I slept well that night in Semuc Champey, curled up in a hammock under the eve of a little hut. As usual, Luis woke me up in his typical fashion though I had a hard time getting to my feet as my left butt-cheek was thoroughly asleep and stayed that way until noon. This made hiking around the pools and waterfalls a bit more challenging as my left leg just kinda flopped around only partally under my control.
Before leaving I bought a fresh pattie of chocolate spiced with cinnamon from little Erika, a local girl. All of her little chocolates were wapped in wide-ruled paper, I wonder if that was donated from the States?
Not wanting to break our habit of fluctuating between mildly bewildered to totally lost we took the wrong dirt path out of town which we didn't realize for about an hour. As usual, we were steered astray by the locals who had no idea of their place on earth. I asked one guy which way it was to Guatemala City and he pointed ahead. I then asked him which was it was to Coban and he pointed behind me. Though lost, I stll knew that Coban and Guatemala City were on the same road in the same direction from us. I thanked him and took off.
After being lost for a couple hours we finally made it back to the little town near Semuc but had burned a lot of fuel on our morning adventure and needed to refuel before moving on. The problem was there was no gas station in town and the nearest was out of range. After asking a few people we were put in contact with a boy who had some combustible liquid in antifreeze jugs that he filtered into our tanks with a pair of pantyhose. He was happy to charge us almost $5 a gallon and we were just as happy to pay it.
We finally did hit the proper paved road which I had a newfound appreciation for. I rode slow for a while taking special note of how good it felt to not to have my innards shook about.
Luis rode up alongside me and gave me a nod which I reciprocated and we were off again.
It was a 5 hour ride to Guatemala City which gave me time to prepare for the traffic that I'd been thinking about for quite some time. Before leaving on this trip, whenever I'd visualize how driving conditions would be I'd always revert back to the few days I've spent in Guatemala City in the past and how lawless the roads were, unlike anything I've seen anywhere. Namely the chicken buses, old smoke-blowing school buses that seem to be driven by aspiring rally racers and are typically painted awful colors before having shiny objects affixed to the outside. The windows of the chicken buses are also highly tinted before stickers are placed on them, including all over the windshield. Why? I have no idea.
We hit the city and were slowed down instantly to a crawl. The road was laden with stoplights and cops overriding them with hand signals. Buses stopped frequently which jammed traffic behind them where peanut salesmen would then converge on the stuck motorists in hopes of a quick sale. It clearly didn't resemble the main artery of the city, which it was.
After a few minutes of standing still in traffic breathing terrible fumes we decided to lane-split which is common down here. The problem was that our bikes are wide, about twice what the little local bikes are. The general rule of thumb when approaching a tight spot is to go closer to the car of less valule, luckily we had no incidents. We became pretty efficient at snaking our way through traffic and blocking cars for each other which made things easier. At one point the Guatemalan version of an HOV lane opened up which was just the left lane of oncomming traffic. No signs, cones, or flags denoting this, just a few cops waving people on as usual. We'd missed the proper exit for the HOV which was going slow, yet faster than we were so we opted to jump up on the raised median, duck under a few trees then darted between some concrete posts (one of which I kissed with my right pannier slightly) before jumping the curb into the HOV, all in time to ride a few hundred yards befor the HOV emptied back onto the main road.
I asked a cabbie where the exit was to Antigua and was told that it was a ways off so we went back to lane-splitting for a while, holding our breath when riding through black clouds of smoke. I then asked a fellow motorcyclist where the exit was, he said he'd point it out to us and to stay close to him as we rode. Not much later we got split up by a car which I left a boot print on. Luis and M-725-BXY shot to the right around a bus while I swung wide to the left. Upon passing the bus I looked for Luis and saw him behind me, pulled over on the side of the road, waving at me. I'd blown past the exit. I darted over to the furthest right lane and couldn't believe I'd missed it. Mr. M-725-BXY then hopped off his bike and blocked traffic before waving for me to come back. I started rolled the bike backwards some 50 yards to Luis before dropping off on the exit ramp, where I thanked the friendly motorcyclist who gave me nod.
The road heading up to Antigua was a fun one; traffic was thin enough to let us ride at a good pace yet congested enough to make us change lanes every few seconds. We did this for the 45 minute to Antigua where we hit their famous cobblestone streets which weren't too bad to ride on, turning was always unpredictable, though.
We checked at five hostels, all were booked. Finally we found some obscure little hotel that had room for us and allowed us to bring the bikes inside for the night. I staggered off in all my mud-covered moto gear in search of food when I was told by a sassy gringa that I was the dirtiest guy that she'd seen in a long time. I was too tired to fire back anything with much wit and simply agreed with her.
Later that night I found two little dread-locks that were sprouting behind my left ear. The culmination of sand, sweat, salt water, dusty roads, exhaust and being whipped in the wind, I guess. I was able to work them out with the help of a salad fork. If memory serves me correctly, the proper term for a fork used as a comb is a dinglehopper, as per The Little Mermaid...One of the many wonderful byproducts of having little sisters.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
1-14-10 Semuc Champey, Guatemala
First off, thanks for all the emails, been having a great time reading them, glad you're liking the blog. If you've got any questions, comments or suggestions I'd like to hear from you.
Before leaving Rio Dulce we reviewed the map and saw that the roads between our current location and destination made a rectangle, with Semuc and Rio Dulce at opposite corners. We could either go up and then over, or go over then up. A local guy said that the southerly route was a terrible road, though didn't know what the northerly route held, so we decide to take our chances and go north.
We set off, backtracking towards the north before crossing through a village then hitting the little road that would take us to Semuc Champey. It didn't take long to see that the road was in bad shape, it was a mine field with thousands of deep potholes, too densely packed to rhythmically swerve around and too muddy to power over as the rear tire broke traction easily. At times riding on the extreme right stide of the road lessened the jarring but then the right pannier took a constant beating from the brush.
The road was often times made up of jagged stones protruding several inches from the mud, just waiting to tear the tires or us open. We paid special attention not to lean the bikes too much which would expose the vulnerable sidewalls and to not spin the rear tire as a sharp rock could then slice through. We can fix small holes caused by nails but a tear is irreparable. The nearest tire shop is some 6 hrs off (that is, if we don't get lost along the way).
It was the most frustrating part of the trip without a doubt, as there seemed to be no way around beating up the bike in some way. It was a constant trade-off between swerving hard to avoid holes and rocks or hitting the holes head on which I didn't like putting the bike through. The bike did fine, though, it never faltered and hasn't given me any real trouble since. The only problem I noticed was a small crack forming in the stock rack which I attribute to the heavily-loaded top case. I've since loaded the top case with nothing but light clothing and will probably fabricate some sort of a steel brace for the rack.
Things got worse as it became muddier with deep pools from recent rains. We never knew how deep the pools were or what was hidden beneath the surface, just had to assume that they were passable.
Though unnerving at times, the pools were fun. Upon approaching the large ones I'd low down and shift into first, then stomp on the pegs while pulling up on the bars which would transfer weight and thus traction to the rear tire, giving me. A sharp burp of the throttle would unweight the front which would help me clear any debris in the pool.
The deeper pools were around 18" deep and covered my engine heads which sent two clouds of strangely sweet-smelling steam rising up, penetrating my jacket and fogging my shield. I'd frequently drag my front brake after hitting the bigger pools test and clear it. Sometime it would slip for few moments, other times it would just squeal.
Luis had a rough go as he had taken off his helmet since we were going slow. He had fastend it to the side of his bike where it filled with muddy water after one particularly deep hole. It's now taken apart and drying next to the river where he cleaned it.
We occasionally would get behind a Toyota Hilux, the Latin American version of the Tacoma, here they're 3/4 ton diesels, and usually come with many indigenous people in the back. Before passing them, the people would just stare at us without any emotion on their face. I'm guessing they were wondering who was under the helmet, where they came from, what their life was like, etc., then again, maybe not. I wondered if my motorcycle jacket could stop a blow dart, the pamphlet I got when I bought it didn't specify.
We rode past a lot lot of nekked kids, some with sling-shots, some scratching their backs with machetes, others carrying loads of firewood on their backs. When we'd come to a hut with kids outside one would run inside then reappear with the other family members. Some would just stare at us blankly while others would jump in the air and wave. We'd honk at them which they seemed to really enjoy.
We stopped and chatted with a few of them, their native language was Q'eqchi full of clicks and pops, though they spoke some Spanish as well. We asked them if they see gringos on motorcycles in the area frequently to which they laughed and replied, "Never!"
Luis and I both had a strange feeling again about where we were. We've both been in remote place before many times with nobody around, but something just felt different here, still can't quite put my finger on it, but it seems to have more to do with how the locals perceived us than how we perceived our surroundings.
Today was the first day I've felt far, far away from home.
We stopped for pictures frequently as it was an incredible area. There were huge sprawling valleys dotted with strange rock formations that jutted up like small islands amongst the fields. Fences were made out of saplings that had been cut and shoved into the ground where they then took root and leafed-out.
At one spot we stopped Luis ran off into the bush to get a better angle at a photo. I was still astride my bike when I heard a high-pitched whine, I glanced at my gauges but the bike was already turned off, I checked my mirrors and saw nothing. Then I looked towards Luis and saw a cloud of bees heading my way. "Abejas!" I screamed. He had apparently angered a hive though the bees flew directly away from him, towards me. While confused by this, I thought it would be better to ask questions later. I jammed on my helmet, slapped the visor shut and shrugged my shoulders up like a turtle to seal the gap at my neck before fumbling for my keys and gunning it out of there. Luis escaped just fine, as did I which is a good thing as I've been having worse and worse reactions to bee stings lately.
The last time I was stung was while living in Mexico. I was with a local guy in a remote valley of the mine marking out where we were to do some investigative drilling when a bee stung my left forearm, causing it to swell instantly. I told my comrade who then asked me for my knife which he scurried up a tree with and cut long strips of bark which he made me chew on before spitting it out and using it as a poultice on the sting. After 30 minutes of this it was as if I hadn't been stung at all- no redness, swelling or pain.
We rode until we hit a little town that wasn't on the map whose few streets were all crooked and muddy, as usual. We asked if there was a restaurant nearby and realized we were standing right next to one, though it didn't exactly look like it as there was no advertising. Inside a single bare light bulb dangled from the ceiling whose glow was softend by the smoke that drifted into the 'dining area' from the kitchen. There was no chimney in the place, just holes in the roof.
They were only serving one dish at the time which made ordering easy. To drink all they had was coffee that came flavored with lots of sugar and cinnamon, not my preferance exactly, but better than the alternative. Our dishes came out consisting of beans, a pool of cream, a chunk of meat and a stack of thick corn tortillas. No flatware was provided which I've only seen a few places now.
The meat was the toughest I've had to date in my 27 years. I had to grip the chunk with my teeth and both hands which were wrapped in tortillas and still could barely tear pieces off. It turned into a vulture-like affair, ripping and gulping what I could then scooping up the beans and cream which weren't memorable. Not sure what cut of burned beast I had, nor do I want to.
Our next stop came when we hit the town of Fray Bartolome, we were elated to hit pavement after 60 miles of greasy goat trails and stopped for pictures. Our elation was shortlived as we realized that only the town was paved and an even worse road lay ahead.
The road running from Fray to Semuc was terrifyingly steep at times, the steepest sections had two narrow paved tracks with loose rock on either side, good for 4-wheeled vehicles but was like walking a tight-rope for us.
Luis and I took turns leading as it's more dangerous than following; we each had our close calls. On one steep descent I was making a tight left turn when an ascending truck swung wide to keep up his speed, I swerved outside as he slammed on his brakes. No contact.
Once while Luis was leading we were in a thicker part of the jungle swerving in and out of little ravines on the face of a mountain. While popping out of one ravine I caught a glimpse of a dark blue vehicle approaching us from across the way and hoped Luis saw it too. He did at the last second as it rounded a blind curve. Luis locked up his rear and slid perhaps 6 inches from the driver's door. Again, no contact.
The worst parts were when the mud on the road was whipped up into a paste by other vehicles, almost to a fluffy, greasy consistency. With this mud type accompanied by a sloping road, any acceleration or braking would cause the rear to slide down the slope though we were able to keep the front pointed ahead, causing us to ride diagonally, legs flailing about at times until we hit dry ground.
We came upon a bridge with planks running perpendicular to the direction of travel which then had two tracks consisting of three planks on top of these, running parallel, meant to be driven on by trucks. The problem was that there were 4" gaps in the parallel planks, just wide enough to eat a motorcycle tire. I decided to run down the center, across the perpendicular planks but quickly realized that the planks weren't fastened down very well, each plank dropped a few inches upon hitting it. I hit the throttle and leaned back, pulling the front wheel up as falling through with the back would be less problematic I figured. Hitting the planks created a strange sound, very much like a large xylophone with different tones. Though amusing, not something I felt like doing again.
Luis took a different route, on the far left as he didn't like what he saw when I went through. His was worse yet as a few of the boards actually popped up as he rode over them.
We finally made it to Semuc Champey some 7 hours and 105 miles of trail later. We were sore and tired, but we had made it.
Before leaving Rio Dulce we reviewed the map and saw that the roads between our current location and destination made a rectangle, with Semuc and Rio Dulce at opposite corners. We could either go up and then over, or go over then up. A local guy said that the southerly route was a terrible road, though didn't know what the northerly route held, so we decide to take our chances and go north.
We set off, backtracking towards the north before crossing through a village then hitting the little road that would take us to Semuc Champey. It didn't take long to see that the road was in bad shape, it was a mine field with thousands of deep potholes, too densely packed to rhythmically swerve around and too muddy to power over as the rear tire broke traction easily. At times riding on the extreme right stide of the road lessened the jarring but then the right pannier took a constant beating from the brush.
The road was often times made up of jagged stones protruding several inches from the mud, just waiting to tear the tires or us open. We paid special attention not to lean the bikes too much which would expose the vulnerable sidewalls and to not spin the rear tire as a sharp rock could then slice through. We can fix small holes caused by nails but a tear is irreparable. The nearest tire shop is some 6 hrs off (that is, if we don't get lost along the way).
It was the most frustrating part of the trip without a doubt, as there seemed to be no way around beating up the bike in some way. It was a constant trade-off between swerving hard to avoid holes and rocks or hitting the holes head on which I didn't like putting the bike through. The bike did fine, though, it never faltered and hasn't given me any real trouble since. The only problem I noticed was a small crack forming in the stock rack which I attribute to the heavily-loaded top case. I've since loaded the top case with nothing but light clothing and will probably fabricate some sort of a steel brace for the rack.
Things got worse as it became muddier with deep pools from recent rains. We never knew how deep the pools were or what was hidden beneath the surface, just had to assume that they were passable.
Though unnerving at times, the pools were fun. Upon approaching the large ones I'd low down and shift into first, then stomp on the pegs while pulling up on the bars which would transfer weight and thus traction to the rear tire, giving me. A sharp burp of the throttle would unweight the front which would help me clear any debris in the pool.
The deeper pools were around 18" deep and covered my engine heads which sent two clouds of strangely sweet-smelling steam rising up, penetrating my jacket and fogging my shield. I'd frequently drag my front brake after hitting the bigger pools test and clear it. Sometime it would slip for few moments, other times it would just squeal.
