisting, often rutted dirt track, we eventually came to a fork in the road with of all things a small wood built shop! In the middle of nowhere, a tiny convenience store! It was an obvious place to stop and re-assess, besides which, neither of us had eaten all day and the nervous energy was beginning to sap my strength. A packet of Doritos and a coke later (Mark has to have caffeine on a regular basis) we asked the woman in the shop which was the right way. She unfortunately pointed back the way we had come.
“I didn`t notice passing any road back there?” I said, just getting a little worried.
“The only thing I saw was a track off to the right”, Mark replied. It seemed certain we had missed the turn, and so eyeing the darkening sky with some concern, I suggested we head back and check it out fairly soon. Mark agreed, but was clearly relishing the adventure, whereas I was just keen to get off this mountain in one piece.
We reversed our route and soon enough we came upon a very steep, very muddy, rutted track. As I was slowing down behind Mark, I lost control on the mud and ran in to the back of his bike, dropping mine and causing him to do the same. A passing driver helped us to pick up the bikes. There was no damage as it had been a very slow fall, but it brought home to me the situation we could easily get into if we were further up the hill and got into more serious problems. I was concerned about damaging the bike. It was just too heavily loaded for the kind of terrain we were attempting to ride through. We stood for a while discussing the options. Mark was still fairly Gung Ho and would have headed up the track if I had said “Let`s do it!”. I`m all in favour of stretching my “Comfort Zone” (I`d been doing it for nearly 4 months!), but common sense told me this was not a good move.
Having agreed the risk was too great we headed back down and it was with enormous relief we found a nice hotel a few miles away and settled down with a beer. Much the better option! I asked the waiter how long it would take to clear the road,
“Posiblemente manana”
So with the chance that it might be open the next day I was more than happy to sit it out in a hotel, rather than battle it out on the mountain. The next day over breakfast we got the news that the road had indeed been cleared enough to allow traffic through, but that there was now another landslide on the road from the border. It looked like we had got through just in time. It was clear Guatemala was going to prove an interesting and challenging country.
We set off after a leisurely breakfast and made for Huehuetenango. The road was littered with debris and mud and was down to single a track in many areas, so it was slow going. As we approached the town it began to rain again and by the time we arrived there we were soaked. We rode into town in very heavy traffic and just opted for the first hotel that had secure parking. I admit to getting a little tired of putting on wet and by now smelly riding gear virtually every day. Although Guatemala isn`t a huge country, and the mileages are nothing like Mexico, the road systems and adverse weather makes travel much more difficult. Our next destination was going to be the famous mountain market town of Chichicastenango.
As soon as we set off the rains began to fall heavily. We passed many landslides and had to spend a good deal of time riding on the other side of the dual carriageway which was pretty scary considering the average standard of driving in Guatemala. To compound the situation as we climbed higher we ran into thick cloud and visibility was now down to about 10 metres. I couldn`t see Mark in front of me, I could only hear his exhaust. As we rounded a bend we saw ahead of us another line of stationary traffic. The road was blocked by an accident. A sobering reminder of just what a danger these roads, conditions and crazy driving were. Because we had bikes we managed to navigate around the crash and continue on our journey. When we finally arrived at the town, we both needed a beer and Mark admitted,
“You know what ..... I`ve been riding over 30 yrs and done some crazy things, but that was the scariest riding I`ve ever done”
We were both looking forward to finding a place we could stay in for a few days and get some much need rest. Chichicastenango is primarily famous for its very colourful local market which takes place on Thursdays, which would be the following day, so we decided to check out the market and then head for Lake Atitlan which was only an hours ride away. Mark was keen to see the lake and the 3 volcanoes around its shore, but that night it rained incessantly which didn`t bode well for the following day. The market lived up to its reputation and was spectacularly colourful. Guatemalans certainly don`t dress down! By lunchtime and with the inevitable gathering storm clouds building, I suggested,
“I think we should pack up and go soon. I`d like to ride in dry conditions for once!”
Mark readily agreed and while he was packing his bike I was trying to get directions from the hotel owner of how to get out of the town. With tight, narrow and crowded streets it was impossible to know which direction to take and since my GPS had proved practically worthless since crossing the border we often had to resort to asking the locals. The hotel owner offered to jump on his bike and guide us out. On the way out, a “tuck tuck” driver shook his head at me and shouted something like,
“No paso!”
I didn`t think anything of it at the time but about 30 minutes later as we climbed an impossibly steep and winding road out of the town I knew what he was talking about. We ground to a halt in another stationary queue.
“Oh shit, not again!” I muttered inside my helmet.
This was getting ridiculous. Immediately thinking of one of my personal reasons for doing this trip. I wanted to learn patience and develop the ability to go with the flow. Guatemala was rapidly becoming my teacher, and I really didn`t like it one bit. We turned off our engines, got off our bikes, assessed our options and came to the conclusion that we didn`t have any.
“We could be here for quite a while”, observed Mark, as the rain steadily fell.
Resigning myself to the situation I was taking a few pictures when up ahead I could see some slow but discernible movement. The police had arrived and had somehow managed to unlock the tangled traffic, quickly donning our helmets and gloves, we fired up the bikes and joined the painfully slow procession up the twisty road. Thank God!
After a short while the rain abated and lulled me into a false sense of security so I went out to have a look around and find somewhere to eat. I`d been on the road early and hadn`t eaten for over 6 hours. As I wandered the streets, it began to rain again, but this time I`d remembered to bring my trusty umbrella! I sat out the next deluge in a small cafe on the plaza and watched again as the street in front of me turned into a small river within a matter of minutes. Beginning to tire of the constant downpours I made my way back to dry out my now sodden shoes and socks and decided to try again later in the day.
When I finally made it to the central plaza at night, it was all I expected it to be. San Cristobal is an attractive, bohemian type of town that attracts artists, musicians, and those seeking an alternative type of lifestyle. You could easily spend hours wandering around the many bars and cafes soaking up the rich cultural atmosphere, which is exactly what I did for a day or so. At the same time I was also feeling a little unwell. I thought maybe I`d eaten something that disagreed with me, but I`d been really careful with my food. Maybe it was a side effect of the anti malarials I`d started taking, or maybe I was just totally worn out from the constant long days travelling. Whatever it was, I was beginning to feel very rough. I would have stayed another day to recover but I had been in contact with an American rider called Mark and had agreed to meet up with him the next day so we could cross the border into Guatemala together. He had also been on the road for over 3 months and like me, was looking for a bit of company on the road.
