I can't believe how
quickly time flies when we're on the road. Since I last wrote
anything here we've passed clean through two countries and neither
particularly quickly.
Upon leaving the
Oaxaca coast we headed further east towards San Cristobal de las
Casas in Chiapas. I was keen to ride through here as Oaxaca and
Chiapas were the places I skipped last time when I was with Sharen,
with our last minute change of plan and dash back to the warmth of
Quintana Roo.
The ride to San
Cristobal involved riding across some open plains covered as far as
the eye can see with wind turbines. That should have been a clue as
to what was to follow, along with the frantically waving officer in a
police car heading in the opposite direction, shaking his head and
indicating for us to turn around and a rushed conversation in Spanish
that we didn't fully understand with a tuc-tuc driver at a red light.
The next twenty miles or so was hell. The strongest crosswinds we've
experienced yet, we rode at what felt like close to 45 degrees, each
successive gust seemed stronger as we fought to keep our bikes on our
own side of the road and out of the path of oncoming semis. We made
it, my nerves shot to pieces and later discovered that we'd only
caught the start of the storm. Other riders we met later who came
through the same way in the following days reported that conditions
only got worse. One couple ended up riding through under police
instruction alongside a large truck which was used as a windbreak.
I'm not sure if that would have appealed, given the large number of
similar trucks we've seen on their sides in ditches after losing
their battle against the wind.
It was also on the
way to San Cristobal that we met the first of the infamous road
blocks. In this case an unruly mob had barricaded the road with dirt
and rubble, forcing everyone to take a detour into their 'toll' lane.
Traffic moved slowly, I presume as each successive person argued
against paying. When we made it to the head of the queue Evan debated
for several minutes with the protesters but to no avail. Eventually
we switched off our engines and a guy who could speak English came to
try his luck. He explained to us that they were collecting money to
build a school and eventually dropped his demand to just 50 pesos
(less than $3 USD) for us both so we reluctantly paid and were on our
way. It was frustrating though. I highly doubt these people were
teachers or parents and to extort money in such a way doesn't sit
right with me. If their cause was genuine, as we tried to explain to
them, we'd be more likely to donate, but not when money is demanded
in such a way. Our efforts fell on deaf ears.
A few towns further
along the road had been blocked with large lumps of concrete and
other debris and again we were forced to detour down rocky back
roads. This time though we arrived just as the protest was starting
and no money was being demanded. We sat outside an Oxxo store and
talked with a very friendly local man who tried his best to explain
their cause (we later translated a document he gave us and it was
about promises about healthcare, children's services and road
maintenance made by the local government that hadn't been kept)
before we continued on our way.
San Cristobal was a
nice enough colonial town, a lot like a lot of others. We stayed a
few days and during this time went to see the new Star Wars movie on
opening night in 3D, in English and with only about 20 other people.
Best of all it cost us less than $4 USD each!
One of our reasons
for staying so long in San Cristobal was because this was where we
had our first big 'what's the point of all this?' talk. It started
with a comment about money and how much we were spending and ended up
being a long discussion about what we both hoped to gain from this
trip. One thing became clear – neither of us we were feeling
satisfied, things had become routine and tedious.
I think now is a
good time to point out that a trip like this is hard work. People
constantly remark that 'it must be amazing' or 'you're so lucky to be
so free and on this trip of a lifetime' but the reality is very
different. It's fun, of course it is, but it's also bloody hard work.
At the end of the day when we're tired both mentally and physically,
we still have to find a place to stay that has parking, often in a
language we don't understand. We have to keep up with bike
maintenance, trying to work out where we're going to get the next
part we need in a place where big bikes like these are far from
common. We have to be careful how much we spend because there's
nothing coming in to replace it. We have to deal with the realities
of life on the move and as well as all the fantastic people we meet
there are the noisy, antisocial ones who happen to be in the room
next to us when we desperately need a good nights sleep. There are
also the other noises that are impossible to control – barking
dogs, roosters, firecrackers at 4am, church bells, bin men doing
their rounds at 5am. In short, life on the road isn't all roses.