Luis had a rough go as he had taken off his helmet since we were going slow. He had fastend it to the side of his bike where it filled with muddy water after one particularly deep hole. It's now taken apart and drying next to the river where he cleaned it.
We occasionally would get behind a Toyota Hilux, the Latin American version of the Tacoma, here they're 3/4 ton diesels, and usually come with many indigenous people in the back. Before passing them, the people would just stare at us without any emotion on their face. I'm guessing they were wondering who was under the helmet, where they came from, what their life was like, etc., then again, maybe not. I wondered if my motorcycle jacket could stop a blow dart, the pamphlet I got when I bought it didn't specify.
We rode past a lot lot of nekked kids, some with sling-shots, some scratching their backs with machetes, others carrying loads of firewood on their backs. When we'd come to a hut with kids outside one would run inside then reappear with the other family members. Some would just stare at us blankly while others would jump in the air and wave. We'd honk at them which they seemed to really enjoy.
We stopped and chatted with a few of them, their native language was Q'eqchi full of clicks and pops, though they spoke some Spanish as well. We asked them if they see gringos on motorcycles in the area frequently to which they laughed and replied, "Never!"
Luis and I both had a strange feeling again about where we were. We've both been in remote place before many times with nobody around, but something just felt different here, still can't quite put my finger on it, but it seems to have more to do with how the locals perceived us than how we perceived our surroundings.
Today was the first day I've felt far, far away from home.
We stopped for pictures frequently as it was an incredible area. There were huge sprawling valleys dotted with strange rock formations that jutted up like small islands amongst the fields. Fences were made out of saplings that had been cut and shoved into the ground where they then took root and leafed-out.
At one spot we stopped Luis ran off into the bush to get a better angle at a photo. I was still astride my bike when I heard a high-pitched whine, I glanced at my gauges but the bike was already turned off, I checked my mirrors and saw nothing. Then I looked towards Luis and saw a cloud of bees heading my way. "Abejas!" I screamed. He had apparently angered a hive though the bees flew directly away from him, towards me. While confused by this, I thought it would be better to ask questions later. I jammed on my helmet, slapped the visor shut and shrugged my shoulders up like a turtle to seal the gap at my neck before fumbling for my keys and gunning it out of there. Luis escaped just fine, as did I which is a good thing as I've been having worse and worse reactions to bee stings lately.
The last time I was stung was while living in Mexico. I was with a local guy in a remote valley of the mine marking out where we were to do some investigative drilling when a bee stung my left forearm, causing it to swell instantly. I told my comrade who then asked me for my knife which he scurried up a tree with and cut long strips of bark which he made me chew on before spitting it out and using it as a poultice on the sting. After 30 minutes of this it was as if I hadn't been stung at all- no redness, swelling or pain.
We rode until we hit a little town that wasn't on the map whose few streets were all crooked and muddy, as usual. We asked if there was a restaurant nearby and realized we were standing right next to one, though it didn't exactly look like it as there was no advertising. Inside a single bare light bulb dangled from the ceiling whose glow was softend by the smoke that drifted into the 'dining area' from the kitchen. There was no chimney in the place, just holes in the roof.
They were only serving one dish at the time which made ordering easy. To drink all they had was coffee that came flavored with lots of sugar and cinnamon, not my preferance exactly, but better than the alternative. Our dishes came out consisting of beans, a pool of cream, a chunk of meat and a stack of thick corn tortillas. No flatware was provided which I've only seen a few places now.
The meat was the toughest I've had to date in my 27 years. I had to grip the chunk with my teeth and both hands which were wrapped in tortillas and still could barely tear pieces off. It turned into a vulture-like affair, ripping and gulping what I could then scooping up the beans and cream which weren't memorable. Not sure what cut of burned beast I had, nor do I want to.
Our next stop came when we hit the town of Fray Bartolome, we were elated to hit pavement after 60 miles of greasy goat trails and stopped for pictures. Our elation was shortlived as we realized that only the town was paved and an even worse road lay ahead.
The road running from Fray to Semuc was terrifyingly steep at times, the steepest sections had two narrow paved tracks with loose rock on either side, good for 4-wheeled vehicles but was like walking a tight-rope for us.
Luis and I took turns leading as it's more dangerous than following; we each had our close calls. On one steep descent I was making a tight left turn when an ascending truck swung wide to keep up his speed, I swerved outside as he slammed on his brakes. No contact.
Once while Luis was leading we were in a thicker part of the jungle swerving in and out of little ravines on the face of a mountain. While popping out of one ravine I caught a glimpse of a dark blue vehicle approaching us from across the way and hoped Luis saw it too. He did at the last second as it rounded a blind curve. Luis locked up his rear and slid perhaps 6 inches from the driver's door. Again, no contact.
The worst parts were when the mud on the road was whipped up into a paste by other vehicles, almost to a fluffy, greasy consistency. With this mud type accompanied by a sloping road, any acceleration or braking would cause the rear to slide down the slope though we were able to keep the front pointed ahead, causing us to ride diagonally, legs flailing about at times until we hit dry ground.
We came upon a bridge with planks running perpendicular to the direction of travel which then had two tracks consisting of three planks on top of these, running parallel, meant to be driven on by trucks. The problem was that there were 4" gaps in the parallel planks, just wide enough to eat a motorcycle tire. I decided to run down the center, across the perpendicular planks but quickly realized that the planks weren't fastened down very well, each plank dropped a few inches upon hitting it. I hit the throttle and leaned back, pulling the front wheel up as falling through with the back would be less problematic I figured. Hitting the planks created a strange sound, very much like a large xylophone with different tones. Though amusing, not something I felt like doing again.
Luis took a different route, on the far left as he didn't like what he saw when I went through. His was worse yet as a few of the boards actually popped up as he rode over them.
We finally made it to Semuc Champey some 7 hours and 105 miles of trail later. We were sore and tired, but we had made it.
Monday, January 25, 2010
1-13-10 Rio Dulce, Guatemala
First off, remember Charlie, who I rode with in Mexico? Well, Charlie hit a calf (yes, as in small cow) on his bike. You might want to see this.... http://www.wanderlustride.com/
We took off from Tikal while still early and decided to go to Semuc Champey which we understood was a series of turquoise pools separated by falls with a few hot springs thrown in as well. Something that sounded worth our time especially as it was located in a more remote part of Guatemala and would thus have a low gringo-count.
Just outside of Tikal we passed two other riders, clearly not from the area on two well-farkled BMW 650s. Both parties stopped and rode back toward each other where we talked for quite some time. They were a German couple who had been riding around the world since 2007 (making my little trip seem like a weekend jaunt). Their favorite place thus far has been Mongolia, might need to check that out. Neither of us had seen other riders in a few weeks so it was nice to get some info from a motorcyclists standpoint on the area. One of the most pressing topics was how we would cross the Darien Gap from Panama to South America as there are no roads running through the FARC-controlled jungle. Also, the husband was having issues with his suspension. He was running a prototype rear suspension which he'd blown a total of 4 times in the 135,000 km trip. I think I'll be sticking with my current suspension, thank you.
Luis and I made good time heading south and decided we would hit Semuc Champey briefly then carry on to Antigua, my home for a month last year. As usual, though, we had a difficult time predicting how long it would take us to get somewhere as the map doesn't do much to show how curvy or straight the road is. Sometimes we can run around 90 mph, others we're held to under 30 mph, traffic changes things all together.
We stopped at a little comedor for a bite and quickly asked the waitress, "What do you have to eat" which might seem a bit rude but it's not, as these places don't have menus and their selection changes daily. The rule of thumb in Latin America is to not eat beef when possible as it's, well, terrible. I chose a nice bbq chicken and talked to some well-armed guys about the way to Semuc while waiting who assured us it was just down the road.
After our gut-busting $2 meal we set out again, having to lean back from the handlebars a bit to accomodate what felt like a small child inside of me. We cruised down the road another hour, longer than we thought we should have, as we knew a critical junction was ahead. I talked to a boy of maybe 10 years who assured me that I was going the right way so we kept riding.
We soon realized that we wouldn't be making it to Antigua this night, so we'd just camp out at Semuc. First we needed some supplies and stopped by one of the many tiendas along the road. These are almost identical in all of Latin America. They sell few perishables, lots of Fanta and Coke, semi-fresh bread, unrefrigerated eggs, boxed milk, cookies, dried shrimp, canned delights, etc.
I asked the girl working there where we were exactly and she named off some obscure town so I asked her how far it was to Semuc Champey. We were expecting to be about an hour away and were looking forward to a good soak in the springs. She gazed at the ceiling and took a deep breath before saying that it was very, very far. This didn't worry us at first as here 'very, very far' can mean that it would take a long time to walk there, perhaps a long trek en burro, certainly not a problem for our iron horses.
I pulled out my map and though she didn't see her litle village, she knew that we were only a few clicks from Rio Dulce which was tucked against the Honduran border near the Carribean, clearly not where we thought we were.
There was clearly no sense in trying to backtrack to Semuc Champey for the night as there would be cheap hostels in Rio Dulce. We thanked the girl and bought a few dusty liters of water before heading down the down the road again.
Once at Rio Dulce we rode over an enormous bridge and putted around by the water when we came across a fantastic hostel situated on the bank of the 2km wide river. The hostel looked to have been a warehouse at one time with several floors rising up, none of which were walled off. We were on the top floor where we could see all the framing above which was done in a very creative fashion.
Not long after arriving I ran into a girl who I studied Spanish with in Antigua in the spring. We chatted for a while and came to find out that she splits her time between volunteering at an orphanage and binging on cocaine. So yeah, on average she's doing just fine, right?
Luis and I walked around what few establishments were nearby and came upon a hardware store where we were in search of machetes for wrangling coconuts. We left with no machetes but rather a can of condensed milk and 4 hose clamps (the third sibbling to duct tape and bailing wire when it comes to non-traditional repairs). Luis has a very, very strange obsession with condensed milk, he puts it on fruit or bread or in his coffee or drinks it straight. He often times has a can wedged between his gauge panel and windshield for mid-ride refueling. Luis usually buys the little cans but always gets excited when he finds th e squeeze variety as it travels much better. He asks me at stops, "Quieres energia?" (...want some energy?) before taking a shot then tossing it to me. Sometimes I pass, but the stuff is kinda good.
While on the subject of Luis, I realize I haven't divulged much about the guy. He's in his early 40s but looks half that. He was born and raised in Venezuela where he earned a degree in computer engineering which landed him a job in the oil/gas industry that bored him terribly. He then moved to Vancouver, BC some 15 years ago and has since worked as a singer and salsa teacher and motorcycle mechanic and tour guide. He's a phenomenal salsa dancer. Simply incredible. In Mexico I saw him dacing with a girl who he had just met minutes earlier when he folded her in half backwards then dropped her before catching her by the neck with his heel which he then used to kick her back to her feet with (all of which he meant to do, or so it seemed).
He's a very good photographer and takes many pictures which he has got me in the habit of doing now. I give him my helmet-cam video in exchange for his photos, everybody wins.
We had originally planned to ride just a few days together and split up at San Cristobal as he had planned to reach Costa Rica by early January where he'd leave his bike with a friend before returning to Vancouver to work for a few months. However, at the last minute he decided to ride with me on my rough itinerary (which has happened several times since).
Luis always wakes up early and walks around outside in the dark before waking me up with some strange statement followed by several minutes of some story. It's never the same. "Have you tried oil additives because I have and really think they work well."
We took off from Tikal while still early and decided to go to Semuc Champey which we understood was a series of turquoise pools separated by falls with a few hot springs thrown in as well. Something that sounded worth our time especially as it was located in a more remote part of Guatemala and would thus have a low gringo-count.
Just outside of Tikal we passed two other riders, clearly not from the area on two well-farkled BMW 650s. Both parties stopped and rode back toward each other where we talked for quite some time. They were a German couple who had been riding around the world since 2007 (making my little trip seem like a weekend jaunt). Their favorite place thus far has been Mongolia, might need to check that out. Neither of us had seen other riders in a few weeks so it was nice to get some info from a motorcyclists standpoint on the area. One of the most pressing topics was how we would cross the Darien Gap from Panama to South America as there are no roads running through the FARC-controlled jungle. Also, the husband was having issues with his suspension. He was running a prototype rear suspension which he'd blown a total of 4 times in the 135,000 km trip. I think I'll be sticking with my current suspension, thank you.
Luis and I made good time heading south and decided we would hit Semuc Champey briefly then carry on to Antigua, my home for a month last year. As usual, though, we had a difficult time predicting how long it would take us to get somewhere as the map doesn't do much to show how curvy or straight the road is. Sometimes we can run around 90 mph, others we're held to under 30 mph, traffic changes things all together.
We stopped at a little comedor for a bite and quickly asked the waitress, "What do you have to eat" which might seem a bit rude but it's not, as these places don't have menus and their selection changes daily. The rule of thumb in Latin America is to not eat beef when possible as it's, well, terrible. I chose a nice bbq chicken and talked to some well-armed guys about the way to Semuc while waiting who assured us it was just down the road.
After our gut-busting $2 meal we set out again, having to lean back from the handlebars a bit to accomodate what felt like a small child inside of me. We cruised down the road another hour, longer than we thought we should have, as we knew a critical junction was ahead. I talked to a boy of maybe 10 years who assured me that I was going the right way so we kept riding.
We soon realized that we wouldn't be making it to Antigua this night, so we'd just camp out at Semuc. First we needed some supplies and stopped by one of the many tiendas along the road. These are almost identical in all of Latin America. They sell few perishables, lots of Fanta and Coke, semi-fresh bread, unrefrigerated eggs, boxed milk, cookies, dried shrimp, canned delights, etc.
I asked the girl working there where we were exactly and she named off some obscure town so I asked her how far it was to Semuc Champey. We were expecting to be about an hour away and were looking forward to a good soak in the springs. She gazed at the ceiling and took a deep breath before saying that it was very, very far. This didn't worry us at first as here 'very, very far' can mean that it would take a long time to walk there, perhaps a long trek en burro, certainly not a problem for our iron horses.
I pulled out my map and though she didn't see her litle village, she knew that we were only a few clicks from Rio Dulce which was tucked against the Honduran border near the Carribean, clearly not where we thought we were.
There was clearly no sense in trying to backtrack to Semuc Champey for the night as there would be cheap hostels in Rio Dulce. We thanked the girl and bought a few dusty liters of water before heading down the down the road again.
Once at Rio Dulce we rode over an enormous bridge and putted around by the water when we came across a fantastic hostel situated on the bank of the 2km wide river. The hostel looked to have been a warehouse at one time with several floors rising up, none of which were walled off. We were on the top floor where we could see all the framing above which was done in a very creative fashion.
Not long after arriving I ran into a girl who I studied Spanish with in Antigua in the spring. We chatted for a while and came to find out that she splits her time between volunteering at an orphanage and binging on cocaine. So yeah, on average she's doing just fine, right?
Luis and I walked around what few establishments were nearby and came upon a hardware store where we were in search of machetes for wrangling coconuts. We left with no machetes but rather a can of condensed milk and 4 hose clamps (the third sibbling to duct tape and bailing wire when it comes to non-traditional repairs). Luis has a very, very strange obsession with condensed milk, he puts it on fruit or bread or in his coffee or drinks it straight. He often times has a can wedged between his gauge panel and windshield for mid-ride refueling. Luis usually buys the little cans but always gets excited when he finds th e squeeze variety as it travels much better. He asks me at stops, "Quieres energia?" (...want some energy?) before taking a shot then tossing it to me. Sometimes I pass, but the stuff is kinda good.