The next day I was on the road for the city of Comitan and my rendezvous with Mark. Comitan was just a short 80 km ride from the Guatemalan border so it was a good place to stay and do some final checks and maintenance on the bike before the next big challenge of Central America. Inevitably, it started to rain as I set off and by the time I arrived in Comitan I was thoroughly soaked. I`d followed directions from Mark and happily found the hotel very easily.
As I pulled up I was quite relieved to see it was a very nice hotel compared to the cheap and cheerful places I`d been recently staying in. The price reflected the quality, but it was worth it for the lovely hot shower and nice towels and wonderfully comfortable bed. After checking in I went to introduce myself to my new riding companion.
My usual habit of early mornings was clearly not followed by everyone, as a very bleary eyed Mark answered his door and mumbled something about having had a heavy night. It was only over breakfast that I realised he had been "entertaining" a "friend" over night!
We went out for breakfast and chatted about our experiences in Mexico. He had ridden down from New Jersey and was heading for Panama. It became clear that Mark`s experiences had been totally different from mine. Whereas I had ridden from Alaska to Mexico in 3 ½ months, he had spent the same amount of time just meandering around Mexico! His virtually fluent grasp of Spanish had enabled him to immerse himself in the culture of the country, meet people and go to places I could never have experienced. It became immediately apparent to me that I had to slow down. I had been riding too hard for too long. No wonder I was feeling burnt out and constantly tired.
We decided not to head for the border the next day but instead, take another day for me to rest and recover. That night Mark enlisted the services of Paco, a local taxi driver he had befriended, to take us to a couple of bars. It was so nice to have some company and it would certainly be much easier crossing the border with Mark`s ability to speak the language. I had been getting by with my limited Spanish but often felt the frustration of not being able to converse in anything other than short, carefully thought out sentences. I was envious of Mark`s ability to talk to anyone and knew that in the days and weeks to come this would prove invaluable. I was also hoping that his “meandering philosophy” would rub off on me and slow me down.
The night before our border crossing I endured a fitful sleep, happy I had company, but still apprehensive of what the next day would bring. My Mexican crossing hadn`t been as easy as it was supposed to be and all the Central American border crossings have notorious reputations for being at best, longwinded, bureaucratic nightmares and at worst full of corruption and extortion. We would have to be mentally switched on and totally prepared with all our paperwork in good order. Any mistakes made at the border could have serious ramifications later.
We loaded the bikes and with a final farewell and photo call rode towards the border. Before leaving Mexico, we had to go to the Mexican customs near the border and cancel out temporary import visa for the bikes and get our exit stamps in our passports. Failure to do so, could result in a hefty fine should we want to return to Mexico in the future. As my paperwork was being processed, the customs officer told us that due to the torrential rain Guatemala had been suffering (Tropical storm “Matthew” had been devastating Central America for days), there were many landslides and many of the roads were blocked. If we were to cancel our permits and we got stuck inside Guatemala and had to return and find another crossing, we would have to pay again. He suggested we take another border crossing 4 hrs away, but we decided to chance our luck. If the roads were blocked we thought we`d have a better chance of getting through on our bikes. So with even more trepidation we headed for the Guatemalan border.
With almost no hold ups or unnecessary bureaucracy, we negotiated customs, the banjercito (importing the bikes), the mandatory fumigation of the bikes (just another opportunity to extract a small payment) and the money changers (Pesos to Quetzals). The whole process was completed in less than an hour! Once again we were warned that the roads were blocked but we decided to go as far as we could. The other option was to find a hotel at the border town, but like all border towns it looked like bandit country, so that wasn`t an appealing thought.
Pleasantly surprised at the relative ease of the crossing we rode optimistically into Guatemala. We rode through many towns with no signs of any problems. With each passing mile I was feeling more confident that we might reach our destination of Huehuetenango, then, as we rounded a bend we ran into backed up traffic. We overtook the stationary line of cars, trucks and buses until we could go no further. Mark asked several people what was happening. Sure enough, the road was completely blocked and had been for days. It wouldn`t be clear today, maybe tomorrow he was told. A couple of people had said there was an alternative route over the mountains on a dirt road. If I had been travelling alone there was no way I would have even considered such a route, but Mark was keen to try, as he would be given his skill in off road riding and a much more suitable bike! I must admit, I was much more reluctant for obvious reasons.
We agreed to give it a go on the basis we could always turn back if it got too difficult and find a hotel for the night. With one final confirmation from another local that it was the right road, we headed up a steep, cobbled track which quickly turned to dirt (or mud, as it was by then). After climbing for what seemed like a long time but was probably only 20 mins, up a winding, twisting, often rutted dirt track, we eventually came to a fork in the road with of all things a small wood built shop! In the middle of nowhere, a tiny convenience store! It was an obvious place to stop and re-assess, besides which, neither of us had eaten all day and the nervous energy was beginning to sap my strength. A packet of Doritos and a coke later (Mark has to have caffeine on a regular basis) we asked the woman in the shop which was the right way. She unfortunately pointed back the way we had come.
“I didn`t notice passing any road back there?” I said, just getting a little worried.
“The only thing I saw was a track off to the right”, Mark replied. It seemed certain we had missed the turn, and so eyeing the darkening sky with some concern, I suggested we head back and check it out fairly soon. Mark agreed, but was clearly relishing the adventure, whereas I was just keen to get off this mountain in one piece.
We reversed our route and soon enough we came upon a very steep, very muddy, rutted track. As I was slowing down behind Mark, I lost control on the mud and ran in to the back of his bike, dropping mine and causing him to do the same. A passing driver helped us to pick up the bikes. There was no damage as it had been a very slow fall, but it brought home to me the situation we could easily get into if we were further up the hill and got into more serious problems. I was concerned about damaging the bike. It was just too heavily loaded for the kind of terrain we were attempting to ride through. We stood for a while discussing the options. Mark was still fairly Gung Ho and would have headed up the track if I had said “Let`s do it!”. I`m all in favour of stretching my “Comfort Zone” (I`d been doing it for nearly 4 months!), but common sense told me this was not a good move.