And so we had a long
chat and came to the conclusion that 1) we were spending more than we
had anticipated, 2) that we were in desperate need of some Spanish
lessons and 3) that the bikes we have are the wrong bikes for Central
and South America, they're just too big. This said, coupled with our
growing feelings of dissatisfaction at simply getting up, riding all
day, sleeping and repeating, we decided that we wanted to focus on
quality of experience over distance. Getting to South America would
mean using a chunk of money that neither of us want to spend, not
with these bikes, and so we came to the conclusion that riding only
as far as Panama and then turning around and riding back to Canada in
the spring was a much better plan.
With Christmas fast
approaching, we decided to make a run for Chetumal and cross into
Belize. Having been to Belize a couple of times before, there was
only one logical place to head for – Hopkins. The border crossing
was simple enough. They all are so long as you're patient and arrive
early enough. It took a little longer to ride down to Hopkins, taking
alternative routes through the north of Belize on the advice of some
concerned locals and then dodging potholes on the Hummingbird
Highway. It hadn't occurred to me that this was where the trip idea
began until we were riding down that road. Upon arrival in Hopkins we
headed for the Dodo and decided to stay there a night before looking
for a free camping spot the following day. As per usual a few days
turned into two weeks. We met some lovely people at the Dodo and
ended up camping across the road from the hostel until our insurance
ran out. It gave us some much needed down time, a chance to fix an
issue with my fuel filter and a chance to catch up with friends we'd
made there previously. Emma, the Swedish girl who rented us the
little dirt bike on our last visit, kindly invited us to a potluck
dinner on Christmas day with a mixture of locals and ex-pats. It was
a great opportunity to see first hand the local politics of the
place. Later she also kindly let us use her workshop to fix an issue I had with my fuel filter. For New Year we partied at Windschief with a group of hostel
residents and locals after enjoying some of the best fish and chips
I've ever had.
Upon leaving Belize
we headed straight for Flores. Again, the border crossing couldn't
have been more simple. I really don't get why people get so het up
about them. Get yourself stamped out, get the bike stamped out. Cross
no-man's land and stamp yourself in, followed by the bike. It's a
piece of cake even with very limited language skills. Unfortunately
the weather wasn't on our side this time. From the time we left
Hopkins until our arrival in Flores, it poured. Luckily the road from
the border to Flores is now 90% paved, but even so the rain made life
difficult. I narrowly avoided dumping my bike after having to brake
hard for a pig that ran out in front of me. We were soaked through by
the time we arrived so we parked the bikes and Evan stayed with them
while I traipsed around looking for a place to stay. Having been
there before it wasn't hard to find somewhere and we were soon warm
and dry.
We'd only planned to
stay a night, but ended up staying several. Some people we'd met in
Hopkins and then again in Flores told us that a local festival was
about to start and so we decided to stick around for that. It was
called the Dance of the Chotona (doll) and involved lots of
firecrackers and explosions, almost hourly parades and lots of
festivities. The grand finale of the night was a guy with a wooden
crate on his head covered in fireworks charging around the town
square into the crowd with rockets firing off in every direction. The
kids loved it. Only in Guatemala.
Eventually we left Flores and headed south, our intention to find an affordable Spanish school and get on with some lessons. After an interim stop on the way down in one of the worst hotels we've experienced yet and a ride on a particularly inventive ferry/barge across a river, we arrived in Antigua, another colonial town and tourist central.
Again, nice
enough, but neither of us could really get into the vibe of the
place. At weekends it filled up with party seekers from Guatemala
City, but even during the week it was busy and expensive. We stayed a
few nights, had a lovely dinner with a local guy and his wife that
we'd previously talked to on Advrider and met another couple from
Oregon riding a similar trip to ours on F650's. It was interesting
talking to them because it turns out they'd been having similar
conversations about how hard it is at times to stay positive on the
road. One thing that pulls us back time and time again though is the
people. I've lost track of the number of total strangers we've talked
to on the street who have written down their phone number and address
in my little notebook, insisting that we come and stay or call them
should we need anything at all.
