Check out Adventure Travel Magazine for a story about Riding the Spine’s ascent/descent of Central America’s Tallest Peak, Tajumulco Volcano.

 

Saw this on the Xtracycle Blog and thought I’d share.

http://www.dothetest.co.uk/

“No…seriously man.. you don´t understand.. there are THOUSANDS of them. ”

And that was actually an understatement. The constant itch on my legs had gone unaccounted for throughout the night. That is, until, I clicked on my headlamp and took a closer look.

The moles on my ankle seemed to be crawling around, and the dirt on my leg was migrating up towards my groin and waist. Armies of ticks were marching in droves up my body and every time I brushed them off, reinforcements arrived within minutes.

I was not content with my companions mundane reaction, so I further emphasized the situation, “You guys. This is not all right. I have never seen anything like this. Are ya´ll not getting attacked? How are you NOT freaking out?”

Granted, I have proven myself more susceptible to panicking about insects, particularly swarms of bees and hormigas (ants), but hundreds of ectoparasites seeking accommodations seemed different. Like the ancient naturalist, Pliny the Elder, I shared his thought that ticks are, “the foulest and nastiest creatures that be.”

My companeros simply looked up at me, said nothing and returned to what they were doing: calmly reading. Vectors of more than a half a dozen diseases including Lymes and Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever, I had easily and instantly convinced myself that I had read in some guide book that ticks in the area harbored multiple undesirable diseases.

That night we found ourselves pedaling around looking for a suitable campsite, but ran out of light in a populated neighborhood. A large horse corral seemed like our best bet. I had gone to ask the neighbor about camping there and she said it was owned by somebody down the street but he wasn´t home.

She asked me, “Van salir manana?”
“Si, muy temprano en la manana” I replied.
“Creo que esta bien, porque no?”

So, I sat picking off the endless supply of bloodsuckers and wished that she had not been so encouraging. In fact, I even wished I had spent money to get a cheap hotel room. Ten bucks would have been a fair trade just to get all the ticks off my body.

A fundraiser ride across Costa Rica had been organized to help us earn some money to keep our trip going, but the dozen riders who planned on joining all ended up bailing for different reasons. All the same, Goat´s dad; a local adventure race organizer Mike and his son Chris were eager to ride and planned to meet up with us that night. The tick infested horse corral was not what we would have planned for our new traveling companions.

Our good friends Tom and Kenny had driven down from California to spend some time with us in Costa Rica. Tom brought his dog Ottie, a half coyote mutt he rescued while hiking the Appalachian Trail - it´s coat of hair full from the Sierra Nevada winter was shedding wildly, particularly as it began to notice the ticks.
I had convinced Tom of our dire situation and he was busy inspecting Ottie, busily plucking the parasites.

“Whoah. Ottie is completely covered with ´em. There´s no way I can get them off. “ He commented with an equal measure of fear and amazement.

I decided I would fare best in my hammock. With some vigilance, I believed I could get most of the ticks off. With a combination of DEET and about 45 minutes of dedicated seek and destroy tactics I was able to rid myself of all but 4 (discovered latched onto my crotch when I woke up the next morning).

The sound of police sirens encroached on my dreams, and I woke to the reality of three SUVs skidding to a stop, and about a dozen uniformed police officers with bulletproof vests and machine guns arranging into double-file lines. A fourth car, apparently a taxi arrived and dropped off a few more policemen to reinforce their numbers. Quickly in formation, they advanced on our campsite with weapons at the ready. An impressive display.

I opted to get my clothes on and chat with them instead of waiting for them to come and roust me, a lesson learned from previous lynch mob encounters in Guatemala.

I heard the tried and true greeting, “Somos gringos” from Goat or Sean and was not surprised to find them sufficiently collected (guns down) by the time they started questioning me. Always reassuring when they do not approach you with weapons cocked and pointed towards you. We are just a bunch of harmless skinny gringos, after all.

“Pasaporte?” One asked, with a discernible smirk coming across his face that made me wonder if he felt silly to have put on such a show for a few skinny gringos on bicycles.

It seems that neighbors had passed along the street and saw our headlamps, something they could only associate with drug dealers. The cops arrived ready for a showdown.

I handed the cop my passport. He opened it up and found himself distracted by a subtle itch on his hand. Then another somewhat further up on his arms. I noticed a similar phenomenon occurring with the other officers.