Having agreed the risk was too great we headed back down and it was with enormous relief we found a nice hotel a few miles away and settled down with a beer. Much the better option! I asked the waiter how long it would take to clear the road,
“Posiblemente manana”
So with the chance that it might be open the next day I was more than happy to sit it out in a hotel, rather than battle it out on the mountain. The next day over breakfast we got the news that the road had indeed been cleared enough to allow traffic through, but that there was now another landslide on the road from the border. It looked like we had got through just in time. It was clear Guatemala was going to prove an interesting and challenging country.
We set off after a leisurely breakfast and made for Huehuetenango. The road was littered with debris and mud and was down to single a track in many areas, so it was slow going. As we approached the town it began to rain again and by the time we arrived there we were soaked. We rode into town in very heavy traffic and just opted for the first hotel that had secure parking. I admit to getting a little tired of putting on wet and by now smelly riding gear virtually every day. Although Guatemala isn`t a huge country, and the mileages are nothing like Mexico, the road systems and adverse weather makes travel much more difficult. Our next destination was going to be the famous mountain market town of Chichicastenango.
As soon as we set off the rains began to fall heavily. We passed many landslides and had to spend a good deal of time riding on the other side of the dual carriageway which was pretty scary considering the average standard of driving in Guatemala. To compound the situation as we climbed higher we ran into thick cloud and visibility was now down to about 10 metres. I couldn`t see Mark in front of me, I could only hear his exhaust. As we rounded a bend we saw ahead of us another line of stationary traffic. The road was blocked by an accident. A sobering reminder of just what a danger these roads, conditions and crazy driving were. Because we had bikes we managed to navigate around the crash and continue on our journey. When we finally arrived at the town, we both needed a beer and Mark admitted,
“You know what ..... I`ve been riding over 30 yrs and done some crazy things, but that was the scariest riding I`ve ever done”
We were both looking forward to finding a place we could stay in for a few days and get some much need rest. Chichicastenango is primarily famous for its very colourful local market which takes place on Thursdays, which would be the following day, so we decided to check out the market and then head for Lake Atitlan which was only an hours ride away. Mark was keen to see the lake and the 3 volcanoes around its shore, but that night it rained incessantly which didn`t bode well for the following day. The market lived up to its reputation and was spectacularly colourful. Guatemalans certainly don`t dress down! By lunchtime and with the inevitable gathering storm clouds building, I suggested,
“I think we should pack up and go soon. I`d like to ride in dry conditions for once!”
Mark readily agreed and while he was packing his bike I was trying to get directions from the hotel owner of how to get out of the town. With tight, narrow and crowded streets it was impossible to know which direction to take and since my GPS had proved practically worthless since crossing the border we often had to resort to asking the locals. The hotel owner offered to jump on his bike and guide us out. On the way out, a “tuck tuck” driver shook his head at me and shouted something like,
“No paso!”
I didn`t think anything of it at the time but about 30 minutes later as we climbed an impossibly steep and winding road out of the town I knew what he was talking about. We ground to a halt in another stationary queue.
“Oh shit, not again!” I muttered inside my helmet.
This was getting ridiculous. Immediately thinking of one of my personal reasons for doing this trip. I wanted to learn patience and develop the ability to go with the flow. Guatemala was rapidly becoming my teacher, and I really didn`t like it one bit. We turned off our engines, got off our bikes, assessed our options and came to the conclusion that we didn`t have any.
“We could be here for quite a while”, observed Mark, as the rain steadily fell.
Resigning myself to the situation I was taking a few pictures when up ahead I could see some slow but discernible movement. The police had arrived and had somehow managed to unlock the tangled traffic, quickly donning our helmets and gloves, we fired up the bikes and joined the painfully slow procession up the twisty road. Thank God!
Friday, 1 October 2010
"Southern Mexico: From culture to coast...."
The following morning I packed the bike, programmed the GPS, (hoping it wouldn`t let me down navigating out of the city) thanked Garry for his hospitality and help and headed into the fray of Mexico City early morning traffic.
Having spent a few days there, I was a little more comfortable on the roads and very soon found the road which would take me eventually to my next destination which was the beautiful colonial city of Oaxaca. While I was researching the trip in England, I had come across a brilliant website www.brainrotting.com which documents by superb video footage, the travels and exploits of Graham Styles who has been on the road riding through the Americas for two years. He very kindly responded to my request for help and advice before I left England. He recommended Oaxaca very highly and so that was good enough for me! Needless to say, it was going to another long day in the saddle.
About 6 hrs later I rode into Oaxaca hoping that I could find a hotel quickly. After a long, arduous day`s riding the last thing you want is to do endless circles around a new town/city trying to locate the right hotel. By “right”, the criteria has to be, cheap, wifi, secure parking and preferably within walking distance of the centre to save on taxi fares. This time, the recommended Hotel Jimenez was easily located and fitted the criteria. Unfortunately, on many occasions,(this being one of them!), the promised wifi fails to function in the bedroom and so any internet communication more often than not has to take place in the hotel reception area. Just another minor irritation (or major one, depending upon how tired I am) that has to be endured on the road.
Oaxaca has an abundance of cultural influences and many activities were taking place around the central plaza. It was a great place to sit, sip on a beer and watch the world go by. Which was pretty much my “modus operandi” for the day. The evening brought its inevitable thunderstorms and the following morning my planned excursion to the famous Zapotec ruins of Monte Alban were under threat with even more rain and low cloud.