While on the subject of Luis, I realize I haven't divulged much about the guy. He's in his early 40s but looks half that. He was born and raised in Venezuela where he earned a degree in computer engineering which landed him a job in the oil/gas industry that bored him terribly. He then moved to Vancouver, BC some 15 years ago and has since worked as a singer and salsa teacher and motorcycle mechanic and tour guide. He's a phenomenal salsa dancer. Simply incredible. In Mexico I saw him dacing with a girl who he had just met minutes earlier when he folded her in half backwards then dropped her before catching her by the neck with his heel which he then used to kick her back to her feet with (all of which he meant to do, or so it seemed).
He's a very good photographer and takes many pictures which he has got me in the habit of doing now. I give him my helmet-cam video in exchange for his photos, everybody wins.
We had originally planned to ride just a few days together and split up at San Cristobal as he had planned to reach Costa Rica by early January where he'd leave his bike with a friend before returning to Vancouver to work for a few months. However, at the last minute he decided to ride with me on my rough itinerary (which has happened several times since).
Luis always wakes up early and walks around outside in the dark before waking me up with some strange statement followed by several minutes of some story. It's never the same. "Have you tried oil additives because I have and really think they work well."
Friday, January 22, 2010
1-13-10 Tikal, Guatemala
Before pushing any paper at the Guatemalan border we had to get our bikes 'fumigated' by some guys with a garden hose. He gave the bottom half of the bikes a quick spray, no more than two seconds each side. I ran my finger over the clear liquid and smelled it, surprisingly water-like... Whatever it was, we had to pay $5 for it.
The paperwork this time was pretty easy and pleasantly cheap. The customs agent did, however, want to put my vehicle import sticker in the center of my windshield directly in my line of view though after a series of protests and unpleasantries he reluctantly put in on the bottom of the shield.
We decided to go straight through to Tikal, a huge set of Mayan ruins in conjunction with a national park. Before entering we had to stop at a security checkpoint where they gave me a piece of paper with the time written on it. I asked what it was for and was told it was to stop speeding.
"You can't go over 45 kph" The cop said sternly.
I asked him how far it was to the next checkpoint.
"33.2 kms"
He should have said that our average speed couldn't be over 45kph, a brief calculation later and Luis and I knew what time we should arrive at the next checkpoint to avoid a 'multa'.
Luis and I were side by side at the swinging gate which the guard opened slowly. Luis' side was open first and he revved it out of the gate, hitting second gear before the my side was up high enough to duck under where I dumped the clutch and pulled a decent wheelie before giving chase to Luis until reaching 45 kph, of course.
Once out of view of the cops we set our pace around 90 kph, appropriate for the road which was in good shape and full of gentle curves. We rode a while until Luis spotted a wetland where he went off looking for snakes while I attended wheelie practice. No snakes were found, though he did snare three indigenous toddlers. Just kidding.
We took a break and had some water and condensed milk (Luis loves condensed milk) then waited a few more minutes until the time was right before heading off to the next checkpoint and turned in our ticked without incident.
Once at Tikal we set up camp under a little thatch hut with a concrete floor. I used my armored jacket and pants as a sleeping pad before setting up my bag and bug canopy. (The next morning I awoke next to a curious 4" spider).
We quickly met Julietta, from Argentina, and all three of us headed off to the ruins. These things are huge! Easily the best set of ruins I've seen down here. They have very steep sides around 200' tall, some with steps leading up one side. Most of the taller ruins were closed off after some unlucky gringas took the fast way down to the bottom in 2006.
There are some 1500 ruins here, of which about 500 are unearthed and in various stages of restoration. It certainly gave me a strange feeling walking around these ruins, not seeing anybody else and imagining that it was a bustling hub of commerce not too long ago.
In some places the ruins have been excavated to show even older ruins as Tikal has been rebuilt upon itself numerous times. This is true for most of the ruins in the area, especially with the tall temples. Rather than start from scratch, a new ruler would simply build onto an existing temple, making it taller and wider before calling it his own. This continued through many centuries of different rulers from different empires. In Mexico, the most recent additions are of Catholic churches atop temples. More than a little symbolism here.
Night came quickly in the park but not before we got some good pictures of the sunset. On our walk back to the campsite out we met up with some other campers and found out that there was some exorbitant fee to enter the park for sunrise, even though we'd paid for a 24 hour ticket. It was decided that we would all sneak into the park and reconvene atop Temple IV before sunrise the next morning as we'd heard this was a tradition amognst travelers like ourselves.
The next day we set out before 5am, well before first light. I was ahead of Luis and Julietta by about 15 yards on the main road, though still 80 yards from the park entrance where we'd seen several guards the night before with pistol-gripped 12 gauges. Julietta flicked on her light momentarily to see what lay in front of her and was quickly illuminated by a spotlight. I was on the outter fringe of the light and slinked into the shadows of some thin jungle.
Julietta followed Luis, who was being his friendly and police-trusting self and went over to chat with the guard. They were both detained until 6am until the park was officially opened.
I didn't know this at the time so I cut diagonally from the road to the main trail, bypassing the security shack, stumbling over roots and spitting out spider webs all while trying to be quiet.
I eventually hit the trail we had hiked the day before and waited 15 minutes for Luis and Julietta, more than twice as long as it should have taken them. Upon realizing that they weren't coming I started jogging along the trail towards the temple, opening my eyes as wide as I could to see better though still stepped in quite a few puddles. On occasion I could see absolutely noting due to the dense jungle blocking the moonlight so I'd take out my little red LED light and shield it in my hand so that I was only illuminating the ground a few feet in front of me before moving on.
It was a convoluted network of trails and I ended up taking the wrong path for a few minutes and stopped to turn around when from the tree above me came the most terrifying sound I've ever heard. A howler monkey. I really don't know how to describe the sound, it's kinda like a throaty growling dog mixed with a screaming demon. Yes, very pleasant.
The monkey above me set off dozens of other monkeys in the area, all belting out their little war cries at me. I didn't move for a few minutes and just listened, knowing that I would never forget this.
I eventually got my bearings and made it back to the proper trail leading to Temple IV. I kept jogging then saw two head lamps ahead of me. I slowed down to a tip-toe and could hear them speaking English so resumed jogging again. Their lights both flashed my way then simultaneously shut off and I could hear them running away.
A few minutes later I made it to Temple IV where I saw the guys who'd run off earlier.
"Yeah, we thought you were a cop on a bike!"
There weren't many of us at the top, some Aussies and Germans, a fluvial geomorphologist from the States and his son, and some girls from Wyoming and Montana who I've run now run into 5 times since then throughout Guatemala.
The sunrise was better than I expected. We were as high up as we could go on Tikal's tallest temple overlooking jungle as far as we could see with smaller temples poking through the canopy off in the distance. There were falcons buzzing past us, toucans in nearby trees and we could see anteaters waddling about on the jungle floor beneath us. Vale la pena...
Eventually Luis and Julietta were released and met us atop the temple.
"You get good pictures!?" was his first concern
We quickly
The paperwork this time was pretty easy and pleasantly cheap. The customs agent did, however, want to put my vehicle import sticker in the center of my windshield directly in my line of view though after a series of protests and unpleasantries he reluctantly put in on the bottom of the shield.
We decided to go straight through to Tikal, a huge set of Mayan ruins in conjunction with a national park. Before entering we had to stop at a security checkpoint where they gave me a piece of paper with the time written on it. I asked what it was for and was told it was to stop speeding.
"You can't go over 45 kph" The cop said sternly.
I asked him how far it was to the next checkpoint.
"33.2 kms"
He should have said that our average speed couldn't be over 45kph, a brief calculation later and Luis and I knew what time we should arrive at the next checkpoint to avoid a 'multa'.
Luis and I were side by side at the swinging gate which the guard opened slowly. Luis' side was open first and he revved it out of the gate, hitting second gear before the my side was up high enough to duck under where I dumped the clutch and pulled a decent wheelie before giving chase to Luis until reaching 45 kph, of course.
Once out of view of the cops we set our pace around 90 kph, appropriate for the road which was in good shape and full of gentle curves. We rode a while until Luis spotted a wetland where he went off looking for snakes while I attended wheelie practice. No snakes were found, though he did snare three indigenous toddlers. Just kidding.
We took a break and had some water and condensed milk (Luis loves condensed milk) then waited a few more minutes until the time was right before heading off to the next checkpoint and turned in our ticked without incident.
Once at Tikal we set up camp under a little thatch hut with a concrete floor. I used my armored jacket and pants as a sleeping pad before setting up my bag and bug canopy. (The next morning I awoke next to a curious 4" spider).
We quickly met Julietta, from Argentina, and all three of us headed off to the ruins. These things are huge! Easily the best set of ruins I've seen down here. They have very steep sides around 200' tall, some with steps leading up one side. Most of the taller ruins were closed off after some unlucky gringas took the fast way down to the bottom in 2006.
There are some 1500 ruins here, of which about 500 are unearthed and in various stages of restoration. It certainly gave me a strange feeling walking around these ruins, not seeing anybody else and imagining that it was a bustling hub of commerce not too long ago.
In some places the ruins have been excavated to show even older ruins as Tikal has been rebuilt upon itself numerous times. This is true for most of the ruins in the area, especially with the tall temples. Rather than start from scratch, a new ruler would simply build onto an existing temple, making it taller and wider before calling it his own. This continued through many centuries of different rulers from different empires. In Mexico, the most recent additions are of Catholic churches atop temples. More than a little symbolism here.
Night came quickly in the park but not before we got some good pictures of the sunset. On our walk back to the campsite out we met up with some other campers and found out that there was some exorbitant fee to enter the park for sunrise, even though we'd paid for a 24 hour ticket. It was decided that we would all sneak into the park and reconvene atop Temple IV before sunrise the next morning as we'd heard this was a tradition amognst travelers like ourselves.
The next day we set out before 5am, well before first light. I was ahead of Luis and Julietta by about 15 yards on the main road, though still 80 yards from the park entrance where we'd seen several guards the night before with pistol-gripped 12 gauges. Julietta flicked on her light momentarily to see what lay in front of her and was quickly illuminated by a spotlight. I was on the outter fringe of the light and slinked into the shadows of some thin jungle.
Julietta followed Luis, who was being his friendly and police-trusting self and went over to chat with the guard. They were both detained until 6am until the park was officially opened.
I didn't know this at the time so I cut diagonally from the road to the main trail, bypassing the security shack, stumbling over roots and spitting out spider webs all while trying to be quiet.
I eventually hit the trail we had hiked the day before and waited 15 minutes for Luis and Julietta, more than twice as long as it should have taken them. Upon realizing that they weren't coming I started jogging along the trail towards the temple, opening my eyes as wide as I could to see better though still stepped in quite a few puddles. On occasion I could see absolutely noting due to the dense jungle blocking the moonlight so I'd take out my little red LED light and shield it in my hand so that I was only illuminating the ground a few feet in front of me before moving on.
It was a convoluted network of trails and I ended up taking the wrong path for a few minutes and stopped to turn around when from the tree above me came the most terrifying sound I've ever heard. A howler monkey. I really don't know how to describe the sound, it's kinda like a throaty growling dog mixed with a screaming demon. Yes, very pleasant.
The monkey above me set off dozens of other monkeys in the area, all belting out their little war cries at me. I didn't move for a few minutes and just listened, knowing that I would never forget this.
I eventually got my bearings and made it back to the proper trail leading to Temple IV. I kept jogging then saw two head lamps ahead of me. I slowed down to a tip-toe and could hear them speaking English so resumed jogging again. Their lights both flashed my way then simultaneously shut off and I could hear them running away.
A few minutes later I made it to Temple IV where I saw the guys who'd run off earlier.
"Yeah, we thought you were a cop on a bike!"
There weren't many of us at the top, some Aussies and Germans, a fluvial geomorphologist from the States and his son, and some girls from Wyoming and Montana who I've run now run into 5 times since then throughout Guatemala.
The sunrise was better than I expected. We were as high up as we could go on Tikal's tallest temple overlooking jungle as far as we could see with smaller temples poking through the canopy off in the distance. There were falcons buzzing past us, toucans in nearby trees and we could see anteaters waddling about on the jungle floor beneath us. Vale la pena...
Eventually Luis and Julietta were released and met us atop the temple.
"You get good pictures!?" was his first concern
We quickly
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
1-11-10 Dangriga, Belize
The next day we got up early donned our gear, helmets and all before going outside to load the bikes. We took turns standing guard while holding my huge motorcycle lock and chain (a good theif deterrent) while the other packed and were able to take off without incident.
We rode fast through town again, following some directions we'd received the night before. We were happy to hit the huge cemetary full of sarcophagi which was the start of the highway out of town. Our destination was Dangriga, a costal town due south of Belize City, though we had to first jut inland for a while before heading towards the coast on what my map said was a 'Main Highway'. Turns out this 'Main Highway' was unpaved and mostly mud and potholes.
It was a beautiful ride, th,ough rough, through miles and miles of orange groves. Being that today was the 'day of thefts' we immersed ourselves in their culture and pilfered an armful of oranges which we'd stop and eat in the middle of the road during brief photo shoots.
The oranges down here are very different from what we get back in the States. They're natural. They have mottled green and brown skin and taste a little sweeter, like a tangelo; far better than the genetically modified, artificially colored stuff that Sunkist cranks out to please our judgmental eyes.
After a few hours we made it to Dangriga to the highly-recommended sea-side hostel, Vals. It was great spot where Vals daughter made us feel at home. The place was kinda lacking in color...it was entirely constructed out of unpainted concrete.
We were in need of a feed, specifically the famed rice n beans we'd been hearing about and rode around for half an hour and found nothing but ice cream shops and the occasional roadside eatery that didn't have rice n beans. We found it odd that it was so difficult to find the national food which seemed like it would be rather easy to make.
We asked some local guys if they had any idea where we could find some rice n beans and pointed us in various directions throughout the town. One guy gave us rough directions to some guys house that reportedly had food. We were told that he lived near the river, next to his mother and had great 'home made food'.
While trying to find this guy we came upon several large groups of people dancing in the street with a small group of women singing and a few guys banging on drums. There were about 25 men all dressed in women's clothing with Caucasian masks on. They arranged themselves in a circle from tallest to shortest, the littlest being maybe 3 years old. They would then take turns dancing in the center while the crowd cheered. We were never able to get a good answer as to what the dance was about, just a tradition they do around Christmas every year.
Post dance party we came across Elena, a lady of about 60 years on the side of the road with various pots and pans set on a table. We asked her if she had rice n beans, she did! She was happy to serve us our first rice n beans which we found out really refers to a BBQ-like meal. She served up a huge mound of maybe 70% rice and 30% smashed beans, half a chicken and some cole slaw. The chicken tasted like a good dry-rub Texas BBQ, excellent.
As we were chatting with Elena, a toddler came out from an upper balcony near us and started wailing and babbling while leaning through the rails.
"Quit your drop, bebey!" Elena snapped in an authoritative yet loving voice.
Da bebey shut up.