Instead of a shootout with a ring of drug smuggling long distance bike tourists, they found themselves fighting against a nearly invisible enemy beginning a dedicated war of attrition. And they didn’t even know it yet.

Soon the whole police brigade was subtly scratching their various itches much to my amusement. After going down the typical list of FAQ´s about our trip, they departed; the last two officers squishing into the back of a taxi.

The so-called fundraiser found its end (after an unforgettable stretch of Costa Rican back roads where my companeros would all eventually encounter a bit of their own tick hysteria) along Lago Arenal at the foot of its respective volcano. We sat, attempting to fish with maggoty pork and finish off a bottle of fine Scotch while the volcano randomly spewed lava down, accompanied by an earth trembling groan and a crackling sound. Our cheers grew louder with each fiery display as our bellies burned from the Scotch and we contemplated the last few days.

Some of Sean´s thoughts on the Big Dummy posted on Surly´s Blog.

It is not always easy having Surly’s Big Dummy for a touring companion. While touring through Guatemala I became afflicted. It was nearly impossible for me not to show off this cargo bike that can carry more than your standard pack animal, doesn’t whine and beg for hay, and has more sexy curves in its frame then your most food deprived lingerie model. Take for example the daily routine of hauling leña (firewood) several miles from the timberline back down to the village. All along dirt roads, highways, or narrow footpaths, strut old men, women, and children hauling burdens that would crush a gringo’s spine like elote into corn meal. Somehow they keep their backs straight and stiff as ramrods, and their burly calf muscles (like knotted tree roots) would put even the most accomplished recreational mountaineer to shame. Without a hint of pain or exhaustion, they handle their business. And yet as I coast along on my extra-long bike, I can’t help but think, ‘hey, I’ve got plenty of room to accommodate those heavy loads, maybe the locals could use a break’.

Click here to read the rest

Unfortunately, we were robbed this morning in the quaint little surfing village: Puerto Viejo.

Two digital cameras, one pocket-knife, and one Gerber Tool now floating around on the black market of Costa Rica.

Pura Vida

“Look what the wind’s brought in!” joked one of the oil-stained dockworkers as we approached the ferry to Ometepe. Motor purring idle, ropes disentangled from its moors, our boat seemed to have been anxiously awaiting our arrival to venture out upon a turbulent Lake Nicaragua. Such was the volatile temperament of the lake that I felt that I was facing a storm stirred ocean rather than the land locked body of fresh water.

As the boat began to pull away from land, the few tourists remaining on the observation deck rushed into the passenger saloon. Water gushed in after them threatening to flood the cabin, but the deck hands followed close behind to brace the doors against the stormy waves.

Despite the splashed and misty side windows it was impossible not to be fixated in awe at Volcan la Conception, whose tapering form towered towards the heavens. It was the earth’s mighty bosom that appeared to heave and swell as if undergoing dramatic transformation (an impression most likely caused by the erratic swaying of the boat, but which I romantically attributed to its inner volatility. La Conception, after all, had erupted in both 2005 and 2007). Growing in immensity by the minute, I was convinced that by the time the boat reached its destination the volcano would blot out the whole sky.

Soon however, my attention was diverted to the saloon entertainment system, on which a curious music video entitled “Mi Abuelo” was playing. Old wrinkly men were shown guzzling down forty ounce bottles of malt liquor, joining biker gangs, and rolling around in bed with young women. Each singer constituted a different member of the ‘grandfathers’ extended family –including a young granddaughter, and some random midget wearing the French Hose and Spanish Bonnet of Elizabethan era wardrobe. Rather then deploring the debauchery, they shrugged off their grandfathers stiff dedication to the pimpin lifestyle, almost taking pride in the fact that he was ‘keeping it real’ till the grave.

Why was it that the saloon entertainment couldn’t offer passengers a sense of placement in the world? This short ferry service from Rivas to the island was the only real opportunity for tourists to get an understanding of the unique (yet fleeting) ecological Phenomenon of fresh water Bull Sharks (surely the boat operators could find some badly rendered, but thrilling presentation of a submarine struggle between a Bull Shark and its prey). Theoretically, below this very boat these seemingly displaced creatures could be swimming, anticipating a lavish feast of shipwrecked gringos. Yet fresh water sharks were rarely ever seen, even by local fishermen, and a recent article from Prensa Latina described the creatures as being on the verge of extinction .