Monte Alban(“White Mountain”) was one of the main reasons for visiting Oaxaca and I wasn`t prepared to come all this way and not go because of the weather, so I ran across the road and bought an umbrella (another article to be somehow strapped to the bike from here on in!) and joined a small group of students for the short bus ride up the mountain. As a group we hired a local guide so as to get the most out of the tour. The site itself is amazing. The Zapotecs had somehow managed to completely level the top of the mountain to build their sacred site. It would be a huge undertaking today with countless bulldozers, how on earth they completed it in 500 B.C. is a mystery. They were certainly extremely advanced and had worked out well before Galileo and Copernicus that the earth orbited the sun and not vice versa, without the aid of powerful telescopes. A fascinating place.
That night I spent a pleasant couple of hours at my now favourite restaurant on the plaza and discovered a new Mexican beer, Bohemia Obscura! Not so obscure any more, and now my new Mexican beer of choice! While sipping my beer I was contemplating my route from here. My two options were to head north towards the Yucatan and take in the famous ruins of Palenque or to head south and to one of the beach resorts of the Oaxacan coast. I was tiring of the constant rain and decided to head for the coast and either Puerto Escondido or the small fishing port of Puerto Angel. The downside of heading south was the tortuous, winding mountain road that took 6 hrs to negotiate in ever increasing heat and humidity. By the time I arrived in Puerto Angel, I was too tired to ride another 40 minutes to Puerto Escondido and I settled for the sleepy fishing port instead. I quickly found a hotel right on the beach and despite the outrageous expense (£20 per night), I decided to treat myself and stay 3 nights to rest and recover and do nothing at all.
Nearly 4 weeks in Mexico and this was the first time I`d been to the coast. It actually felt like a brief holiday as I fell asleep that night to the sound of the waves lapping gently on the shore. However, my sleep was fitful, as often happens when I have something on my mind. The day I arrived I decided to have a quick check of the bike and discovered my rear brake pads were very worn. Obviously too much trailing of the rear brake on those hours of mountainous roads. Shit! As much as I`d tried to control my speed through gear shifting, I`d clearly over used the rear brake. O.K. now was an opportunity to change the rear pads having done the front ones in Hermasillo.
I know that all this stuff is a piece of cake for anyone with a modicum of technical ability, but it just seems to take on a task of bigger proportions in my imagination. I couldn`t relax until I`d completed the task successfully, so giving up on further restless sleep, I was up as the sun rose and down in the hotel restaurant area (where they`d let me park my bike for security). Having re-checked the procedure in the bike`s manual, I set to the task as the hotel staff looked on with curiosity. It seemed to go pretty smoothly and I just hoped that the pads wouldn`t be binding on the disc when I came to leave the following day. But for now, I was satisfied and spent the day writing, video editing and watching the fishermen plying their trade.
On my walkabout the previous day looking for the “cajero automatico” (ATM), I`d noticed a tiny little bar on the beach which was obviously the haunt of the local fishermen from the port, so decided to have a quick beer there. The bar consisted of a few scattered white plastic tables and chairs (the kind of cheap garden furniture you`d get from B and Q) and the barman, with mandatory dirty white vest and half smoked cigarette hanging from his mouth. I settled in a chair opposite a group of 5 local fishermen who were involved in a loud, animated, and clearly drunken discussion, and ordered a beer. I nodded across to them and raised my beer (thought it wise to ingratiate myself with the locals) when one of them staggered over to me and offered his hand,
“Mi amigo!” he slurred, with one of those drunken smiles, you know, the kind were their eyes are half closed like “Lord Charles”, the ventriloquists dummy!
“Si!”
“Mi amigo!” He said again, pumping my hand like a long lost friend. One of his friends smiled at me making a drinking motion with his hand as if I needed confirmation that he was drunk. One of the group spoke a little English and I spoke a little Spanish. There followed an interesting half hour while we conversed about his fishing business, football, the price of lobster, child support in the U.S. my “Journey For Hope” and what I thought of Mexico. Somehow, I think we all managed to understand most of what was said, apart from the drunk who spent most of the time hiccupping and chuntering , “Mi amigo!” as he emptied yet more bottles of cerveza. Having enjoyed practicing my Spanish and endeared myself with the locals with a few “Viva Mexico`s!” I waved goodbye to George, Jack, Raphael, Raymundo and the drunken one and wandered back to my hotel to prepare for my early departure the following morning.
The next major destination was going to be San Cristobal de Las Casas, but it was too far to do in one day and so I planned on making it to the major industrial port of Salina Cruz about 4 hrs ride along the coast where I would spend the night before the 6 hr ride to San Cristobal the next day. As with my stay in Santa Cruz, California, Salina Cruz sounded a much nicer place than it turned out to be. I arrived in the heat of the day and had difficulty locating the hotel I was looking for and then spent the next hour riding around in circles trying to find any hotel that was suitable, by which time I was losing a huge amount of fluids and was feeling very weak and dehydrated.
Eventually I had to pay over the odds for a place that was at best O.K. but by that time, I was just desperate for anything. I dragged my bags up to my room, got out of my sweat soaked gear, grabbed a quick shower and collapsed on the bed exhausted. After resting a while I took a quick walk around the centre and confirmed my suspicions that there really was nothing attractive or worth seeing in this most functional of towns. I headed back and busied myself with the incredibly tedious chore of editing and uploading video footage, this occupied the next 3 or so hours which were spent in the hotel`s restaurant as the promised in room wifi failed to function. After such a disappointing interlude I was eager to set off the following morning for what I hoped to be the beautiful old town of San Cristobal de las Casas
Having spent a few days there, I was a little more comfortable on the roads and very soon found the road which would take me eventually to my next destination which was the beautiful colonial city of Oaxaca. While I was researching the trip in England, I had come across a brilliant website www.brainrotting.com which documents by superb video footage, the travels and exploits of Graham Styles who has been on the road riding through the Americas for two years. He very kindly responded to my request for help and advice before I left England. He recommended Oaxaca very highly and so that was good enough for me! Needless to say, it was going to another long day in the saddle.
About 6 hrs later I rode into Oaxaca hoping that I could find a hotel quickly. After a long, arduous day`s riding the last thing you want is to do endless circles around a new town/city trying to locate the right hotel. By “right”, the criteria has to be, cheap, wifi, secure parking and preferably within walking distance of the centre to save on taxi fares. This time, the recommended Hotel Jimenez was easily located and fitted the criteria. Unfortunately, on many occasions,(this being one of them!), the promised wifi fails to function in the bedroom and so any internet communication more often than not has to take place in the hotel reception area. Just another minor irritation (or major one, depending upon how tired I am) that has to be endured on the road.