"Quit your drop....?" I said inquisitively.
"Yes, ma dear, it's Creole. Here we speak a mix of English, Spanish, Creole and Garifuna too."
She explained to us how Garifuna is both a language and culture, west African in nature. The Garifuna culture thrives mostly on the coast of Belize, Honduras and the nearby islands.
Just then two of Elena's other grandsons came over, maybe 10 years old and were talking amongst each other.
"Hey!" I yelled at them. "Quit your drop!" They both got wide eyed and Elena let out a howling laugh.
"Das good, das good!"
On the way home Luis crashed. He was ahead of me and was trying to pass a car on the right shoulder when he hit a stretch of mud. Upon trying to steer out of it the bike low-sided to the left and slid briefly, sending a spray of mud, rocks and vegetation into the air. Luis was able to get away from the bike early in the fall and escaped with just a bruised knee. The bike did fine too, just a few bent pieces here and there, nothing we couldn't kick back into place.
The next morning I got up early and went for a run. It was reportedly colder than anyone could remember, maybe in the 50s and the locals were heavily bundled up. It was still pretty comfortable by my standards so I took off my shirt before heading out through town.
I darted through alleys and down their main street then along a river leading to the sea then past a school where dozens of kids were milling around with backpacks almost as big as they were. Some of the kids would run up alongside of me then sprint ahead, frequently looking back and laughing.
Throughout the run I must have heard "Ain'tcha cold!?" ten times and just as many 'Gu Marnins!' My favorite though was some guy about my age who belted out, "You runnin from da cold, white boy!?"
We packed up and rode to the capitol city of Belmopan as I needed to pay a visit to the US Embassy. I had run out of pages in my passport and needed to get more added.
There was no doubt that the locals had nothing to do with the construction of the building. The doors were stainless steel, bomb and bullet resistant and hard to push open, there was no chipping plaster, leaning walls or strange smells. It felt kinda good being in this pseudo-USA. I had to strip down and run everything through a metal detector, all of which I was happy to do.
Being that I was in Latin America I expected this process to not go smoothly but it took just 45 minutes for them to put enough pages in my passport to last me a while. To have this same service down back home takes 3 days and $250, here it's free.
After leaving Belmopan we hit the Blue Hole and adjacent cave. There are actually two Blue Holes in Belize, one in a reef, one is a cenote in the jungle.
We first did our spelunking in what was the largest cave I've ever been in. At times our headlamps couldn't illuminate the walls around us as they were too far away. Our digital cameras could see farther than our eyes, though, so we'd frequently snap pictures, then review them to see what was out there.
We kept hearing rushing water but never saw it. We had the cave to ourselves and were able to hop around the strange formations before going to the cenote for a swim.
The cenote had tepid water, comfortable for swimming. A cenote is essentially a huge spring where water rises to the surface before flowing away on the surface. It was about 40 feet across and had a decent current rising out of the hole which then flowed sideways, forming a river.
The current was difficult to swim against, but upon reaching a sweet spot in the cenote we could feel the current pushing us up, providing a strange feeling of being more bouyant than usual.
After another brief ride (this country is really small) we made it to San Ignacio, adjacent to the Guatemalan border where we found another stand with rice n beans and a parrot that bit Luis. I also had the hottest food of my life here. They had a coarse salsa of sorts with pickled onions and habaneros which worked up quite a case of the sweats for me.
We rode fast through town again, following some directions we'd received the night before. We were happy to hit the huge cemetary full of sarcophagi which was the start of the highway out of town. Our destination was Dangriga, a costal town due south of Belize City, though we had to first jut inland for a while before heading towards the coast on what my map said was a 'Main Highway'. Turns out this 'Main Highway' was unpaved and mostly mud and potholes.
It was a beautiful ride, th,ough rough, through miles and miles of orange groves. Being that today was the 'day of thefts' we immersed ourselves in their culture and pilfered an armful of oranges which we'd stop and eat in the middle of the road during brief photo shoots.
The oranges down here are very different from what we get back in the States. They're natural. They have mottled green and brown skin and taste a little sweeter, like a tangelo; far better than the genetically modified, artificially colored stuff that Sunkist cranks out to please our judgmental eyes.
After a few hours we made it to Dangriga to the highly-recommended sea-side hostel, Vals. It was great spot where Vals daughter made us feel at home. The place was kinda lacking in color...it was entirely constructed out of unpainted concrete.
We were in need of a feed, specifically the famed rice n beans we'd been hearing about and rode around for half an hour and found nothing but ice cream shops and the occasional roadside eatery that didn't have rice n beans. We found it odd that it was so difficult to find the national food which seemed like it would be rather easy to make.
We asked some local guys if they had any idea where we could find some rice n beans and pointed us in various directions throughout the town. One guy gave us rough directions to some guys house that reportedly had food. We were told that he lived near the river, next to his mother and had great 'home made food'.
While trying to find this guy we came upon several large groups of people dancing in the street with a small group of women singing and a few guys banging on drums. There were about 25 men all dressed in women's clothing with Caucasian masks on. They arranged themselves in a circle from tallest to shortest, the littlest being maybe 3 years old. They would then take turns dancing in the center while the crowd cheered. We were never able to get a good answer as to what the dance was about, just a tradition they do around Christmas every year.
Post dance party we came across Elena, a lady of about 60 years on the side of the road with various pots and pans set on a table. We asked her if she had rice n beans, she did! She was happy to serve us our first rice n beans which we found out really refers to a BBQ-like meal. She served up a huge mound of maybe 70% rice and 30% smashed beans, half a chicken and some cole slaw. The chicken tasted like a good dry-rub Texas BBQ, excellent.
As we were chatting with Elena, a toddler came out from an upper balcony near us and started wailing and babbling while leaning through the rails.
"Quit your drop, bebey!" Elena snapped in an authoritative yet loving voice.
Da bebey shut up.
"Quit your drop....?" I said inquisitively.
"Yes, ma dear, it's Creole. Here we speak a mix of English, Spanish, Creole and Garifuna too."
She explained to us how Garifuna is both a language and culture, west African in nature. The Garifuna culture thrives mostly on the coast of Belize, Honduras and the nearby islands.
Just then two of Elena's other grandsons came over, maybe 10 years old and were talking amongst each other.
"Hey!" I yelled at them. "Quit your drop!" They both got wide eyed and Elena let out a howling laugh.
"Das good, das good!"
On the way home Luis crashed. He was ahead of me and was trying to pass a car on the right shoulder when he hit a stretch of mud. Upon trying to steer out of it the bike low-sided to the left and slid briefly, sending a spray of mud, rocks and vegetation into the air. Luis was able to get away from the bike early in the fall and escaped with just a bruised knee. The bike did fine too, just a few bent pieces here and there, nothing we couldn't kick back into place.
The next morning I got up early and went for a run. It was reportedly colder than anyone could remember, maybe in the 50s and the locals were heavily bundled up. It was still pretty comfortable by my standards so I took off my shirt before heading out through town.
I darted through alleys and down their main street then along a river leading to the sea then past a school where dozens of kids were milling around with backpacks almost as big as they were. Some of the kids would run up alongside of me then sprint ahead, frequently looking back and laughing.
Throughout the run I must have heard "Ain'tcha cold!?" ten times and just as many 'Gu Marnins!' My favorite though was some guy about my age who belted out, "You runnin from da cold, white boy!?"
We packed up and rode to the capitol city of Belmopan as I needed to pay a visit to the US Embassy. I had run out of pages in my passport and needed to get more added.
There was no doubt that the locals had nothing to do with the construction of the building. The doors were stainless steel, bomb and bullet resistant and hard to push open, there was no chipping plaster, leaning walls or strange smells. It felt kinda good being in this pseudo-USA. I had to strip down and run everything through a metal detector, all of which I was happy to do.
Being that I was in Latin America I expected this process to not go smoothly but it took just 45 minutes for them to put enough pages in my passport to last me a while. To have this same service down back home takes 3 days and $250, here it's free.
After leaving Belmopan we hit the Blue Hole and adjacent cave. There are actually two Blue Holes in Belize, one in a reef, one is a cenote in the jungle.
We first did our spelunking in what was the largest cave I've ever been in. At times our headlamps couldn't illuminate the walls around us as they were too far away. Our digital cameras could see farther than our eyes, though, so we'd frequently snap pictures, then review them to see what was out there.
We kept hearing rushing water but never saw it. We had the cave to ourselves and were able to hop around the strange formations before going to the cenote for a swim.
The cenote had tepid water, comfortable for swimming. A cenote is essentially a huge spring where water rises to the surface before flowing away on the surface. It was about 40 feet across and had a decent current rising out of the hole which then flowed sideways, forming a river.
The current was difficult to swim against, but upon reaching a sweet spot in the cenote we could feel the current pushing us up, providing a strange feeling of being more bouyant than usual.
After another brief ride (this country is really small) we made it to San Ignacio, adjacent to the Guatemalan border where we found another stand with rice n beans and a parrot that bit Luis. I also had the hottest food of my life here. They had a coarse salsa of sorts with pickled onions and habaneros which worked up quite a case of the sweats for me.
Monday, January 18, 2010
1-10-10 Belize City, Belize
Luis and I packed up camp in Playa and rode south several hours in the rain, following signs to the Belize border. There was a new section of road with what looked like a new customs building and a checkpoint, but not a soul around. We kept riding a few more minutes before we came upon a camo-painted truck parked diagonal in the road. Upon getting closer two guys in military garb hopped out and started walking our way hastily. One guy then turned around, ran back to his truck and emerged with an HK submachine gun. Don't want to forget that.
They informed us that the border was closed.
"Why?" I asked
He went on to tell us that the road wasn't finished further on, even though all the signs were up directing us to where we were. He gave us directions to go through another border crossing several minutes away that we found easily.
We had to check out of Mexico by showing our vehicle title, registration, driver's license and passport to a lady who took painfully long to process us. We were the only guys there, I shudder to think what would happen on a busy day.
We rode a few hundred yards through 'no man's land' before arriving at the Belizean check station where we repeated the same process with paperwork, this time faster and friendlier.
There were tons of people crossing from Belize to Mexico, many with huge bundles on their backs. We found out that Belize imports a lot of goods from China, something Mexico does not do directly. The cheap Chinese goods are then run across the border for sale in Mexico.
We stopped for a brief picture in front of the Belizean flag before riding off into a new country for the both of us. I love the first few hours in a new country and try to observe as much as possible. I always think of those games where you are presented with two nearly identical pictures and must find the miniscule differences between them. In this case, the differences from both Mexico and back home.
Let's see, initial observations are as such... Their homes and lots are significantly larger than in Mexico. There's a lot of phonetic spelling on billboards, my favorite being 'Hi Et Hotel'. They use the words 'dragon' and 'China' frequently in a wide variety of business names. There are a lot of black people. There is an unusually high number of paint shops though the roads have almost no lines painted on them. Road signs are a rarity. There are a lot of narrow bridges on wide rivers. Lots of nice road bikes. Virtually no trash.
We pulled into a gas station where a young attendant topped off Luis' bike. Luis thought he'd rung up a tab of $40 for 4 liters of gas and was dismounting the bike in preparation of choking the attendant. We quickly realized that it was Belizean dollars and gallons, not liters, which dropped the price down to about $4.50 a gallon, pretty cheap by world standards. The Belizean dollar is tied directly to the US dollar at 2:1 and US currency is accepted anywhere so long as there aren't any nicks or tears in the bill.
We asked the attendant what we should eat in his country, something traditional. He was quick to reply with "rice n beans" which he said with big smile. The thought of rice n beans didn't get me too excited but we thought we'd better try it before leaving.
We rode down to Orange Walk, the first substantial town we'd come across and ate a late lunch at one of the many Chinese restaurants in town. We decided to head down to Belize City, which we weren't thrilled about. We'd both heard terrible things about the city, but it was the only logical spot on the map.
We hit the outskirts of town at dusk, much later than we had hoped to. There seemed to be a spike in terrible driving with cars swerving around us for no good reason. I stopped at a gas station where I asked for directions to a hotel that my guide book recommended. I showed the drunk attendant a map in the book with a dot denoting the location of the hotel. He then read off each street that I would come across in my journey to the hotel. I quickly realized this was going nowhere so I took my book back, thanked him and we rode off.
Next we stopped at a relatively nice hotel where I asked the concierge if he knew where we were on the map, specifically what road was out front.
His reply was, "Dis notta road"
To which I replied, "Hmmmm, I'm pretty sure it is a road..."
Again he said, "Dis notta road"
"You're telling me this road that I'm looking at does not exist?" Clearly not in the mood for philosophizing.
He then looked at the map for a minute before pointing to a "Northern Road". Ah yes, his accent made 'Northern' sound like 'notta'. My apologies.
Once we established our location he did a strange thing, he started listing off the streets one by one that we would come across, reading each one directly from the map, just as the drunk gas station attendant had done.
We got some decent directions which got us into the heart of the city. Luis rode up next to me and shook his head. The place had a very, very bad feeling to it. Nothing in particular, just a bad gut feeling.
We kept the bikes in higher RPMs, swerving around slow moving cars and never stopping at stop signs. We knew the hotel was on the ocean front and did progressively larger loops, getting acquainted with our surroundings before pulling into well-lit areas to apply our newfound knowledge to the map.
We eventually made it to the hotel which was dilapidated and completely dark from the outside.
"Well, this is it..."
We were turning the bikes around to leave when a guy jumped out from behind the hotel 20 yards off and yelled to us that it was open and to come on in.
The guy was clearly not of sound mental state, he'd been smoking or snorting something and we were quite wary until some Canadian travelers came outside which eased our nerves a bit. We brought our stuff in and locked the bikes together before putting my cover over both of them.
Inside we met about ten other travelers from all over and talked to the owner's girlfriend, an older hippy lady from the States who was quite helpful. She encouraged us to get out of the city as soon as possible as Belize used to be a pirate hangout and their traditions have been passed on well. She had her car battery stolen 5 times before she decided to sell just sell the car. Her water heater was also nicked.
She suggested we get an early start in the morning as the next day was Sunday, not so much the 'day of rest' as it is the 'day of thefts'. Apparently most shops are closed down and 'there isn't much else to do but mug people, even in broad daylight'. Great.
She'd lived in Belize City for a few years and gets mugged a few times each yer, just the way it is.
They informed us that the border was closed.
"Why?" I asked
He went on to tell us that the road wasn't finished further on, even though all the signs were up directing us to where we were. He gave us directions to go through another border crossing several minutes away that we found easily.
We had to check out of Mexico by showing our vehicle title, registration, driver's license and passport to a lady who took painfully long to process us. We were the only guys there, I shudder to think what would happen on a busy day.
We rode a few hundred yards through 'no man's land' before arriving at the Belizean check station where we repeated the same process with paperwork, this time faster and friendlier.
There were tons of people crossing from Belize to Mexico, many with huge bundles on their backs. We found out that Belize imports a lot of goods from China, something Mexico does not do directly. The cheap Chinese goods are then run across the border for sale in Mexico.
We stopped for a brief picture in front of the Belizean flag before riding off into a new country for the both of us. I love the first few hours in a new country and try to observe as much as possible. I always think of those games where you are presented with two nearly identical pictures and must find the miniscule differences between them. In this case, the differences from both Mexico and back home.