Disembarking the ferry I was surprised that my first images of Ometepe were void of promiscuous old men groping at half-nude women. Arriving as we were in the dead heat of mid-siesta time, the streets were barren. In less than five minutes we were beyond the sleepy port town of Moyogalpa, and out onto a fast dusty road that circled the base of Volcan La Conception. Soon the behemoth slope was eclipsing the sun, conferring upon us unlimited shade. After some time of passing only the numberless piles of Plantains heaped on the road, I could see a fellow gringo cyclist coming up from the opposite direction.

“My god you’re a brave lad.” He said; eyes wide in bafflement as I sped past him.

Before I could think to stop and inquire his meaning, his distant figure was blurred with the haze of my dust trail. I was left to imagine for myself what formidable obstacles lay ahead (perhaps the fresh water sharks, rather than submitting to extinction, had spawned legs and were now running around Ometepe chewing the heads off birds of paradise).

To my dismay, the rest of our ride was uneventful. We crossed the hourglass isthmus that joins La Conception with its shorter counterpart, Volcan Madera, and found refuge for the night just above the village of Balgüe at Finca Magdalena; a coffee plantation offering rooms to travelers out of its rustic hacienda. Perched a hundred meters up the flank of Volcan Madera, we were half dragging our bikes up the path to the café-terrace, half spellbound at the view behind us. The fiery glow of a vanishing sun accentuated pastel colors in the clouds that whirled around La Conception’s cone. Before even reaching the steps of the hacienda we could hear conversations in a variety of languages intermingling with the drones of a dense diversity of jungle life forms.

Finca Magdalena was the ideal destination for a band of nomadic cyclists. There were plenty of hammock spots with views of the Lake, volcano, and of their garden of vibrant tropical flowers; numerous showers with intermittent hot water supply; rich organic coffee grown and roasted on the premises; and an international backpacker scene that was daily renewed with characters ready to hear and relate travel stories.

The hiking trail that led up to the peak of Volcan Madera was conveniently located behind the Plantations’ grounds. Apparently, hiking the trail without a guide hikers had disappeared on the mountain and that the discovery of their bodies brought the flow of tourism to a trickle) yet Jacob, Russell, and I managed to navigate without assistance the only trail (rather, a sticky mud trench) through the cloud forest. After cresting Madera’s saddle we hiked down into the lagoon filled crater where several tourists were standing around zipping up their jackets in response to the chilly change in climate. Their respective guides, standing at a comfortable distance from their clients, stared blankly into the rolling wisps of fog. They looked immaculately clean and improbably patient in their role of chaperone. Despite the cold, Russell and I swam out to the center of the Lagoon, and both conferred upon hearing an eerie sound like the buzzing of an electric current (reminiscent of that creepy-crawly vacuum machine that cleans suburban lap-pools).

Russell and Jacob opted to run the entire way down the steep slip and slide trench to the Volcano’s base. The effort was considerably straining on their physique. For several days afterwards the both of them were whining about sore legs.

The day after our hike we migrated to the opposite side of volcan Madera, (nearly completing our circuit of the entire island) to the village of Merida. There we met Bryce and Deirdre, an incredibly active married couple that, together, had bike-toured all throughout Europe, Australia, Central America and Africa.

“I think we’re perhaps the first people to have successfully ‘Bike-toured’ the Thames River.” Boasted Bryce.

At first not one of us knew what to make of his comment. For clarification Deirdre brought out her I Pod Classic and showed us a video that she and her husband had put together. Sure enough there they were pedaling their bikes on the river’s surface beneath the London Bridge. Their regular touring bikes were mounted on outrigger floats, drive shafts connected to a gearbox that turned a propeller, and the steering column was connected to a rudder. They could literally ride their bike across water.

“The whole system packs down pretty small.” Relates Deirdre “But it weighs a ton, so it’s not really worth carrying around on a tour unless you plan to be traveling as much on water as on land.”

“I don’t know…” I think out loud. “I might have carried it this whole trip just to avoid taking that ferry ride from Rivas. Those outrageous music videos… did you by chance see ‘Mi Abuelo’?”