Oaxaca has an abundance of cultural influences and many activities were taking place around the central plaza. It was a great place to sit, sip on a beer and watch the world go by. Which was pretty much my “modus operandi” for the day. The evening brought its inevitable thunderstorms and the following morning my planned excursion to the famous Zapotec ruins of Monte Alban were under threat with even more rain and low cloud.
Monte Alban(“White Mountain”) was one of the main reasons for visiting Oaxaca and I wasn`t prepared to come all this way and not go because of the weather, so I ran across the road and bought an umbrella (another article to be somehow strapped to the bike from here on in!) and joined a small group of students for the short bus ride up the mountain. As a group we hired a local guide so as to get the most out of the tour. The site itself is amazing. The Zapotecs had somehow managed to completely level the top of the mountain to build their sacred site. It would be a huge undertaking today with countless bulldozers, how on earth they completed it in 500 B.C. is a mystery. They were certainly extremely advanced and had worked out well before Galileo and Copernicus that the earth orbited the sun and not vice versa, without the aid of powerful telescopes. A fascinating place.
That night I spent a pleasant couple of hours at my now favourite restaurant on the plaza and discovered a new Mexican beer, Bohemia Obscura! Not so obscure any more, and now my new Mexican beer of choice! While sipping my beer I was contemplating my route from here. My two options were to head north towards the Yucatan and take in the famous ruins of Palenque or to head south and to one of the beach resorts of the Oaxacan coast. I was tiring of the constant rain and decided to head for the coast and either Puerto Escondido or the small fishing port of Puerto Angel. The downside of heading south was the tortuous, winding mountain road that took 6 hrs to negotiate in ever increasing heat and humidity. By the time I arrived in Puerto Angel, I was too tired to ride another 40 minutes to Puerto Escondido and I settled for the sleepy fishing port instead. I quickly found a hotel right on the beach and despite the outrageous expense (£20 per night), I decided to treat myself and stay 3 nights to rest and recover and do nothing at all.
Nearly 4 weeks in Mexico and this was the first time I`d been to the coast. It actually felt like a brief holiday as I fell asleep that night to the sound of the waves lapping gently on the shore. However, my sleep was fitful, as often happens when I have something on my mind. The day I arrived I decided to have a quick check of the bike and discovered my rear brake pads were very worn. Obviously too much trailing of the rear brake on those hours of mountainous roads. Shit! As much as I`d tried to control my speed through gear shifting, I`d clearly over used the rear brake. O.K. now was an opportunity to change the rear pads having done the front ones in Hermasillo.
I know that all this stuff is a piece of cake for anyone with a modicum of technical ability, but it just seems to take on a task of bigger proportions in my imagination. I couldn`t relax until I`d completed the task successfully, so giving up on further restless sleep, I was up as the sun rose and down in the hotel restaurant area (where they`d let me park my bike for security). Having re-checked the procedure in the bike`s manual, I set to the task as the hotel staff looked on with curiosity. It seemed to go pretty smoothly and I just hoped that the pads wouldn`t be binding on the disc when I came to leave the following day. But for now, I was satisfied and spent the day writing, video editing and watching the fishermen plying their trade.
On my walkabout the previous day looking for the “cajero automatico” (ATM), I`d noticed a tiny little bar on the beach which was obviously the haunt of the local fishermen from the port, so decided to have a quick beer there. The bar consisted of a few scattered white plastic tables and chairs (the kind of cheap garden furniture you`d get from B and Q) and the barman, with mandatory dirty white vest and half smoked cigarette hanging from his mouth. I settled in a chair opposite a group of 5 local fishermen who were involved in a loud, animated, and clearly drunken discussion, and ordered a beer. I nodded across to them and raised my beer (thought it wise to ingratiate myself with the locals) when one of them staggered over to me and offered his hand,
“Mi amigo!” he slurred, with one of those drunken smiles, you know, the kind were their eyes are half closed like “Lord Charles”, the ventriloquists dummy!
“Si!”
“Mi amigo!” He said again, pumping my hand like a long lost friend. One of his friends smiled at me making a drinking motion with his hand as if I needed confirmation that he was drunk. One of the group spoke a little English and I spoke a little Spanish. There followed an interesting half hour while we conversed about his fishing business, football, the price of lobster, child support in the U.S. my “Journey For Hope” and what I thought of Mexico. Somehow, I think we all managed to understand most of what was said, apart from the drunk who spent most of the time hiccupping and chuntering , “Mi amigo!” as he emptied yet more bottles of cerveza. Having enjoyed practicing my Spanish and endeared myself with the locals with a few “Viva Mexico`s!” I waved goodbye to George, Jack, Raphael, Raymundo and the drunken one and wandered back to my hotel to prepare for my early departure the following morning.
The next major destination was going to be San Cristobal de Las Casas, but it was too far to do in one day and so I planned on making it to the major industrial port of Salina Cruz about 4 hrs ride along the coast where I would spend the night before the 6 hr ride to San Cristobal the next day. As with my stay in Santa Cruz, California, Salina Cruz sounded a much nicer place than it turned out to be. I arrived in the heat of the day and had difficulty locating the hotel I was looking for and then spent the next hour riding around in circles trying to find any hotel that was suitable, by which time I was losing a huge amount of fluids and was feeling very weak and dehydrated.
Eventually I had to pay over the odds for a place that was at best O.K. but by that time, I was just desperate for anything. I dragged my bags up to my room, got out of my sweat soaked gear, grabbed a quick shower and collapsed on the bed exhausted. After resting a while I took a quick walk around the centre and confirmed my suspicions that there really was nothing attractive or worth seeing in this most functional of towns. I headed back and busied myself with the incredibly tedious chore of editing and uploading video footage, this occupied the next 3 or so hours which were spent in the hotel`s restaurant as the promised in room wifi failed to function. After such a disappointing interlude I was eager to set off the following morning for what I hoped to be the beautiful old town of San Cristobal de las Casas
Monday, 20 September 2010
Viva Mexico! Viva Independencia!