After deciding very
quickly that Antigua wasn't the place for us to go to school, we set
off for Lake Atitlan. To be honest we weren't really sure where we
were heading, but it certainly wasn't where Google decided to take
us. Pavement gave way to dirt roads as we entered a small village and
soon we found ourselves on a cow path, complete with local cowboys
herding cows. As it got muddier and more deeply rutted I lost my
nerve for the first time on this trip and didn't want to go any
further. Luckily we were only a kilometre or two from the highway at
this point and going back would have been far worse so Evan took my
bike through the last boggy bit for me (and dropped it) and we were
on our way again. Roads like that make me hate my big, heavy bike and
really knock my confidence. Gravel, dirt or small rocks? Fine. Deep
sand, mud or big rocks? Not fine.
That evening we arrived in Panajachel and immediately liked it. It's grittier than Antigua with one long tourist street, but plenty of non-touristy areas too. It seemed there were two main schools in town and upon visiting the first we signed up for a week of lessons on the spot, and later added a second week. We debated accommodation and decided against a homestay. Both of us value our space and the thought of having to be sociable 24/7 and not having control over our meals didn't appeal, so after walking around what must have been half of the town's 96 hotels asking about prices, the owner of the place we were already staying relented and offered us a discount on the nightly rate and so we decided to stay. We ate most nights at a tostada stand for a couple of dollars and followed this up far too often with a slice of the best meringue pie I've had in a very long time at the stand next door.
Spanish school was
great. We decided to go with four hours of lessons a day, but in
reality this was a bit too much. It's hard trying to absorb so much
information and despite our teacher Florinda's best efforts, I often
found myself at overload point by the end of the third hour. Two
weeks in one stretch was definitely enough for starters. We had a lot
of fun though and it was a learning experience in both directions as
we explained to Florinda how things work in Canada and the UK. She
taught me how to say 'Evan smells like Shrek after he eats beans' in
Spanish so it was money well spent.
I don't usually
write much about accommodation, but we've stayed in some choice
places on this trip. Our quest for cheapest often finds us in
situations where in hindsight we wish we'd paid the extra dollar. Be
it for wifi. Or a toilet seat. Or for toilet paper to be included. Or
for the water to work. We've stayed in a couple of really dire
places. We've slept with ant infestations. We've had no running
water. We've stayed in places so noisy that how anyone slept there
was beyond us. We've survived near electrocution from bare wires
sticking out of walls. Luckily our hotel in Pana was none of these
things, in fact it was quite pleasant. The owner was a little odd,
but only in the usual way that we've found so many Guatemalan
businessmen to be and mostly only when it comes to money. There's a
tendency here to clearly quote one price and then when you come to
pay, suddenly it's a dollar or so more. Such small amounts mean that
people rarely complain, but it soon adds up. We later found out that
he'd run for mayor twice and come last both times which explained a
lot. What was most notable about this hotel though was its other
inhabitants.
End of hallway –
American wannabe-hippy yoga teacher, about the same age as me.
Sometimes she spoke to us, sometimes she just smiled and said
nothing. When she did talk she did so in that unnerving voice that
people usually reserve for babies and animals. She wouldn't have been
annoying at all had she not decided to sit on the floor, in the
doorway to our room, virtually on my feet, to watch her hippy guru
videos on her laptop. Every day. Especially when we sat down to eat
at our little table on the balcony. Why? Who knows. She had ample
room outside her own room. Maybe our distaste for this became
apparent to her after a while because a few days before we left she
stopped doing it. Or maybe she failed to make us snap and gave up.