“Actually, they showed some random clips of movies.” Bryce explains. “First they put on the original Godzilla which… man… where the hell do a bunch of boat operators find an antique like that. Then they showed a bit of Halloween. People are already queasy from the choppy waves, and then they’ve got these gory scenes of Michael Myers hacking up teens in front of’em.”

“That’s exactly the point when you jump ship, mount your bike and leave the boat to wobble in your wake.” I said, still mesmerized by this ingenious new concept.

Our two camps exchanged stories and caroused late into the night, officially violating the Hostel quiet hour. The next morning the hostel manager gave us a stiff lecture. Surprisingly he didn’t mention our disrespect of quiet hour time, rather, complained to us for a good while about ‘backpackers’.

“…They just come here with this idea of the Shoe-string budget and so each and every one of them is a cheap-skate, looking to pay as little as possible, without considering the impact of their consumer role.” He barks at us. “Do you know why hostels in Granada are so inexpensive?” He doesn’t wait for a shot in the dark. “Because nobody charges the mandatory 15% federal tax to their guest’s account. That is money that could be going to public education, but the manager’s concern is only about keeping the backpacker happy. And they spend nothing on infrastructure so the whole place starts to stink of sewage. This kind of greed goes on even in the up-scale resorts…”

Luckily the manager enjoyed se bikes himself. We were ‘bikepackers’ not those inconsiderate ‘backpackers’ he condescended to on a daily basis in accepting their money.

After enduring the lecture Goat and I went out to inspect the Hostel owner’s new sailing yacht when a young lady from Philadelphia named Kori made our acquaintance. She sat at the edge of the pier and set down her treasure of cacao jam (it had been canned by “the blessed Italian ex-pats” to resemble their native Nutella) between the three of us.

I was captivated by Kori’s intelligent expression. Fluent in Spanish, and always ready with a relevant bit from her many journies to add flavor to the conversation, she described her activist projects in the states, her time picking coffee berries side by side Nicaraguan locals, and her expansive travels through South America. In a few days she would return again to Caracas, Venezuela, where she had been conducting research for her dissertation.

“In the streets of Caracas, sometimes you need to stop, turn abruptly, and stare hard at the person following behind, to let him think twice about what it was they were about to carry through.” Random assault and robbery being so prevalent in Caracas, she has, many times, had to follow this piece of worldly wisdom. “…Because they’re still human, and susceptible to that feeling of suddenly being made vulnerable, of having the intent uncovered. When confronted first, they are more likely to back off.”

After conversation we all swam out to the island of exiled white-faced Capuchin monkeys. In our pockets we carried green oranges that we would roll onto their turf to determine if indeed they are as aggressively territorial as the rumors allege. The monkeys delighted in ripping the peels apart and tearing the flesh to bits. As soon as we make an attempt to approach, however, their moods turn sour; they stood up on their legs, manically waved their arms and screeched like banshees.

Being a good distance from the pier, the swim out to Monkey Island had left us spent. Recuperating with spoonfuls of Cacao jam Kori blurted out quite suddenly: “Margaret is damn amazing.”

“Margaret is indeed a dear” I agreed.

“I mean really, I think the real reason I’m here…,” gesturing to the hostel behind us. “Is to affirm to her, each and every moment that what she is doing is good, and immensely beneficial to these kids.”

My introduction to Margaret had occurred the same night the two belligerent biker camps had taken over the hostel bar. One diluted shot of Aguardiente had vaulted her into a giggling fit; yet she was an already jovial lady by nature. Hailing from Canada, she was engaged in a volunteer program at the hostel in which she received room and board in exchange for her teaching services. She was much determined to get her rowdy bunch of pre-teen kids to learn English. Without a word of Spanish at her disposal, her prospects for success would seem to anyone a little farfetched. Yet she had more than enough heart to compensate for the lingual barrier.

I figured it a good idea to brew Margaret a cup of coffee since last time I checked, she had forgone breakfast. She also appeared to be expending much energy in getting her students to admit that they had taken home all the school supplies that she has purchased from out of her own purse.

At her classroom I found her dwelling on a familiar theme.” There were… Forty Markers, twenty-five erasers… Now there are two and six.” She beams into the eyes of her unreceptive students whose ages range between six and fourteen. “You are more than intelligent enough to know what I am talking about. Now please….”

With the steaming mug of brew held high above my head I am able to catch her attention.

“Wow, this is special.” She looks relieved to take a breath. “I don’t have my money right now, but later on…”

Ah jeez, I thought, interrupting her with a frown and a wave of dismissal.