I`d read that San Miguel was a very beautiful town and I wasn`t disappointed as I arrived at midday, riding through a labyrinth of winding, cobbled streets. The beauty of the town was also reflected in the price of the hotels. It was obviously a popular tourist destination.
Once I`d settled in and followed the usual wifi routine, I caught a taxi to the centro historic and spent a pleasant, but very hot, couple of hours walking the streets and choosing which restaurant to have dinner in that night. San Miguel is a beautiful town, filled with magnificent churches and is small enough to be able to see everything on foot. Having got my bearings, I came back to the hotel, worked on my blog and waited for the sun to go down before heading back to the centre.
The centre piece of the town plaza is La Parroquia, a parish church famous for its Neo Gothic exterior which is lit up at night. When the sun sets, the town buzzes with activity as people congregate around the plaza and Mariachi bands wander the streets, serenading anyone with a few pesos to spare.
It`s a place I`d like to have spent longer in, but the next day I was due in Mexico City. Mexico City was never going to be on my route through the country, because it`s one of the world`s biggest cities, around 20 million people live there and I`d heard how difficult it was to ride through and how dangerous it could be, so obviously I would circumnavigate it with a safer, simpler route. That is, until I saw a posting on “Horizons Unlimited” (a website for motorcycle travellers) from an Englishman called Garry, who offered to accommodate motorcyclists for free if they were brave enough to come and visit! He offered to meet me outside the city and guide me in. It was too good an offer to pass up. I`d get to see a amazing city, a chance to change my tyres, service the bike, and spend some time in the company of a fellow Englishman and motorcyclist!
At the appointed time, I met up with Garry at a BMW dealership about 40 mins from the city. As is the norm, I arrived early (just to be on the safe side!) and took the opportunity to pick up an oil filter, air filter and a change of oil. After finding somewhere to put all this new stuff on the bike I followed Garry for the “interesting” ride into the city. I would never have found his place by myself. Every little road seemed the same. Garry had warned me that the area was not the most salubrious and so when we entered “Graffiti City” I wasn`t surprised. There wasn`t an inch of wall or garage door that escaped the aerosol. Certainly a colourful environment! By the time we`d negotiated heavy traffic through narrow streets and climbed impossibly steep twisty roads I was sweating heavily to say the least. When we pulled up outside Garry`s garage, I breathed a sigh of relief,
“I bet you could do with a cup of tea?”
Perfect! An Englishman`s panacea! No matter what`s happened or happening, a good cup of tea always saves the day!
I was fascinated as to what brought an Englishman from Potters bar to Mexico City? He`d met his Mexican wife Yvon back in England in the 70`s and decided to move out to Mexico where they built the house they`re still living in when all they had were dirt roads. We dropped off all my gear and Garry suggested we should go and sort out the tyres. Tyres are expensive and difficult to get hold of in Mexico, but Garry had sourced some at a very reasonable price. Yvon drove us all the way across the city (and it`s a big city) to a little out of the way bike shop. It took over an hour through very heavy traffic to get there. I held on tightly as Yvon negotiated the traffic like a rally cross veteran (not only an excellent driver, but later I discovered an immensely talented sculptress!) I quickly discovered there`s a real skill involved in driving around Mexico City! Job done.
Next stop was a quick sight seeing tour of downtown Mexico City and the Zocallo (main plaza) where everything was gearing up for the big Independence Day celebrations.
There is a lot of talk about how dangerous the city is, but I have to say I found it a fascinating place and no more dangerous than London or any big city. Admittedly, it did help having Yvon as tour guide filling me in on the history of the place.
Since arriving in the Mexico, I`d become increasingly interested in the history and evolution of the country and the rich legacy of the Aztecs, Mayans, Zapotecs, and Teotihuacans. Also, I was under order from Garry to brush up on the build up to independence and the revolution for the quiz which would take place on the big night!
After a very cultural day in the city we headed back and I suddenly began to feel very weak. I guessed it must be dehydration, coupled with the altitude and humidity, or it just could be the stressful ride in! Either way, I was ready for my bed that night. It was nice not to have to worry about getting up early and hitting the road again for a couple of days. Even the torrential downpours didn`t disturb my sleep that night. The following day was cloudy, overcast and humid. Classic September weather, and just right for our visit to the Pyramids located outside the city.
I admit to knowing nothing about the existence of Pyramids before my arrival in Mexico. The site is quite spectacular and justifiably a major tourist attraction. The Teotihuacans had created a huge city around 500 B.C. and most of it is still intact including two major pyramids, one of which is the world`s third largest outside Egypt. My energy levels were still depleted and after climbing several pyramids I was feeling it. The three months on the bike and away from the gym were beginning to take their toll. Nevertheless, it was real privilege to visit such an historical site. I went to bed fairly early that night and prepared myself for a big day of bike maintenance the next day.
First job was getting the tyres changed. Garry knew a little garage close by where we took both my wheels and the new tyres. I watched anxiously as a young boy (well he looked about 14 yrs old) hammered and stamped on my precious wheels as he tried to remove the old tyre. Garry just stood their grinning!
“Don`t worry. He knows what he`s doing. They do this at the BMW garages, you just don`t see it” He added (unconvincingly, I thought!)
I must admit I felt like an expectant father waiting for a birth. After an agonising 20 minutes the job was done. Still expecting the inner tube to be pinched and flat by the morning, we bundled the tyres into Garry`s car and I paid the 150 pesos and said adios. Garry shared a private joke with the owner something along the lines of “Let`s hope they make it to Argentina!”
When we arrived back at Garry`s it was my turn to sweat some more. An oil and filter change isn`t normally a big dea,l but on the 650 it`s a bit more complicated. Coupled with the fact it was only the second time I`d done the job on this trip it was going to be a long day! I had to be methodical, remembering what Tony, my mechanical mentor from home, had told me about keeping everything in one place so as not to lose things. My biggest fear was what I call the “Ikea Syndrome” – you know the situation, you put together a flat pack piece of furniture and always have a couple of screws left over!