Let's see, initial observations are as such... Their homes and lots are significantly larger than in Mexico. There's a lot of phonetic spelling on billboards, my favorite being 'Hi Et Hotel'. They use the words 'dragon' and 'China' frequently in a wide variety of business names. There are a lot of black people. There is an unusually high number of paint shops though the roads have almost no lines painted on them. Road signs are a rarity. There are a lot of narrow bridges on wide rivers. Lots of nice road bikes. Virtually no trash.
We pulled into a gas station where a young attendant topped off Luis' bike. Luis thought he'd rung up a tab of $40 for 4 liters of gas and was dismounting the bike in preparation of choking the attendant. We quickly realized that it was Belizean dollars and gallons, not liters, which dropped the price down to about $4.50 a gallon, pretty cheap by world standards. The Belizean dollar is tied directly to the US dollar at 2:1 and US currency is accepted anywhere so long as there aren't any nicks or tears in the bill.
We asked the attendant what we should eat in his country, something traditional. He was quick to reply with "rice n beans" which he said with big smile. The thought of rice n beans didn't get me too excited but we thought we'd better try it before leaving.
We rode down to Orange Walk, the first substantial town we'd come across and ate a late lunch at one of the many Chinese restaurants in town. We decided to head down to Belize City, which we weren't thrilled about. We'd both heard terrible things about the city, but it was the only logical spot on the map.
We hit the outskirts of town at dusk, much later than we had hoped to. There seemed to be a spike in terrible driving with cars swerving around us for no good reason. I stopped at a gas station where I asked for directions to a hotel that my guide book recommended. I showed the drunk attendant a map in the book with a dot denoting the location of the hotel. He then read off each street that I would come across in my journey to the hotel. I quickly realized this was going nowhere so I took my book back, thanked him and we rode off.
Next we stopped at a relatively nice hotel where I asked the concierge if he knew where we were on the map, specifically what road was out front.
His reply was, "Dis notta road"
To which I replied, "Hmmmm, I'm pretty sure it is a road..."
Again he said, "Dis notta road"
"You're telling me this road that I'm looking at does not exist?" Clearly not in the mood for philosophizing.
He then looked at the map for a minute before pointing to a "Northern Road". Ah yes, his accent made 'Northern' sound like 'notta'. My apologies.
Once we established our location he did a strange thing, he started listing off the streets one by one that we would come across, reading each one directly from the map, just as the drunk gas station attendant had done.
We got some decent directions which got us into the heart of the city. Luis rode up next to me and shook his head. The place had a very, very bad feeling to it. Nothing in particular, just a bad gut feeling.
We kept the bikes in higher RPMs, swerving around slow moving cars and never stopping at stop signs. We knew the hotel was on the ocean front and did progressively larger loops, getting acquainted with our surroundings before pulling into well-lit areas to apply our newfound knowledge to the map.
We eventually made it to the hotel which was dilapidated and completely dark from the outside.
"Well, this is it..."
We were turning the bikes around to leave when a guy jumped out from behind the hotel 20 yards off and yelled to us that it was open and to come on in.
The guy was clearly not of sound mental state, he'd been smoking or snorting something and we were quite wary until some Canadian travelers came outside which eased our nerves a bit. We brought our stuff in and locked the bikes together before putting my cover over both of them.
Inside we met about ten other travelers from all over and talked to the owner's girlfriend, an older hippy lady from the States who was quite helpful. She encouraged us to get out of the city as soon as possible as Belize used to be a pirate hangout and their traditions have been passed on well. She had her car battery stolen 5 times before she decided to sell just sell the car. Her water heater was also nicked.
She suggested we get an early start in the morning as the next day was Sunday, not so much the 'day of rest' as it is the 'day of thefts'. Apparently most shops are closed down and 'there isn't much else to do but mug people, even in broad daylight'. Great.
She'd lived in Belize City for a few years and gets mugged a few times each yer, just the way it is.
Monday, January 11, 2010
1-7-09 Playa del Carmen, Mexico
Charlie, Luis and I packed up camp in Tulum and rode to Playa del Carmen, about an hour north. Charlie had an Italian friend who lived on the outskirts of town, another BMW owner, so we went to his house first before all riding out together.
We stopped at a Yamaha dealer where we chatted with the manager for a while, he was interested in our trip and Luis had a broken shift lever that needed to be welded. The manager offered to change my oil for next to nothing so I took him up on the offer.
An employee took our picture as he wanted to start a wall with international riders and also gave us some size medium Yamaha scooter T-shirts before we left.
Next we rode into town where Mateo, the Italian, showed us a great little campground/hostel on the beach, some 30 seconds from the main drag.
That night we decided to go our separate ways. Luis was going to salsa dance, Charlie was going to meet up with some bar-owner friend of his and I was going to do a pub crawl.
The pub crawl was amusing for various reasons, I was the only American. The rest were belching Kiwi girls and Aussie blokes which suited me just fine. The guide was some average guy from Canada who was rather boozed-up himself at the start of the pub crawl.
Two bars later the guide disappeared so I asked Nick, my new Aussie mate what had happened. Apparently, the Canadian guide was hitting on Nick who was not too amused about the matter, causing the guide to run off half-way through the night.
Nick and I decided to take off and find another bar when we ran into Charlie on the street who recommended we go to the Blue Parrot, a large hacienda-style club with a huge outdoor dance floor and sand around the bar.
We grabbed some Cuba Libres and walked over to the dance floor where I immediately saw a tall,stunning, dark-skinned girl who I assumed was Latina. Upon talking to her I found out Natasha was not Latina, but rather from London, with parents from Britain and the Caribbean. We talked and danced the rest of the night having a great time until around 4:30 am when we decided to take off.
Natasha's hostel was almost next door to where I was camping so we walked together on the beach towards our places for the night. Somewhere along the way we decided to enjoy the waves and watch a few minutes of the sunrise which had just started warming the horizon.
I walked over to a hotel and rustled two of their lawn chairs and placed them a few yards from the water where we continued chatting about the strange colloquialisms of our respective homelands.
Within minutes a bright flashlight was flicked on behind us, casting our long shadows onto the surf. I hopped out of my chair and found 5 men had surrounded us, three wearing police uniforms, two without. Two of the cops had Uzis with extended mags with the paint worn off, the other had a Beretta, I wondered if it was a 9mm or a .40 cal.
'Um, shit?' I thought.
"Gentlemen, how may I help you?" I asked in a friendly voice in Spanish.
There was a brief silence.
"We have a problem." Said a voice from my right. "It's very serious."
"And what's that?" I inquired
"The manager of the hotel says you stole the chairs from the hotel."
"I'd be happy to put them back if you'd like."
"No, this is a very serious problem." He repeated.
"You will be deported!" Said the voice as he walked into the light, tapping his handcuffs in his palm.
"I don't think you're going to deport me for sitting in these chairs" I said smiling at him.
It was very apparent that this was a little 'shakedown' by the Mexican cops, at least that's what I was betting on. I've heard of this quite a few times. They attempt to bust you for some obscure infraction then try to leverage as much money out of you as possible in exchange for your freedom. The last one I heard about was when a guy had a dog in the front seat of his truck which the cop insisted was a 'Very serious problem." He had no money on him but said that he could get them cash. The drove him to an ATM in the next town, took $300 and left him.
Another long silence passed.
"There is a fine of 3000 pesos (about $250 US) or three nights in jail." Said another voice.
"Ha!" I laughed out loud. "Is that a joke?"
"Sorry, I shouldn't be lauging, but I've lived in Mexico long enough to know how this works and we both know you're not getting 3000 pesos out of us."
"Then you must spend 3 nights in jail."
"Let's go to jail, but I can only stay one day, my tourist visa expires tomorrow." (a total lie)
"The Commandant is waiting."
"I'd love to meet him" I fired back.
"Good."
"Good!" I replied nodding.
"You must pay us the money!" said a new voice.
And here was the problem, I only had 50 pesos in my pocket. I never take much with me when I go out for reasons exactly like this. I pulled off my sandal and looked inside it and shook it before shrugging and saying, " I usually have some pesos in here." (which has never happened)
Natasha had stood up by now and I was able to catch a glimpse of her face, she was composed though clearly was not enjoying her time at the beach. I knew she didn't speak any Spanish, which I was grateful for as I doubt she would have been very happy with me for volunteering us to go to the clink.
I asked Natasha what she had on her in a mumbling voice so the Mexicans couldn't understand even if they spoke English. "They want 3000 pesos, I've got 50." She briefly rooted around in her purse and provided three wrinkled 20 peso bills and a few coins. 67 pesos, better than I did. Yes, we're high rollers.
I had 117 pesos in my hand, some 96% less than their asking price.
I went over to the guy who had spoken last. "Listen, chief" I said, putting my hand on his shoulder which was shrouded in a bulletproof vest, "This is all we have, if we had more we'd give it to you guys. I know we've done something wrong, I feel bad (lie) and we need to pay you for it. But like I said, this is all we have."
"What else do you have of value?"
I opted not to inform him of the iPhone in my pocket.
There was another long silence.
"OK, if you deport us, you get no money, if you put us in jail, you get no money. Your shift is almost over, so go find some other tourists with more money. I'll buy you breakfast with what we have" I said smiling at the guy who smiled briefly before looking towards another guy.
"Good, I'll bring the chairs back, have a good day" I slapped the money into the last guys hand, grabbed Natasha and the chairs and started walking away expecting them to step in front of me.
Dragging the chairs the 10 yards back to the hotel seemed to take forever. I kept listening for footsteps behind me but nothing happened.
"What the HELL did you tell them?" Natasha hissed through pursed lips as I dropped the chairs."
"All kinds of things, let's go."
After dropping the chairs we took a few more steps before rounding the corner of the hotel, walking through some condo courtyard, directly away from the cops.
I then saw the silhouette of a man step out from a shadow a few yards ahead of us. He told us we couldn't walk through to the road which was some 5 yards in front of us.
If we turned back, we'd have to walk past the cops again and I didn't want to give them a second chance.
'What is this, some kind of video game where everyone is after us?" I thought to myself.
"Uh, no speakey Spanish" I said and kept walking.
He repeated himself and again we didn't stop until we broke out onto the street where we both let out a sigh of relief.
"I cannot believe that just happened!" Natasha gasped.
"Oh, and since when do you speak Spanish!?"
"You never asked" I replied
We darted away from the beach and the cops for a few blocks before making our way down towards our hostels again, our nerves gradually relaxing until we were able to laugh about it. "I will never forget this as long as I live." she said.
We finally made it to her hostel. "You know this was entirely your fault, don't you? And I hope I never see you again!?" I said laughing.
She shot me a feisty look before giving me a hug. "Goodnight, Benjamin."
We stopped at a Yamaha dealer where we chatted with the manager for a while, he was interested in our trip and Luis had a broken shift lever that needed to be welded. The manager offered to change my oil for next to nothing so I took him up on the offer.
An employee took our picture as he wanted to start a wall with international riders and also gave us some size medium Yamaha scooter T-shirts before we left.
Next we rode into town where Mateo, the Italian, showed us a great little campground/hostel on the beach, some 30 seconds from the main drag.
That night we decided to go our separate ways. Luis was going to salsa dance, Charlie was going to meet up with some bar-owner friend of his and I was going to do a pub crawl.
The pub crawl was amusing for various reasons, I was the only American. The rest were belching Kiwi girls and Aussie blokes which suited me just fine. The guide was some average guy from Canada who was rather boozed-up himself at the start of the pub crawl.
Two bars later the guide disappeared so I asked Nick, my new Aussie mate what had happened. Apparently, the Canadian guide was hitting on Nick who was not too amused about the matter, causing the guide to run off half-way through the night.
Nick and I decided to take off and find another bar when we ran into Charlie on the street who recommended we go to the Blue Parrot, a large hacienda-style club with a huge outdoor dance floor and sand around the bar.
We grabbed some Cuba Libres and walked over to the dance floor where I immediately saw a tall,stunning, dark-skinned girl who I assumed was Latina. Upon talking to her I found out Natasha was not Latina, but rather from London, with parents from Britain and the Caribbean. We talked and danced the rest of the night having a great time until around 4:30 am when we decided to take off.
Natasha's hostel was almost next door to where I was camping so we walked together on the beach towards our places for the night. Somewhere along the way we decided to enjoy the waves and watch a few minutes of the sunrise which had just started warming the horizon.
I walked over to a hotel and rustled two of their lawn chairs and placed them a few yards from the water where we continued chatting about the strange colloquialisms of our respective homelands.
Within minutes a bright flashlight was flicked on behind us, casting our long shadows onto the surf. I hopped out of my chair and found 5 men had surrounded us, three wearing police uniforms, two without. Two of the cops had Uzis with extended mags with the paint worn off, the other had a Beretta, I wondered if it was a 9mm or a .40 cal.
'Um, shit?' I thought.
"Gentlemen, how may I help you?" I asked in a friendly voice in Spanish.
There was a brief silence.
"We have a problem." Said a voice from my right. "It's very serious."
"And what's that?" I inquired
"The manager of the hotel says you stole the chairs from the hotel."
"I'd be happy to put them back if you'd like."
"No, this is a very serious problem." He repeated.
"You will be deported!" Said the voice as he walked into the light, tapping his handcuffs in his palm.
"I don't think you're going to deport me for sitting in these chairs" I said smiling at him.
It was very apparent that this was a little 'shakedown' by the Mexican cops, at least that's what I was betting on. I've heard of this quite a few times. They attempt to bust you for some obscure infraction then try to leverage as much money out of you as possible in exchange for your freedom. The last one I heard about was when a guy had a dog in the front seat of his truck which the cop insisted was a 'Very serious problem." He had no money on him but said that he could get them cash. The drove him to an ATM in the next town, took $300 and left him.
Another long silence passed.
"There is a fine of 3000 pesos (about $250 US) or three nights in jail." Said another voice.
"Ha!" I laughed out loud. "Is that a joke?"
"Sorry, I shouldn't be lauging, but I've lived in Mexico long enough to know how this works and we both know you're not getting 3000 pesos out of us."
"Then you must spend 3 nights in jail."
"Let's go to jail, but I can only stay one day, my tourist visa expires tomorrow." (a total lie)
"The Commandant is waiting."
"I'd love to meet him" I fired back.
"Good."
"Good!" I replied nodding.
"You must pay us the money!" said a new voice.
And here was the problem, I only had 50 pesos in my pocket. I never take much with me when I go out for reasons exactly like this. I pulled off my sandal and looked inside it and shook it before shrugging and saying, " I usually have some pesos in here." (which has never happened)
Natasha had stood up by now and I was able to catch a glimpse of her face, she was composed though clearly was not enjoying her time at the beach. I knew she didn't speak any Spanish, which I was grateful for as I doubt she would have been very happy with me for volunteering us to go to the clink.
I asked Natasha what she had on her in a mumbling voice so the Mexicans couldn't understand even if they spoke English. "They want 3000 pesos, I've got 50." She briefly rooted around in her purse and provided three wrinkled 20 peso bills and a few coins. 67 pesos, better than I did. Yes, we're high rollers.
I had 117 pesos in my hand, some 96% less than their asking price.
I went over to the guy who had spoken last. "Listen, chief" I said, putting my hand on his shoulder which was shrouded in a bulletproof vest, "This is all we have, if we had more we'd give it to you guys. I know we've done something wrong, I feel bad (lie) and we need to pay you for it. But like I said, this is all we have."