“You know, I don’t know if you guys are going to be busy later on, but it would be great if you could play a ball game with the kids.” rolling her eyes now, “My morning class needs to get up and move around, if you know what I mean.”

“I do indeed.” I graciously accepted, knowing that ‘the guys’ she had referred to, my hard-core biker gang, would be much too busy convalescing with aching joints to partake in such rigorous activity.

My students for the day were quickly assimilated into teams that when set side by side, appeared to me, to be incredibly unfair. I soon realized that one kid on the opposing team had the footwork of a featherweight boxing champion. He was barefoot, wore a pink mitten on his left hand, and scored three goals against us in the first five minutes. At first I had thought it prudent to play ‘half-speed’, but after shaking off the dazed feeling of being outmatched by a twelve year old, I realized my team might turn against me if I didn’t keep alert. Toward the end of the match two of the boys began to insult and provoke one another into a brawl. After the last point was scored I had to intervene when the smaller of the two aimed a boulder at the head of his persecutor.

After the kids had dispersed, I found Margaret alone in her classroom poking indifferently at a plate of sparsely touched Gallopinto (fried rice and beans). She beckoned me to take a seat.
“Do you know that the manager of this place wants to suddenly change my contract.” she gestured for me to finish off the remains of her plate.

“He didn’t even have the nerve to tell me about it face to face, even though we see each other everyday.” Her mouth wavered on the threshold of uttering the next sentence as if fearful it’d be too bitter for her palate.” He e-mailed me a whole new set of rules governing my volunteer work.”

“He told me to take notice that he would have to start charging me for food and Board.” She paused to shake her head. “I just don’t have that kind of Money. And if I have to return early it’ll be the kids who suffer in the end.”

I had heard rumors before that the owner of this beach side hostel, also (volunteer teacher program, bike and kayak rental shop, and buffet breakfast and dinner café…ect.), was greedy and that perhaps he inherited his land. Talk of land inheritance in Nicaragua is sure to raise eyebrows. It could mean possible military ties, in other words connections with the corrupt Samosa Family of the early Contra revolutionary times. Yet I knew better than to draw any conclusions from idle gossip.

“But get this.” She smiles, wags her finger at the crux of the matter, “he wants me to travel with him to Managua to petition The Nicaraguan government on his Behalf. He wants funding for computers that … yes, will partially be used for the children’s’ education, but the majority of the use would be from travelers for Internet time. And so of course he’ll be profiting from this. But because I’m a foreigner, whose ideas for educational investments are favored above the locals… we’ll I’d be the one to initiate his little scheme.”

“That Scoundrel!” I yelled. The more this charming old lady went on elucidating her misfortunes, the more my sympathy grew. She had ‘just survived a car wreck’ which had led to “phone battles with insurance agents complaining about the price of her back surgery’.

After carrying some books for her back to her room Margaret shakes her head, wondering what it was she was about to do next.

“You were about to take a walk along the beach”. I interfere on her behalf. “And I think I might have a word with the head man.”

Unfortunately I failed to relay that word. Too much food had been cooked that night for the hostel buffet. Not being one to let waist be noticed, the hostel manager let the garbage disposal bikers intervene. My appetite being thus satiated I felt my motivation to vent these vague grievances dissipate. ‘Don’t bark at the hand that feeds’ the saying goes.
(In a recent correspondence with Margaret she informed me that a visitor had written ‘[the manager] is arrogant’ on the hostel message board. “He came up to me to ask what the word arrogant meant,” wrote Margaret, “And I just had to smile and say: “I want you to take notice that I will not answer that question for you.”)

The next day we made our escape from Isle Ometepe. Instead of the fancy passenger ferry with in-saloon entertainment system, we boarded the top of a smaller boat. We tossed our bikes in a pile to one side, which considerably threw the boat off keel, yet nobody said anything nor made any attempt to secure the considerable load.

“Ciento vente cinco.” Barked the ticket collector.
The price was nearly double what we paid going the opposite way. When questioned about the incredible rise in rate, the man shouted: “Expresso! As if at any moment auxilary engines would kick in and propel us at warp speed. The boat chugged along at the same exact pace as before.