Garry watched with fascination as I sweated and cursed in the increasing temperature> I don’t know whether he was inspired or what but he suddenly said,
“I think I`ll change my oil too”
In 20 minutes he`d finished, while I was still struggling, this time with a stubborn air filter hat seemed reluctant to fit in. After nearly a whole afternoon I was eventually finished. Feeling very hot and sweaty but quite proud and wondering where I would be in another 5/6,000 miles when It would need doing again.
The next day I took Garry up on his offer to spend some time with him at work. He is the principal of a school teaching English as a foreign language, and I was interested in seeing how it was done. This involved a 50 minute ride through the city trying to hang on to Garry as he weaved in and out of the manic traffic on his little Suzuki 125 (bought specially for the job!)
I spent the morning wandering around the shops looking for a new wrench (having broken my old one taking off the front wheel) and trying to find an external hard drive for my netbook whilst dodging the now expected thunderstorms.
In the afternoon I sat in on three classes of different abilities and was impressed by the system and capabilities of the students. Garry was obviously doing a first rate job! The next day was the big “Independencia” celebrations which were scheduled to begin at 11.00 p.m. (I know, way past my bedtime!), so the morning was spent in search of beer to celebrate a very rare occasion. This proved more difficult than you might think. If there was s major celebration in England, every off licence would be bending over backwards to relieve you of your money, but in Mexico, on this day it is illegal to sell alcohol!! (Remember the 6P`s? Proper planning ....).
I`d almost resigned myself to having a very dry evening (being the only person in Mexico who doesn`t drink Tequilla), when I happened upon a local shop who was willing to take the risk and oblige me with enough beer to keep me going through the night. I think she was touched by my heartfelt plea,
“Por favor! Lo necessito, para la celebracion de la Independencia!”
Now my only challenge was to stay awake long enough to enjoy the celebrations! Yvon had busied herself all day preparing the room and most importantly the food. Tonight we would eat traditional Mexican food and it didn`t matter how many people turned up, there would be more than enough to go around. People started arriving after 8.00 p.m. and Yvon insisted I blended in with the theme so I was daubed with the colours of the Mexican flag on my face and eventually succumbed to the sombrero. An honorary Mexican for the night!
We watched the countdown to the official start of the celebrations (just like New Year`s Eve) and then out came the poppers and foam spray. The party had well and truly started. There followed many hours of eating, drinking and singing. Included in the celebrations was a birthday cake for Yvon whose birthday was the previous day. There was also the traditional Mexican history quiz (hosted by Garry) and the judging of the fancy dress, which was won coincidentally by Garry who turned up as the father of the Independence movement – Miguel Hidalgo.
As with Luis in Leon, I turned out to be the lightweight of the group and had to go to bed at 2.00 a.m. while the party was still in full swing. (It wasn`t like this at Loughbrough, I mused while the sound of acoustic Mexican music played in the background and I fell into a slightly beer induced sleep).
The next day was a low key day of recovering for most people and I spent the day blogging and route planning for my early departure the following day to Oaxaca. It had been a real pleasure to spend time with Garry, Yvon and their family. They had been so incredibly kind and hospitable, and had given me a real feel for the authentic Mexico City. An experience I would never have had, and what a shame it would have been to miss one of the most vibrant and exciting cities in the world.
Once I`d settled in and followed the usual wifi routine, I caught a taxi to the centro historic and spent a pleasant, but very hot, couple of hours walking the streets and choosing which restaurant to have dinner in that night. San Miguel is a beautiful town, filled with magnificent churches and is small enough to be able to see everything on foot. Having got my bearings, I came back to the hotel, worked on my blog and waited for the sun to go down before heading back to the centre.
The centre piece of the town plaza is La Parroquia, a parish church famous for its Neo Gothic exterior which is lit up at night. When the sun sets, the town buzzes with activity as people congregate around the plaza and Mariachi bands wander the streets, serenading anyone with a few pesos to spare.
It`s a place I`d like to have spent longer in, but the next day I was due in Mexico City. Mexico City was never going to be on my route through the country, because it`s one of the world`s biggest cities, around 20 million people live there and I`d heard how difficult it was to ride through and how dangerous it could be, so obviously I would circumnavigate it with a safer, simpler route. That is, until I saw a posting on “Horizons Unlimited” (a website for motorcycle travellers) from an Englishman called Garry, who offered to accommodate motorcyclists for free if they were brave enough to come and visit! He offered to meet me outside the city and guide me in. It was too good an offer to pass up. I`d get to see a amazing city, a chance to change my tyres, service the bike, and spend some time in the company of a fellow Englishman and motorcyclist!
At the appointed time, I met up with Garry at a BMW dealership about 40 mins from the city. As is the norm, I arrived early (just to be on the safe side!) and took the opportunity to pick up an oil filter, air filter and a change of oil. After finding somewhere to put all this new stuff on the bike I followed Garry for the “interesting” ride into the city. I would never have found his place by myself. Every little road seemed the same. Garry had warned me that the area was not the most salubrious and so when we entered “Graffiti City” I wasn`t surprised. There wasn`t an inch of wall or garage door that escaped the aerosol. Certainly a colourful environment! By the time we`d negotiated heavy traffic through narrow streets and climbed impossibly steep twisty roads I was sweating heavily to say the least. When we pulled up outside Garry`s garage, I breathed a sigh of relief,
“I bet you could do with a cup of tea?”
Perfect! An Englishman`s panacea! No matter what`s happened or happening, a good cup of tea always saves the day!
I was fascinated as to what brought an Englishman from Potters bar to Mexico City? He`d met his Mexican wife Yvon back in England in the 70`s and decided to move out to Mexico where they built the house they`re still living in when all they had were dirt roads. We dropped off all my gear and Garry suggested we should go and sort out the tyres. Tyres are expensive and difficult to get hold of in Mexico, but Garry had sourced some at a very reasonable price. Yvon drove us all the way across the city (and it`s a big city) to a little out of the way bike shop. It took over an hour through very heavy traffic to get there. I held on tightly as Yvon negotiated the traffic like a rally cross veteran (not only an excellent driver, but later I discovered an immensely talented sculptress!) I quickly discovered there`s a real skill involved in driving around Mexico City! Job done.