"What else do you have of value?"
I opted not to inform him of the iPhone in my pocket.
There was another long silence.
"OK, if you deport us, you get no money, if you put us in jail, you get no money. Your shift is almost over, so go find some other tourists with more money. I'll buy you breakfast with what we have" I said smiling at the guy who smiled briefly before looking towards another guy.
"Good, I'll bring the chairs back, have a good day" I slapped the money into the last guys hand, grabbed Natasha and the chairs and started walking away expecting them to step in front of me.
Dragging the chairs the 10 yards back to the hotel seemed to take forever. I kept listening for footsteps behind me but nothing happened.
"What the HELL did you tell them?" Natasha hissed through pursed lips as I dropped the chairs."
"All kinds of things, let's go."
After dropping the chairs we took a few more steps before rounding the corner of the hotel, walking through some condo courtyard, directly away from the cops.
I then saw the silhouette of a man step out from a shadow a few yards ahead of us. He told us we couldn't walk through to the road which was some 5 yards in front of us.
If we turned back, we'd have to walk past the cops again and I didn't want to give them a second chance.
'What is this, some kind of video game where everyone is after us?" I thought to myself.
"Uh, no speakey Spanish" I said and kept walking.
He repeated himself and again we didn't stop until we broke out onto the street where we both let out a sigh of relief.
"I cannot believe that just happened!" Natasha gasped.
"Oh, and since when do you speak Spanish!?"
"You never asked" I replied
We darted away from the beach and the cops for a few blocks before making our way down towards our hostels again, our nerves gradually relaxing until we were able to laugh about it. "I will never forget this as long as I live." she said.
We finally made it to her hostel. "You know this was entirely your fault, don't you? And I hope I never see you again!?" I said laughing.
She shot me a feisty look before giving me a hug. "Goodnight, Benjamin."
Sunday, January 10, 2010
1-5-09 Tulum
We met up with another motorcyclist who had been staying at our campground for 2 weeks. "Wow, you must really like this place" I noted. "Well, yeah, I do, but I can't really leave either, got my wallet stolen and am still waiting to get my new credit cards" Charlie said.
Charlie had left from Washington DC seveal months ago and was vectoring towards Alaska when a lady in an SUV pulled out in front of him. He hit the SUV doing about 50 mph and fared well, but the bike did not. Luckily, he was able to find a duplicate of his bike nearby in Michigan, where the accident occured and combined custom parts from his old, broken bike with the new one to make the bike he now has.
The 'new' bike is held together with various fasteners-duct tape, zip ties, wire and epoxy but seems to run well most of the time. He had to replace 3 clutches not long ago after finding out that the new flywheel was not properly aligned. To fix this, he had his old motor, which was still in decent shape, shipped down to Mexico where he swapped it out.
The bike is the R100GS Paris Dakar, two generations older than mine and is certainly proven for this type of travel. It's got no computer to go in the fritz and trades-in pefromance for roadside fixability.
Charlie, Luis and I decided to head down to Punta Allen, a small fishing village on a spit to the south of Tulum 50 km in search of cheap lobster tails. The ride was great, a rough dirt road checkered with huge potholes. There were some cars on it as well, all going slow and trying to dodge the holes but we managed to go quite a bit faster by skipping over the holes and riding on the edge of the road with our shoulders and handguards brushing palm leaves, occasionally having to duck under a low-lying branch.
Charlie, the old timer at 47, clearly out-rode me on his older BMW, I couldn't catch him. He gave me some good pointers on my riding technique which helped. Basically, by going a little faster you can glide over the potholes quite well. Upon reaching a particularly wide hole, a little crack of the throttle will lift you over it, no problem.
We had a slew of mechanical problems on the ride. Luis noticed that one of his crucial frame bolts was missing and didn't have a spare. Luckily, Charlie, who's bike has almost as much hardware as my dad's workbench, had a spare bolt and I had a nut that fit.
Upon installing the bolt we found that it was too long and rubbed on the chain so we shimmed it with some washers and were on our way again.
At the next stop Luis found that his license plate, which hangs off his back fender, had been bent forwards and his rear wheel had rubbed quite a bit of the paint off it.
This has happened numerous times to him and we've always assumed somebody was vandalizing his bike which I justified by saying, "Well, you are Canadian..." Though this time we realized that when a large bump was hit and the rear suspension was compressed, the back tire would rise up and catch the license plate, bending it forward.
Luis then lost the bolt that fastened his handguard onto the handlebar, we didn't have any replacements, but it wasn't critical. He also did further damage to his shift lever which was initially cracked during a crash in Washington on an icy street earlier this trip.
Charlie only kicked off one of his carburetors when mounting the bike. Some hose clamps and duct tape later he was back on the road.
Punta Allen ended up having no lobsters for us this day, but we did find a great little coffee stand where a guy heats espresso with a blow torch, ingenious!
Charlie had left from Washington DC seveal months ago and was vectoring towards Alaska when a lady in an SUV pulled out in front of him. He hit the SUV doing about 50 mph and fared well, but the bike did not. Luckily, he was able to find a duplicate of his bike nearby in Michigan, where the accident occured and combined custom parts from his old, broken bike with the new one to make the bike he now has.
The 'new' bike is held together with various fasteners-duct tape, zip ties, wire and epoxy but seems to run well most of the time. He had to replace 3 clutches not long ago after finding out that the new flywheel was not properly aligned. To fix this, he had his old motor, which was still in decent shape, shipped down to Mexico where he swapped it out.
The bike is the R100GS Paris Dakar, two generations older than mine and is certainly proven for this type of travel. It's got no computer to go in the fritz and trades-in pefromance for roadside fixability.
Charlie, Luis and I decided to head down to Punta Allen, a small fishing village on a spit to the south of Tulum 50 km in search of cheap lobster tails. The ride was great, a rough dirt road checkered with huge potholes. There were some cars on it as well, all going slow and trying to dodge the holes but we managed to go quite a bit faster by skipping over the holes and riding on the edge of the road with our shoulders and handguards brushing palm leaves, occasionally having to duck under a low-lying branch.
Charlie, the old timer at 47, clearly out-rode me on his older BMW, I couldn't catch him. He gave me some good pointers on my riding technique which helped. Basically, by going a little faster you can glide over the potholes quite well. Upon reaching a particularly wide hole, a little crack of the throttle will lift you over it, no problem.
We had a slew of mechanical problems on the ride. Luis noticed that one of his crucial frame bolts was missing and didn't have a spare. Luckily, Charlie, who's bike has almost as much hardware as my dad's workbench, had a spare bolt and I had a nut that fit.
Upon installing the bolt we found that it was too long and rubbed on the chain so we shimmed it with some washers and were on our way again.
At the next stop Luis found that his license plate, which hangs off his back fender, had been bent forwards and his rear wheel had rubbed quite a bit of the paint off it.
This has happened numerous times to him and we've always assumed somebody was vandalizing his bike which I justified by saying, "Well, you are Canadian..." Though this time we realized that when a large bump was hit and the rear suspension was compressed, the back tire would rise up and catch the license plate, bending it forward.
Luis then lost the bolt that fastened his handguard onto the handlebar, we didn't have any replacements, but it wasn't critical. He also did further damage to his shift lever which was initially cracked during a crash in Washington on an icy street earlier this trip.
Charlie only kicked off one of his carburetors when mounting the bike. Some hose clamps and duct tape later he was back on the road.
Punta Allen ended up having no lobsters for us this day, but we did find a great little coffee stand where a guy heats espresso with a blow torch, ingenious!
Thursday, January 7, 2010
1-2-09 Tulum, Mexico
I awoke around 6:00 and packed my panniers and walked to the little hotel lobby. I had simply assumed that it had stopped raining as I couldn't hear it in our sleeping box. It was still a downpour. We had parked directly in front of the hotel and Luis had picked an unlucky spot directly under a downspout that hadn't been flowing when we parked but now sent a torrent onto his seat.
Luis had to lash down his bags which takes a few minutes so I went out and hopped on the bike in the rain, no sense delaying the inevitable. I'm well prepared for the weather and truly appreciate my gear. On a trip to Sturgis several years ago Ruder and I were less than prepared and ended up duct taping trash bags to our legs to keep them dry which kinda worked and looked quite fashionable too.
I stayed dry except for the occasional drop of water which would course down my neck and into my shirt and the few that would form at the top of my slightly-opened visor then drop onto my cheek and slowly make their way down my face.
We decided to wait to grab breakfast on the road, stopping when we were out of the storm which we assumed wouldn't take long. The rain would slow to a drizzle hen pick up again to unusually large, neck-stinging drops. This went on for about three hours then quit abruptly, the grey skies giving way to scattered clouds and bits of blue poking through.
Luis rode up alongside me, looked over and nodded. I couldn't see his face through his dark shield but knew he was smiling. Any motorcyclist can attest to the nod as it can mean so many different thing depending on the situation.
We grabbed a quick brunch of chicken parts, checked the bikes over then hit the road again. I caught myself humming 'On the Road Again' by ol' Willie. I love this!
We came upon a tandem semi that had crossed over traffic and launched itself off an embankment and into a stand of mature trees. Digger. As usual, dozens of cars had stopped on the side of the road, not really sure why.
Further down the road we rode past a pack of 4 clearly non-Mexican bikes today, a Suzuki V-Strom, a KTM 990, and two BMW R1150GS Adventures, just like mine. It's a very motivating and comforting thing to see other motorcyclists on the road even if they're going in the opposite direction. We all gave each other some stout fist pumps as we passed, far more enthusiastic than the average biker wave/point back home.
Minutes later we saw a huge plume of black smoke on the horizon, some 10 miles off. Upon getting closer to the source we realized that the fire was on the shoulder of the road. It burned to breathe, and we had to slow down as visibility was terrible. As I rode past the huge flames I saw a group of local gentlemen and scholars who had apparently ignited a pile of hundreds of tires and were admiring their handiwork.
We also passed through several military checkpoints along the way. These guys are hilariouis. They're all decked out in full camo gear and black balaclavas with .50 cal machine guns atop hummers and ammo bandoliers strung about their shoulders. They've got bunkers built out of sandbags with thatched roofs and will stagger piles of sand bags in the road to make you swerve and slow down. In the road they'll also put semi truck treads as mini speed bumps.
At some stops they've just waved us on, at others we've been questioned. The questions are always the same. With a stoic face they ask you where you're coming from, then where you're going. After each of my answers they pause for an awkardly long time as if mulling it over to see if it's an acceptable one.
Then they ask from where I'm and what I'm doing here. I tell them I'm from Colorado which I say quickly in heavy Chihuahuan accent and gesture with my thumb over my shoulder as if it was just a few miles back. (A lotof the Mexicans we've come across aren't exactly well versed on geography, not knowing what state is coming up and no idea as far as distances to places. I'll never forget once at the mine while working on a drill rig I was talking to one of the drill hands about my R n R to Japan. He showed interest but also seemed to not know what I was talking about. The next day I brought a world map for him to look at and he was almost speechless. "So there are two large pieces of land..." he said pointing to the Americas and the Eurasia/Africa masses. "Yeah, that's right" I agrreed. I then showed him where we were in Mexico which put a smile on his face.)
Earlier on the trip I told the military that I was from the United States and was headed to Argentina which prompted tons of questions. Won't be doing that again.
We pulled into the town of Tulum at dusk and Luis and I were both busted by the policia for differnt offences. Luis had taken off his helmet while in town and I was standing up on my bike stretching. No fines, just told not to do it again. Neither of these are illegal back home, but I'm not home.
We hit an ATM and asked some girls if they knew of any camping spots and were referred to the beachfront. We cruised inland a few hundred yards and stopped at the first little campground we came to. "Chavez Campground" 100 pesos per night, scalding hot brackish water showers and a sand floor kitchen.
It was dark so we donned our headlamps to set up camp. Luis is more prepared than I for comfortable camping. My camping gear consists of a down sleeping bag, inflatable pillow, 'skeeter net, a waterproof (and heat resistant!) motorcycle cover, a space blanket bivy and some rope.
Luis has 3 pillows, 2 sleeping bags, an inflatable sleeping pad and a tent with a rain fly. While on this subject, Luis has a ton of stuff and used to have even more but I made him leave a pile in a hotel room. Some of the oddities that I've noticed and harassed him for include 5 pairs of shoes, not including his pair of galoshes (seriously), multiple reflective vests, random jackets, two daypacks, a tactical 'hunting or photography vest' as he calls it, a solar panel, two cans of silicone spray (which have choked us out of our hotel room before), gaitors, two pairs of rain pants even though his usual riding pants are waterproof, and a full gas can bouncing from a shock cord. The list goes on I assure you.
I se up shop inside a little hooch with a sand floor and no doors with a pile of scrap wood in the corner. Not a bad setup by any means.
I love arriving in places after dark and awaking to see where I am in the day light. Sometimes it's great, sometimes not so much. Once in New Zealand we awoke on a shooting range but fared well. Another time in Japan I was in a small town with no vacancy due to some festival so I found a great place to sleep in a grassy park. I awoke at 5am to dozens of barking dogs running around and quickly realized that I had thrown my sleeping bag under one of the few trees in what was a dog park. Yes, eww.
This night I fell asleep to the sound of the ocean and awoke the next morning to people talking not far from my head, through the wall of the hooch. I could hear Luis talking to somebody with the unmistakable French Canadian accent. I got up and walked around the corner and met Rene, a guy a few years older than I who had arrived at the campground just before we did.
The three of us combined food and whipped up a good 'American breakfast' as I kept referring to it with sauteed onions, peppers, potatoes and scrambled eggs with tortillas.
The next stop was to the beach.
As we rounded the bamboo fence we were greeted with the epitome of a Caribbean beach with white sand, turquoise-blue water and a lone, crooked palm tree.
"Well haw 'bou dat nawww, heh heh heh" Said the Frenchman, gesturing with his elbow at some very under dressed girls in lounge chairs. "Pretty casual 'ere, eh!"
Sure enough, we'd landed on a 'clothing optional' beach.
Luis had to lash down his bags which takes a few minutes so I went out and hopped on the bike in the rain, no sense delaying the inevitable. I'm well prepared for the weather and truly appreciate my gear. On a trip to Sturgis several years ago Ruder and I were less than prepared and ended up duct taping trash bags to our legs to keep them dry which kinda worked and looked quite fashionable too.
I stayed dry except for the occasional drop of water which would course down my neck and into my shirt and the few that would form at the top of my slightly-opened visor then drop onto my cheek and slowly make their way down my face.
We decided to wait to grab breakfast on the road, stopping when we were out of the storm which we assumed wouldn't take long. The rain would slow to a drizzle hen pick up again to unusually large, neck-stinging drops. This went on for about three hours then quit abruptly, the grey skies giving way to scattered clouds and bits of blue poking through.
Luis rode up alongside me, looked over and nodded. I couldn't see his face through his dark shield but knew he was smiling. Any motorcyclist can attest to the nod as it can mean so many different thing depending on the situation.
We grabbed a quick brunch of chicken parts, checked the bikes over then hit the road again. I caught myself humming 'On the Road Again' by ol' Willie. I love this!
