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.
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The Route