Next door to the
left – French family. Loud, French-only speaking French family with
bratty three year old kid. This kid ruled the place. He shouted for
his dad continuously, ran around screaming and shouting and every
time we sat down to do our Spanish homework his parents would decide
to hand him an ipad to watch kids shows very loudly in French or else
they'd decide to give him a school lesson loudly in French. Did I
mention they were LOUD? The last day they were there they decided to
pack all their things very loudly on the balcony outside our room at
5.30am, just like those annoying people who should never be allowed
to stay in hostel dorms do. On top of a largely sleepless night due
to dogs barking, bins being dragged down the alleyway outside, etc
they were the final straw. Evan stormed out and gave them a piece of
his mind and I don't blame him.
Next door to the
right – retired Dutch guy, also at the same Spanish school as us
and a long term resident. Nice guy, a little arrogant when we first
arrived, but he mellowed the longer we stayed. Various other people
came and went, but no-one of note. For a place down an alley away
from the main drag though, it was incredibly noisy and we had many
sleepless nights there. The irony of being randomly asked at 11pm one
night to turn our television down when it was already barely audible
from within the room completely baffled us. On our last night a
lonesome dog decided it was going to sing from 2am until 6am. We
weren't sorry to get out of there.
It was in Panajachel
that I first realised how much of a problem street dogs can be. Don't
get me wrong, I love dogs and generally they don't bother me, but in
Pana they roam in large packs, make a lot of noise and are quite
intimidating at times. A few nights before we left we were eating
dinner in a nice little restaurant and despite the waiting staff
chasing them out repeatedly, several dogs that had gathered in the
restaurant decided to start fighting. Later we had to chase a couple
of large dogs away from a little old Mayan lady who was struggling to
fend them off as they jumped up and snapped at her as she tried to
sell her wares. Apparently when the problem reaches a certain level
the local authorities poison the dogs and while I can't condone this
as a solution, clearly one is needed. Many of the dogs there have
been fixed and re-released, but lots haven't. Usually I have every
sympathy with animals living such a tough life on the street, but for
some reason in this town they bothered me. Their continuous noise and
fighting all night, their sheer numbers. It was too much.
When we left Pana we
had already decided to head for the El Salvador border. After much
debate and research (and a hundred different answers from different
people) we decided against extending our Guatemalan visas and TVIP's.
It would have been a lot of hassle and waiting around for this to be
processed and would have only bought us about 30 days of extra time,
so therefore we decided to make our way straight to Panama and then
work our way back north within the time limits permitted. Whether to
ride through El Salvador or straight to Honduras wasn't a hard
decision to make. We've heard only good things about El Salvador and
it would be a shame not to see the country, especially as I skipped
it last time.
First though we had
to stop in Guatemala City to pick up a rear tyre for Evan's bike.
Simple enough task, except when you've got multiple lanes in each
direction, a metrobus system in the middle and a wrong turn means an
hour of trying to find a way to get back on track. After finding
ourselves heading in the wrong direction not for the first time and
with no Retorno in sight, Evan decided to try and cut across the
metrobus lanes, in between the concrete blocks with us only narrowly
escaping into the opposite stream of traffic as an approaching police
truck with its lights flashing came to aprehend us, we decided enough
was enough and pulled into a McDonalds parking lot. After a heated
discussion about the validity of using metrobus tracks as turning
places, we decided that I'd stay with the bikes while Evan got a taxi
to take him the 2km to the BMW dealer to collect the tyre.
Two hours
later and still no sign of him, I started to worry. I'd sat on the
kerb, gone in and bought a drink so I could smile at the security
guards and show I was indeed a customer, walked around a bit and
talked to probably 30 different local bikers who'd arrived and left,
and still no sign of Evan. Just as I was wondering what on earth my
options were to track him down, a taxi rolled up and he climbed out.
It turned out the taxi driver had 'misinterpreted' his request and
taken him to a military base miles away. Then he'd run out of gas and
they'd had to push the car to a gas station. Eventually they'd made
it to BMW, fighting through appalling traffic jams, got the tyre and
returned. On a positive note this had given us both time to calm down
after our earlier cross words and a little after 4.30pm we set off
out of town. Far too late to get anywhere very much so we just rode
until it was almost dusk and stopped in a place a little south of the
city. The next day – El Salvador and the unknown for us both.