We came upon a tandem semi that had crossed over traffic and launched itself off an embankment and into a stand of mature trees. Digger. As usual, dozens of cars had stopped on the side of the road, not really sure why.
Further down the road we rode past a pack of 4 clearly non-Mexican bikes today, a Suzuki V-Strom, a KTM 990, and two BMW R1150GS Adventures, just like mine. It's a very motivating and comforting thing to see other motorcyclists on the road even if they're going in the opposite direction. We all gave each other some stout fist pumps as we passed, far more enthusiastic than the average biker wave/point back home.
Minutes later we saw a huge plume of black smoke on the horizon, some 10 miles off. Upon getting closer to the source we realized that the fire was on the shoulder of the road. It burned to breathe, and we had to slow down as visibility was terrible. As I rode past the huge flames I saw a group of local gentlemen and scholars who had apparently ignited a pile of hundreds of tires and were admiring their handiwork.
We also passed through several military checkpoints along the way. These guys are hilariouis. They're all decked out in full camo gear and black balaclavas with .50 cal machine guns atop hummers and ammo bandoliers strung about their shoulders. They've got bunkers built out of sandbags with thatched roofs and will stagger piles of sand bags in the road to make you swerve and slow down. In the road they'll also put semi truck treads as mini speed bumps.
At some stops they've just waved us on, at others we've been questioned. The questions are always the same. With a stoic face they ask you where you're coming from, then where you're going. After each of my answers they pause for an awkardly long time as if mulling it over to see if it's an acceptable one.
Then they ask from where I'm and what I'm doing here. I tell them I'm from Colorado which I say quickly in heavy Chihuahuan accent and gesture with my thumb over my shoulder as if it was just a few miles back. (A lotof the Mexicans we've come across aren't exactly well versed on geography, not knowing what state is coming up and no idea as far as distances to places. I'll never forget once at the mine while working on a drill rig I was talking to one of the drill hands about my R n R to Japan. He showed interest but also seemed to not know what I was talking about. The next day I brought a world map for him to look at and he was almost speechless. "So there are two large pieces of land..." he said pointing to the Americas and the Eurasia/Africa masses. "Yeah, that's right" I agrreed. I then showed him where we were in Mexico which put a smile on his face.)
Earlier on the trip I told the military that I was from the United States and was headed to Argentina which prompted tons of questions. Won't be doing that again.
We pulled into the town of Tulum at dusk and Luis and I were both busted by the policia for differnt offences. Luis had taken off his helmet while in town and I was standing up on my bike stretching. No fines, just told not to do it again. Neither of these are illegal back home, but I'm not home.
We hit an ATM and asked some girls if they knew of any camping spots and were referred to the beachfront. We cruised inland a few hundred yards and stopped at the first little campground we came to. "Chavez Campground" 100 pesos per night, scalding hot brackish water showers and a sand floor kitchen.
It was dark so we donned our headlamps to set up camp. Luis is more prepared than I for comfortable camping. My camping gear consists of a down sleeping bag, inflatable pillow, 'skeeter net, a waterproof (and heat resistant!) motorcycle cover, a space blanket bivy and some rope.
Luis has 3 pillows, 2 sleeping bags, an inflatable sleeping pad and a tent with a rain fly. While on this subject, Luis has a ton of stuff and used to have even more but I made him leave a pile in a hotel room. Some of the oddities that I've noticed and harassed him for include 5 pairs of shoes, not including his pair of galoshes (seriously), multiple reflective vests, random jackets, two daypacks, a tactical 'hunting or photography vest' as he calls it, a solar panel, two cans of silicone spray (which have choked us out of our hotel room before), gaitors, two pairs of rain pants even though his usual riding pants are waterproof, and a full gas can bouncing from a shock cord. The list goes on I assure you.
I se up shop inside a little hooch with a sand floor and no doors with a pile of scrap wood in the corner. Not a bad setup by any means.
I love arriving in places after dark and awaking to see where I am in the day light. Sometimes it's great, sometimes not so much. Once in New Zealand we awoke on a shooting range but fared well. Another time in Japan I was in a small town with no vacancy due to some festival so I found a great place to sleep in a grassy park. I awoke at 5am to dozens of barking dogs running around and quickly realized that I had thrown my sleeping bag under one of the few trees in what was a dog park. Yes, eww.
This night I fell asleep to the sound of the ocean and awoke the next morning to people talking not far from my head, through the wall of the hooch. I could hear Luis talking to somebody with the unmistakable French Canadian accent. I got up and walked around the corner and met Rene, a guy a few years older than I who had arrived at the campground just before we did.
The three of us combined food and whipped up a good 'American breakfast' as I kept referring to it with sauteed onions, peppers, potatoes and scrambled eggs with tortillas.
The next stop was to the beach.
As we rounded the bamboo fence we were greeted with the epitome of a Caribbean beach with white sand, turquoise-blue water and a lone, crooked palm tree.
"Well haw 'bou dat nawww, heh heh heh" Said the Frenchman, gesturing with his elbow at some very under dressed girls in lounge chairs. "Pretty casual 'ere, eh!"
Sure enough, we'd landed on a 'clothing optional' beach.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
1-1-10
Hmmm, that's the first time I've written the date in the new year, not sure if I like it, resembles binary code.
The ride to San Cristobal was one of the best I've had in the world. The road was in unusually good shape and full of great banked turns. What looked like an hour's ride on the map turned into 4 hours of laughing outloud in my helmet and pushing the bike and me to our limits.
The road went from near sea-level to over 2400m where the bikes were sapped for power. Along the way it was interesting to see the changing surroundings. Palm trees and humid jungle gave way to corn fields and pine trees. Laborers walking on the sides of the road seemed to trade in their machetes for hoes and muck boots. Up high the smell of pine trees as well as a faint latrine-like smell instantly brought back memories of Boy Scout camp.
We eventually made it to San Cristobal where I had my first contact with another vehicle. A cab pulled out in front of me and I swerved to the right and missed him mostly but skipped my left pannier off his front bumper. I quickly looked back and saw that everything was still there on the bike, claimed 'no harm, no foul' and kept going.
San Cristobal was great as Marcos had said. It's very similar to Antigua, Guatemala where I spent some time earlier last spring. It's full of colonial style architecture, cobblestone streets and vibrant colors. It had several walking-streets with interesting shops and an abundance of amber shops which I thought was strange. There was a huge zocalo with large trees and several impressive churches. I also found the first good coffee shop of the trip, owned by a gringa who went to CU Boulder briefly.
The hostel I stayed at was one of the nicer I've seen and had a group of people who couldn't have been scripted any better to portray the stereotypical hostel crowd. There was the permanently drunk red-headed Irish guy who I saw trying to do a hand-stand whilst trollied at 9 in the morning. He ended up on his back in a flower bed moaning. Then there was the old hippie dude who never took off his sunglasses and smelled of tacos. We had an annoying gringa who spoke painfully loud in very crude Spanish as well as the scarf-wearing Frenchman. There were the American newlyweds, the never-happy Israeli and the deep-thinking feminist who must have said the word 'culture' once per breath.
During the day we rode to Sumidero Canyon that was filled with water thanks to a 240m tall hydro-electric dam about an hour downstream. They had erected a huge statue of the dam builder, wonder if I'll be getting one of those anytime soon.
We hopped on a lancha with 14 others and cruised along at a good pace, our wake leaving the only clean path of water amongst the tens of thousands of bottle caps floating in the water. We were told that the caps haven't always been there (Oh really!?) The guide's excuse was that the caps had been brought in by a recent hurricane which might be true, but regardless of their previous locataion they had clearly been carelessly thrown on the ground which is the norm here.
The vast majority of people here litter terribly. When whatever is in their hands is no longer of any value to them, they simply open their hand and walk away. I see this over and over and it's frustrating. I'd think a group of people who live so close to the environment would be better stewards of the land. Guess not.
The New Years festivities were done in great Mexican fashion. Firework fights were rampant, and not just with some tame Roman candles, these guys had the good stuff. There were two main groups with fireworkers who would launch and throw them at each other across the zocalo. This was great to watch, with near misses bringing applause from the crowd.
Between songs the band made an announcement that Sara Mickleson, from Michigan, U-S-A should come to the stage to as her purse had just been turned in by some honest person. Sara quickly made her way to the front where the lead singer looked at her drivers license then at Sara and asked her with the mic why she doesn't like the blonde haired girl on the ID. Sara then made an absolute fool out of herself by leaning over to the mike and saying, "Mi caballo es diferente ahora." Meaning 'My horse be different now'. She meant to say 'Mi cabello esta diferente ahora' meaning 'My hair is different now' . The crowd erupted in laughter, I wonder if she ever figured out what was so funny.
Later the Mexican verion of Achy Breaky Heart came on which worked the crowd into a frenzy just before midnight. There were bottles breaking, people stumbling about, sparkler jousting...all the usual NYE affairs. Oddly enough all but a few songs were in English, though.
New Years day we rode back to Palenque on the great road we'd been over several days earlier, this time though it was in a heavy tropical rain. We donned our rain gear, put on our clear face shields and slowed things down in the corners. We stopped at some ruins whose name started with a T.... not sure what they were called but were the best I've seen thus far. They were huge and we were allowed to crall all over them.
We eventually made it back to Palenque and opted not to return to the hotel next to the creepy funeral director.
We had another prison-like room with what we call 'caja en caja' construction (box in box) meaning that the room was a near perfect cube with no windows but is rather tall, maybe 14' or so which keeps things cooler. Our bathroom is another concrete box in a back corner, roughlly 4'x6'x8'. Caja en caja. The nice thing about this design is that no sound gets in which is important as there seemed to be a good supply of fireworks, sirens and horns outside when we walked in.
"No hay mantas" I exclaimed to Luis, pointing out that there weren't any blankets ont the bed, just sheets. I quickly realized that they didn't provide blankets because it would be 90 degrees with maybe 80 percent humidity.
That night we looked at the map for a while and decided to ride straight through to Tulum, almost 500 miles away because we didn't find much worth seeing along the way. It would be our longest ride of the trip, but still doable.
The ride to San Cristobal was one of the best I've had in the world. The road was in unusually good shape and full of great banked turns. What looked like an hour's ride on the map turned into 4 hours of laughing outloud in my helmet and pushing the bike and me to our limits.
The road went from near sea-level to over 2400m where the bikes were sapped for power. Along the way it was interesting to see the changing surroundings. Palm trees and humid jungle gave way to corn fields and pine trees. Laborers walking on the sides of the road seemed to trade in their machetes for hoes and muck boots. Up high the smell of pine trees as well as a faint latrine-like smell instantly brought back memories of Boy Scout camp.
We eventually made it to San Cristobal where I had my first contact with another vehicle. A cab pulled out in front of me and I swerved to the right and missed him mostly but skipped my left pannier off his front bumper. I quickly looked back and saw that everything was still there on the bike, claimed 'no harm, no foul' and kept going.
San Cristobal was great as Marcos had said. It's very similar to Antigua, Guatemala where I spent some time earlier last spring. It's full of colonial style architecture, cobblestone streets and vibrant colors. It had several walking-streets with interesting shops and an abundance of amber shops which I thought was strange. There was a huge zocalo with large trees and several impressive churches. I also found the first good coffee shop of the trip, owned by a gringa who went to CU Boulder briefly.
The hostel I stayed at was one of the nicer I've seen and had a group of people who couldn't have been scripted any better to portray the stereotypical hostel crowd. There was the permanently drunk red-headed Irish guy who I saw trying to do a hand-stand whilst trollied at 9 in the morning. He ended up on his back in a flower bed moaning. Then there was the old hippie dude who never took off his sunglasses and smelled of tacos. We had an annoying gringa who spoke painfully loud in very crude Spanish as well as the scarf-wearing Frenchman. There were the American newlyweds, the never-happy Israeli and the deep-thinking feminist who must have said the word 'culture' once per breath.
During the day we rode to Sumidero Canyon that was filled with water thanks to a 240m tall hydro-electric dam about an hour downstream. They had erected a huge statue of the dam builder, wonder if I'll be getting one of those anytime soon.
We hopped on a lancha with 14 others and cruised along at a good pace, our wake leaving the only clean path of water amongst the tens of thousands of bottle caps floating in the water. We were told that the caps haven't always been there (Oh really!?) The guide's excuse was that the caps had been brought in by a recent hurricane which might be true, but regardless of their previous locataion they had clearly been carelessly thrown on the ground which is the norm here.
The vast majority of people here litter terribly. When whatever is in their hands is no longer of any value to them, they simply open their hand and walk away. I see this over and over and it's frustrating. I'd think a group of people who live so close to the environment would be better stewards of the land. Guess not.
The New Years festivities were done in great Mexican fashion. Firework fights were rampant, and not just with some tame Roman candles, these guys had the good stuff. There were two main groups with fireworkers who would launch and throw them at each other across the zocalo. This was great to watch, with near misses bringing applause from the crowd.
Between songs the band made an announcement that Sara Mickleson, from Michigan, U-S-A should come to the stage to as her purse had just been turned in by some honest person. Sara quickly made her way to the front where the lead singer looked at her drivers license then at Sara and asked her with the mic why she doesn't like the blonde haired girl on the ID. Sara then made an absolute fool out of herself by leaning over to the mike and saying, "Mi caballo es diferente ahora." Meaning 'My horse be different now'. She meant to say 'Mi cabello esta diferente ahora' meaning 'My hair is different now' . The crowd erupted in laughter, I wonder if she ever figured out what was so funny.
Later the Mexican verion of Achy Breaky Heart came on which worked the crowd into a frenzy just before midnight. There were bottles breaking, people stumbling about, sparkler jousting...all the usual NYE affairs. Oddly enough all but a few songs were in English, though.
New Years day we rode back to Palenque on the great road we'd been over several days earlier, this time though it was in a heavy tropical rain. We donned our rain gear, put on our clear face shields and slowed things down in the corners. We stopped at some ruins whose name started with a T.... not sure what they were called but were the best I've seen thus far. They were huge and we were allowed to crall all over them.
We eventually made it back to Palenque and opted not to return to the hotel next to the creepy funeral director.
We had another prison-like room with what we call 'caja en caja' construction (box in box) meaning that the room was a near perfect cube with no windows but is rather tall, maybe 14' or so which keeps things cooler. Our bathroom is another concrete box in a back corner, roughlly 4'x6'x8'. Caja en caja. The nice thing about this design is that no sound gets in which is important as there seemed to be a good supply of fireworks, sirens and horns outside when we walked in.
"No hay mantas" I exclaimed to Luis, pointing out that there weren't any blankets ont the bed, just sheets. I quickly realized that they didn't provide blankets because it would be 90 degrees with maybe 80 percent humidity.
That night we looked at the map for a while and decided to ride straight through to Tulum, almost 500 miles away because we didn't find much worth seeing along the way. It would be our longest ride of the trip, but still doable.
Monday, January 4, 2010
12-27-09 Palenque
Upon getting to Palenque the we found that all the posadas were full and were wonding what to do next when we were approached by a funeral director who said the place next to his shop and room for us.
We unloaded the bikes and brought our gear into the room which was rather prison-like. No windows and a shard of a mirror propped up in a hole in the plaster above the sink. Within seconds of entering the room the funeral director, who called himself 'Mike' stuck his head in and requested our attention as he was going to show us something amazing. He reached into his back pocket and produced a stack of neatly folded receipts, a 20 peso note and a single 4" nail, unusually shiny.