A small gang of boys that had helped unfasten ropes was standing around the top deck in their swim-shorts intently watching the buildings of Moyogalpa fade into the distance. Just before taking off, one had shoved another off the side to crash into the water, inciting the remaining dozen onboard to rambunctious cheering and leading me to believe some game was afoot. They stood in focused silence, each waiting until the distance to the coast was just right before gracefully swan diving into the sea. At first I thought they were waiting for the boat to get further down the coast so that they could swim directly to their neighborhoods. But then it became clear that it was a race, each competitor assigning themselves a starting distance relative to their skill. The ones to jump in last made impressive sprints to overtake the ones with head starts. It was entertaining to watch, but really I had a strong craving at that moment for blood bath horror movies and sex plastered music videos. Certainly with the exorbitant boost in price, these trivial amenities could be provided. Where else would I find my trashy media fix before resuming the long haul southwards.

Choosing the route we do (mountain dirt roads in the middle of nowhere) we usually manage to stay away from cars, but sometimes roads are unavoidable. Starting at the Artic Sea, we have been constantly and consistently warned about the drivers with whom we will have to share the road further south.  First were the “extreme truckers” on the haul road, whose loads are double long and oversize, and who literally own the road.  Then the “crazy cannucks” whose country is so sparsely populated the mere idea of traffic paralyzes them, and therefore don’t worry about little things like lanes and turn signals.  Next, “those Americans” who drive too much and too fast, “and they all have guns….”  Followed by “the Mexicans” who “have no laws down there” and so on until we learned to tune it out, as we do a large percentage of the advice we receive: “don’t go that way – the road is terrible – you’ll never make it” etc.

 

            Sure, drunk driving is a national past time in Mexico, and first time RVers up in Alaska, tend to leave their steps down (blocking/sweeping the shoulder), but the vast majority of drivers we have encountered have been competent, and courteous.  “South of the border,” drivers, forced into awareness by the condition of the roads, and used to sharing them with non-cars, are in general good drivers. And thanks to the cost and relative novelty of cars, drivers are much more likely to be professionals.  People who drive for a living, tend to be good/safe behind the wheel. In general, our pavement experiences have been much mellower than the advice-givers would have us fear.  Safer that is, until we hit Honduras, and the Pan-American Highway.

 

            Forced onto the ‘carretera’ by a tropical storm that flooded us out of the Caribbean coast, we were initially optimistic; the main roads in Mexico (the last place we had ridden highways) were nicely paved and equipped with generous shoulders, a little boring perhaps, but at least safe…no reason to assume Honduras would be much different.  The Pan-Am was nicely paved and provided reasonable shoulders. Unfortunately however, these factors didn’t add up in our favor.  The smoothness and width of the road just seemed to encourage recklessness. Drivers clearly didn’t feel constrained by the two lanes the engineers and road painters had provided for – thanks to the shoulders, there was plenty of room for a center (shared) lane or two if you didn’t mind squeezing, which they clearly didn’t.

 

            Multiple car passes at high speed on blind corners (sheer cliffs on either side) was standard practice – cars coming the “other way” are expected to swerve, and make full use of the shoulder.  Of course, sometimes trucks were passing both directions around the same blind corner, and the instant 2-lane to 4-lane conversion gets really terrifying (especially for cyclists).  Worst of all, the drivers guilty of these insane maneuvers, were quite frequently the professionals.  Truckers and bus drivers, who we had learned to trust as models of responsible driving, were now racing each other,  some times even ‘double passing’ – a truck passing, a buss passing, a line of cars. 

 

Words don’t really do justice to the sheer enormity of the recklessness, but humans are very adaptable creatures – for better or worse, we soon get used to any thing.  Constant scanning of the drainage ditches for escape routes, and split-second/corner-of-the-eye triggered evasive maneuvers became a way of life.  And soon enough – about the time we started dropping into the sprawling cancer of Tegucigalpa (the capital city) the madness had infected us.  We were bombing past tractor-trailers on the shoulder, taking possession of the “middle lane” to pass whole strings of cars unable to corner as rapidly.  Squeezing between rows of stopped or slowly moving cars (on real multi lane roads) bags and shoulders scraping on both sides – narrowly dodging rearview mirrors, and casually running red lights.