Next stop was a quick sight seeing tour of downtown Mexico City and the Zocallo (main plaza) where everything was gearing up for the big Independence Day celebrations.
There is a lot of talk about how dangerous the city is, but I have to say I found it a fascinating place and no more dangerous than London or any big city. Admittedly, it did help having Yvon as tour guide filling me in on the history of the place.
Since arriving in the Mexico, I`d become increasingly interested in the history and evolution of the country and the rich legacy of the Aztecs, Mayans, Zapotecs, and Teotihuacans. Also, I was under order from Garry to brush up on the build up to independence and the revolution for the quiz which would take place on the big night!
After a very cultural day in the city we headed back and I suddenly began to feel very weak. I guessed it must be dehydration, coupled with the altitude and humidity, or it just could be the stressful ride in! Either way, I was ready for my bed that night. It was nice not to have to worry about getting up early and hitting the road again for a couple of days. Even the torrential downpours didn`t disturb my sleep that night. The following day was cloudy, overcast and humid. Classic September weather, and just right for our visit to the Pyramids located outside the city.
I admit to knowing nothing about the existence of Pyramids before my arrival in Mexico. The site is quite spectacular and justifiably a major tourist attraction. The Teotihuacans had created a huge city around 500 B.C. and most of it is still intact including two major pyramids, one of which is the world`s third largest outside Egypt. My energy levels were still depleted and after climbing several pyramids I was feeling it. The three months on the bike and away from the gym were beginning to take their toll. Nevertheless, it was real privilege to visit such an historical site. I went to bed fairly early that night and prepared myself for a big day of bike maintenance the next day.
First job was getting the tyres changed. Garry knew a little garage close by where we took both my wheels and the new tyres. I watched anxiously as a young boy (well he looked about 14 yrs old) hammered and stamped on my precious wheels as he tried to remove the old tyre. Garry just stood their grinning!
“Don`t worry. He knows what he`s doing. They do this at the BMW garages, you just don`t see it” He added (unconvincingly, I thought!)
I must admit I felt like an expectant father waiting for a birth. After an agonising 20 minutes the job was done. Still expecting the inner tube to be pinched and flat by the morning, we bundled the tyres into Garry`s car and I paid the 150 pesos and said adios. Garry shared a private joke with the owner something along the lines of “Let`s hope they make it to Argentina!”
When we arrived back at Garry`s it was my turn to sweat some more. An oil and filter change isn`t normally a big dea,l but on the 650 it`s a bit more complicated. Coupled with the fact it was only the second time I`d done the job on this trip it was going to be a long day! I had to be methodical, remembering what Tony, my mechanical mentor from home, had told me about keeping everything in one place so as not to lose things. My biggest fear was what I call the “Ikea Syndrome” – you know the situation, you put together a flat pack piece of furniture and always have a couple of screws left over!
Garry watched with fascination as I sweated and cursed in the increasing temperature> I don’t know whether he was inspired or what but he suddenly said,
“I think I`ll change my oil too”
In 20 minutes he`d finished, while I was still struggling, this time with a stubborn air filter hat seemed reluctant to fit in. After nearly a whole afternoon I was eventually finished. Feeling very hot and sweaty but quite proud and wondering where I would be in another 5/6,000 miles when It would need doing again.
The next day I took Garry up on his offer to spend some time with him at work. He is the principal of a school teaching English as a foreign language, and I was interested in seeing how it was done. This involved a 50 minute ride through the city trying to hang on to Garry as he weaved in and out of the manic traffic on his little Suzuki 125 (bought specially for the job!)
I spent the morning wandering around the shops looking for a new wrench (having broken my old one taking off the front wheel) and trying to find an external hard drive for my netbook whilst dodging the now expected thunderstorms.
In the afternoon I sat in on three classes of different abilities and was impressed by the system and capabilities of the students. Garry was obviously doing a first rate job! The next day was the big “Independencia” celebrations which were scheduled to begin at 11.00 p.m. (I know, way past my bedtime!), so the morning was spent in search of beer to celebrate a very rare occasion. This proved more difficult than you might think. If there was s major celebration in England, every off licence would be bending over backwards to relieve you of your money, but in Mexico, on this day it is illegal to sell alcohol!! (Remember the 6P`s? Proper planning ....).
I`d almost resigned myself to having a very dry evening (being the only person in Mexico who doesn`t drink Tequilla), when I happened upon a local shop who was willing to take the risk and oblige me with enough beer to keep me going through the night. I think she was touched by my heartfelt plea,
“Por favor! Lo necessito, para la celebracion de la Independencia!”
Now my only challenge was to stay awake long enough to enjoy the celebrations! Yvon had busied herself all day preparing the room and most importantly the food. Tonight we would eat traditional Mexican food and it didn`t matter how many people turned up, there would be more than enough to go around. People started arriving after 8.00 p.m. and Yvon insisted I blended in with the theme so I was daubed with the colours of the Mexican flag on my face and eventually succumbed to the sombrero. An honorary Mexican for the night!
We watched the countdown to the official start of the celebrations (just like New Year`s Eve) and then out came the poppers and foam spray. The party had well and truly started. There followed many hours of eating, drinking and singing. Included in the celebrations was a birthday cake for Yvon whose birthday was the previous day. There was also the traditional Mexican history quiz (hosted by Garry) and the judging of the fancy dress, which was won coincidentally by Garry who turned up as the father of the Independence movement – Miguel Hidalgo.
As with Luis in Leon, I turned out to be the lightweight of the group and had to go to bed at 2.00 a.m. while the party was still in full swing. (It wasn`t like this at Loughbrough, I mused while the sound of acoustic Mexican music played in the background and I fell into a slightly beer induced sleep).
The next day was a low key day of recovering for most people and I spent the day blogging and route planning for my early departure the following day to Oaxaca. It had been a real pleasure to spend time with Garry, Yvon and their family. They had been so incredibly kind and hospitable, and had given me a real feel for the authentic Mexico City. An experience I would never have had, and what a shame it would have been to miss one of the most vibrant and exciting cities in the world.
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