Mike then leaned his head back and showly pushed the nail into his right nostril until the head disappeared. "You like?" He said. I thought about saying, "No" but held my toungue. Then he pushed the tip of his nose up with his left index finger causing the nail to fall out of his head and landed in his right hand. He dropped the nail in his pocket and reached forward to shake our hands. Just a little gross, Mike.
Mike spoke a little English and noted that he had lived briefly in LA. He was always outside our hotel or in front of his funeral home sitting with a group of people. He always would say something in rough English to us to then look over at his friends who seemed to be impressed with his bilingual abilities. His typical remark was 'Ehhhh booooyyyyyy'.
We once asked Mike how business was, his reply, 'No dead'.
Not long after arriving we decided to ride to a waterfall that we'd heard good things about. Misol Ha was a 25 minute ride into the mountains where we had to pay 15 pesos to the damn Zapatistas (more on them later) followed by another 15 pesos to the another set of guards to get into the waterfall.
The falls were impressive, 45m high with two streams plummeting into a pool they claimed was 25m deep. We hiked to the top of the falls and were the only ones there which seemed strange as there was an obvious trail leading to the top which provided a great view. I got much closer to the edge than my mother would have wanted to and got some great pictures before retreating towardds the large pool below.
We hadn't planned on getting in the water but there were quite a few people swimming as it was hot and humid as usual and it looked rather refreshing. I dropped trou' and jumped in. I couldn't breather for a few seconds as the water was surprisingly cold. I eventually got used to it and enjoyed a good swim.
We decided we would stay in Palenque two nights as there was much to see around the area. They had a great central Plaza, or 'zocalo' which was always filled with people. At night a band played and impromptu salsa dance-offs were frequent.
Our next morning we hit the Mayan ruins, the first of my trip. While in the parking lot we were approached by a guy who wanted to wash our bikes (this happens often down here) and we politely declined as we both felt it was pointless. Then he said he'd 'watch' our bikes, which means nothing. I played naive and asked him why they needed watching and he couldn't produce a good answer. Again we passed on his offer and went to check out the archeological site.
The ruins were impressive and used strange building techniques. They used no arches as are seen in many other stone buildings from their era. To create rooms they used vertical walls that then angled in at the top but whose exterior wall stayed vertical, creating a void that looked like a triangle stacked on a square. Apparently, each of the walls is structurally independent, if one falls, teh other will remain upright, unlike an arch.
Another strange thing I noticed was the haphazard placement of the stones. It looked as if they'd simply thrown a lot of stones and mortar together, paying no attention to the size or fit with one another. I guess it works, as the ruins are still astanding and don't seem to deserve the term 'ruin'.
Upon returning to the bikes, Luis noticed a large fresh gash in his gas tank, most likely courtesy of the bike 'watcher' we chose not to employ.
We took off and headed for Agua Azul, a series of waterfally and rapids separated by large blue pools. I was leading through the twisty road, passing packs of children standing on the side selling local fruit. At one point Luis raced up next to me and started yelling and pointing behind us. I slowed down and he said "Tienen guanabana!" excitedly. I inquired what it was and he said it was a delicious and rare fruit that he used to eat as a kid in Venezuela.
We spun the bikes around and found the proper little roadside stand with the guanabana, a Shrekish-looking football-sized green fruit with pointy black lumps on it. I took out my camera and snapped a picture of the transaction between Luis and the young boy which caused a group of girls to start screaming. I snapped another picture and subsequently stole 4 of their souls befoe they could run behind a tree giggling.
The guanabana was excellent. It has a white and somewhat fibrous inside almost like that of a pineapple but was softer than a banana. It had large black watermelon-like seeds in an array that were held firmly by the fibers and took some effort to spit out. The taste can best be described as tart fruit punch, I've never had anything else like it.
Once on the road again with half a guanabana wrapped in a towel and lashed to my seat I came upon a straight section of road that allowed me to get up to about 80mph, I was quickly approaching an old truck that was going unusually slow and drifted into the oncomming lane to pass him. Upon passing the truck I realized why he was going so slow, there was a huge rogue speed bump about a hundred feet ahead, not meant to be taken at my current speed. The bumps are typicaly painted yellow or white or marked with a sign, but not always, and not this one.
I grabbed a fistful of the front brake and squeezed the tank with my knees, downshifted twice and dumped the clutch, chirping the rear tire then squeezed the rear brake until I set off the ABS. Just before impact I burped the throttle to uncommpress the suspension, applied some pressure to the foot pegs and held my breath as I knew I'd done everything I knew of to slow it down.
I don't know how many feet I sailed through the air, I suppose it could be calculated and would make a great physics test question. I was in the air long enough to hear things get quiet before a loud, banging landing, rear-wheel first. I quickly checked my mirrors to see if I'd lost anything in the jump and to see how Luis was fairing, luckily he did just fine.
Upon getting to the falls we had to pay our blood money at a Zapatista road block. Zapatistas are a local group of radical guerillas who are fighting for rights for indigenous people and often set up their little 'tax stations' along touristy roads to fund their cause. This is deemed illegal by the Mexican government but not much seems do be done about it.
We argued with them for a while, I asked one why we have to pay and he said that it was for maintenance. I pointed at the chewed up road ahead of us and noted they were doing a great job. Luis got particularly heated with them calling them theives and liars and said they should be embarassed of themselves before we rode off.
Further down the road we had to pay the usual entrance fee and were waiting in a line of traffic. We came to a stop sign where Luis was in front and I was behind him, a little closer to the center line. From our right a large tour bus started making a left turn in front of us. The bus was clearly not going to make the turn without swiping Luis, which Luis quickly realized. He tried to roll his bike back but couldn't go fast enough, he yelled out at the bus while I leaned over in the saddle and issued a good ninja-kick to the bus which stopped long enough for us to scramble away. Unfortunately this is the norm down here, no respect for other vehicles on the road
We unloaded the bikes and brought our gear into the room which was rather prison-like. No windows and a shard of a mirror propped up in a hole in the plaster above the sink. Within seconds of entering the room the funeral director, who called himself 'Mike' stuck his head in and requested our attention as he was going to show us something amazing. He reached into his back pocket and produced a stack of neatly folded receipts, a 20 peso note and a single 4" nail, unusually shiny.
Mike then leaned his head back and showly pushed the nail into his right nostril until the head disappeared. "You like?" He said. I thought about saying, "No" but held my toungue. Then he pushed the tip of his nose up with his left index finger causing the nail to fall out of his head and landed in his right hand. He dropped the nail in his pocket and reached forward to shake our hands. Just a little gross, Mike.
Mike spoke a little English and noted that he had lived briefly in LA. He was always outside our hotel or in front of his funeral home sitting with a group of people. He always would say something in rough English to us to then look over at his friends who seemed to be impressed with his bilingual abilities. His typical remark was 'Ehhhh booooyyyyyy'.
We once asked Mike how business was, his reply, 'No dead'.
Not long after arriving we decided to ride to a waterfall that we'd heard good things about. Misol Ha was a 25 minute ride into the mountains where we had to pay 15 pesos to the damn Zapatistas (more on them later) followed by another 15 pesos to the another set of guards to get into the waterfall.
The falls were impressive, 45m high with two streams plummeting into a pool they claimed was 25m deep. We hiked to the top of the falls and were the only ones there which seemed strange as there was an obvious trail leading to the top which provided a great view. I got much closer to the edge than my mother would have wanted to and got some great pictures before retreating towardds the large pool below.
We hadn't planned on getting in the water but there were quite a few people swimming as it was hot and humid as usual and it looked rather refreshing. I dropped trou' and jumped in. I couldn't breather for a few seconds as the water was surprisingly cold. I eventually got used to it and enjoyed a good swim.
We decided we would stay in Palenque two nights as there was much to see around the area. They had a great central Plaza, or 'zocalo' which was always filled with people. At night a band played and impromptu salsa dance-offs were frequent.
Our next morning we hit the Mayan ruins, the first of my trip. While in the parking lot we were approached by a guy who wanted to wash our bikes (this happens often down here) and we politely declined as we both felt it was pointless. Then he said he'd 'watch' our bikes, which means nothing. I played naive and asked him why they needed watching and he couldn't produce a good answer. Again we passed on his offer and went to check out the archeological site.
The ruins were impressive and used strange building techniques. They used no arches as are seen in many other stone buildings from their era. To create rooms they used vertical walls that then angled in at the top but whose exterior wall stayed vertical, creating a void that looked like a triangle stacked on a square. Apparently, each of the walls is structurally independent, if one falls, teh other will remain upright, unlike an arch.
Another strange thing I noticed was the haphazard placement of the stones. It looked as if they'd simply thrown a lot of stones and mortar together, paying no attention to the size or fit with one another. I guess it works, as the ruins are still astanding and don't seem to deserve the term 'ruin'.
Upon returning to the bikes, Luis noticed a large fresh gash in his gas tank, most likely courtesy of the bike 'watcher' we chose not to employ.
We took off and headed for Agua Azul, a series of waterfally and rapids separated by large blue pools. I was leading through the twisty road, passing packs of children standing on the side selling local fruit. At one point Luis raced up next to me and started yelling and pointing behind us. I slowed down and he said "Tienen guanabana!" excitedly. I inquired what it was and he said it was a delicious and rare fruit that he used to eat as a kid in Venezuela.
We spun the bikes around and found the proper little roadside stand with the guanabana, a Shrekish-looking football-sized green fruit with pointy black lumps on it. I took out my camera and snapped a picture of the transaction between Luis and the young boy which caused a group of girls to start screaming. I snapped another picture and subsequently stole 4 of their souls befoe they could run behind a tree giggling.
The guanabana was excellent. It has a white and somewhat fibrous inside almost like that of a pineapple but was softer than a banana. It had large black watermelon-like seeds in an array that were held firmly by the fibers and took some effort to spit out. The taste can best be described as tart fruit punch, I've never had anything else like it.
Once on the road again with half a guanabana wrapped in a towel and lashed to my seat I came upon a straight section of road that allowed me to get up to about 80mph, I was quickly approaching an old truck that was going unusually slow and drifted into the oncomming lane to pass him. Upon passing the truck I realized why he was going so slow, there was a huge rogue speed bump about a hundred feet ahead, not meant to be taken at my current speed. The bumps are typicaly painted yellow or white or marked with a sign, but not always, and not this one.
I grabbed a fistful of the front brake and squeezed the tank with my knees, downshifted twice and dumped the clutch, chirping the rear tire then squeezed the rear brake until I set off the ABS. Just before impact I burped the throttle to uncommpress the suspension, applied some pressure to the foot pegs and held my breath as I knew I'd done everything I knew of to slow it down.
I don't know how many feet I sailed through the air, I suppose it could be calculated and would make a great physics test question. I was in the air long enough to hear things get quiet before a loud, banging landing, rear-wheel first. I quickly checked my mirrors to see if I'd lost anything in the jump and to see how Luis was fairing, luckily he did just fine.
Upon getting to the falls we had to pay our blood money at a Zapatista road block. Zapatistas are a local group of radical guerillas who are fighting for rights for indigenous people and often set up their little 'tax stations' along touristy roads to fund their cause. This is deemed illegal by the Mexican government but not much seems do be done about it.
We argued with them for a while, I asked one why we have to pay and he said that it was for maintenance. I pointed at the chewed up road ahead of us and noted they were doing a great job. Luis got particularly heated with them calling them theives and liars and said they should be embarassed of themselves before we rode off.
Further down the road we had to pay the usual entrance fee and were waiting in a line of traffic. We came to a stop sign where Luis was in front and I was behind him, a little closer to the center line. From our right a large tour bus started making a left turn in front of us. The bus was clearly not going to make the turn without swiping Luis, which Luis quickly realized. He tried to roll his bike back but couldn't go fast enough, he yelled out at the bus while I leaned over in the saddle and issued a good ninja-kick to the bus which stopped long enough for us to scramble away. Unfortunately this is the norm down here, no respect for other vehicles on the road
12-26-09 Catemaco
While in Xalapa over Christmas, the only other traveler at my hostel was Marcos, a friendly German hippie. He had been traveling throughout Mexico for 6 months and recommended I go to San Cristobal de las Casas, a two day ride into the state of Chiapas. He said it was the best place he'd been in Mexico yet. During his description of the city he never once mentioned drums, drugs or handmade jewelry, the three vices of all hippies. Because of this I took his word and pointed the bike towards San Cristobal on the 26th.
I rode to Catameco the first night which is in the Center of Mexican cigar country so I indulged in one of their creations while sitting on the boardwalk watching the sunset. Another gringoish looking guy came over and asked where I was from in an accent I didn't recognize. He was Venezuelan but had been living in Vancouver for quite some time. I asked him what his plans were while down here. "I go to ride to San Cristobal de las Casas." "What do you mean ride?" I inquired. "I riding da motorcycle to Costa Rica." And so our friendship began.
My place in Catemaco that night was ok; the mattress felt like it was stuffed with corn stalks and diapers though was oddly comfortable. The doorways have been getting gradually lower and lower the further south I go and today had my first of what will be many run-ins with the door jam in the bathroom.
Luis and I decided to leave Catemaco the next morning and ride to Palenque, some 7 hours in the direction of San Cristobal. It was fun riding with somebody and also safer. We'd take turns leading, watching out for the topes, dogs, people, bundles of sugar cane, rocks, pigs and potholes, but Luis still managed to hit a magpie with his windshield.
On the ride we came across numerous packs of kids who had made their own speed bumps out of dirt which the cars would then compact. They would then place a vine with some colorful trash on it across the road then pull it up as we were coming to make us stop and hopefully buy some of their fresh fruit. This didn't seem like the safest thing to be doing for us or the kids, for that matter. Frequently after passing one of their fruit stops we'd see several old vines that had been dragged down the road by an impatient driver.
I rode to Catameco the first night which is in the Center of Mexican cigar country so I indulged in one of their creations while sitting on the boardwalk watching the sunset. Another gringoish looking guy came over and asked where I was from in an accent I didn't recognize. He was Venezuelan but had been living in Vancouver for quite some time. I asked him what his plans were while down here. "I go to ride to San Cristobal de las Casas." "What do you mean ride?" I inquired. "I riding da motorcycle to Costa Rica." And so our friendship began.
My place in Catemaco that night was ok; the mattress felt like it was stuffed with corn stalks and diapers though was oddly comfortable. The doorways have been getting gradually lower and lower the further south I go and today had my first of what will be many run-ins with the door jam in the bathroom.
Luis and I decided to leave Catemaco the next morning and ride to Palenque, some 7 hours in the direction of San Cristobal. It was fun riding with somebody and also safer. We'd take turns leading, watching out for the topes, dogs, people, bundles of sugar cane, rocks, pigs and potholes, but Luis still managed to hit a magpie with his windshield.
On the ride we came across numerous packs of kids who had made their own speed bumps out of dirt which the cars would then compact. They would then place a vine with some colorful trash on it across the road then pull it up as we were coming to make us stop and hopefully buy some of their fresh fruit. This didn't seem like the safest thing to be doing for us or the kids, for that matter. Frequently after passing one of their fruit stops we'd see several old vines that had been dragged down the road by an impatient driver.
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