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.