 

            Fortunately Russ and a few days of rest/bike maintenance were waiting – hidden at a couch surfer’s house in the city – to help us regain our sanity.  He brought with him a mountain of replacement parts, and a newly created steed; so clean and shiny that next to our trail-burned mounts it seemed a different species all together.  We couldn’t wait to christen it with some real dirt riding, but map-less and in the middle of a sprawling city that didn’t seem likely.

 

            Inspired nonetheless, we dug into the pile of parts, and took over the yard and sidewalk in front of the house, deep in the heart of gated community/trophy-home down town Tegucigalpa, for the better part of two days, re-building and overhauling our bikes.  Our presence was a trifle incongruous, to say the least.  Our hosts were missionaries from Austin Texas, and the house was filled with their boisterous and non-Spanish speaking offspring, the requisite maids (and their children) and various dogs. Chaotic to be sure, but standard fare compared to trail scarred and strangely attired gringos banging purposefully on their intriguingly bizarre bicycles, amid piles of strange bike parts, tools and specialized camping gear (and in the front yard no less!!).

 

When fixing machines, nothing ever goes quite as expected; despite careful planning and ordering, l had to take to the streets to find a bike shop.  The up-scale city center was largely devoid of that sort establishment, but eventually l asked the right person, and was directed to Bike Zone.

 

            When l arrived Daniel, the proprietor was hand filing a replacement derailleur-hanger from a piece of scrap aluminum, while an assistant repacked the bearings on a bike so old it sported rod-brakes, and Daniel’s multi thousand dollar Turner mtn bike stood out like a sore thumb from the bedraggled bike rack outside. Between the bikes that they were working on, and the tools they were working with, there was hardly room inside the shack like premises, so l stood out side answering questions about ”my” bike (l was riding Russ’s, the chupacabra dismantled for repair) until Daniel took a brake from making chips fly, and came out to talk to me.  He was fascinated by the Xtracycle, and our trip, told me that if l didn’t mind waiting, he would help me any way he could.

 

            I hung out, and he picked my brain about our bikes, mtn touring, running a bike shop in the US, the relative quality of different parts. Eventually he finished his various tasks, we found solutions to my problems, and l returned to my companions to implement said solutions, but not before l promised come back to show him the Chupacabra. I made good on my promise, and in the midst of geeking out on bikes, I remembered to ask him about dirt routes to Nicaragua.

 

            He thought a while, and said, well l have this friend – he’s a dreamer, a little bit crazy, but he use to have a TV show called biking in Honduras and knows all about the back roads – should l call him?

 

Por favor…

 

So it was that when we left town the next day, it was in the company of a portly, out of shape, and very enthusiastic Jorge.  We were unclear on his plans, or level of fitness, so we hardly noticed he wasn’t carrying anything. On the way out of town we had to climb the counterpart of the mammoth hill we had descended into Tegucigalpa. The hill was long and punishing, and we took turns riding behind with Jorge, chatting in a mixture of Spanish and English, and smiling at his jokes about his pot belly, and sedentary profession (electrical engineer). Eventually we crested the hill and were rewarded with and epic down hill. As we blasted down hill into the afternoon, we had to wonder what Jorge’s plan was – surely he wasn’t going to ride back tonight…

 

When he caught up, he explained that he was in fact planning on riding with us for a couple days, and on sleeping at a ‘hospeadje’ in one of the small towns coming up. Adding that we would have no trouble reaching the closer one before dark. We rode on, the dirt road turning rougher, and starting to climb. It continued to climb… Some time after sunset, we gave up on reaching Jorge’s town.  Jorge, still up beat, made a cursory effort to obtain ‘posada’ for the evening, but all the houses around were small and brimful with their customary occupants.

 

We ended up camping in the front yard of a friendly ‘campesino’ family (the ‘dueno’ of the field next door lived in the city, and thus couldn’t give us ‘permiso’ to use his (much more suitable to our camping needs) land.  In any case we have an aversion to refusing hospitality.  So we got creative with our hammocks – Jacob managed to attach both ends of his to the same long overhanging branch of the mango tree that was the centerpiece of the yard area.  We were high enough in the mountains, that we could expect dew and substantial temperature drop, so we rounded up our spare clothes, sleeping pads, and tarps and set up a cozy shelter for Jorge. Meanwhile Sean had our MSR stove out, water boiling, getting ready for our standard dinner of oatmeal.  All these outlandish preparations made for a fascinating evenings entertainment for our hosts.

 

The whole family, or neighborhood, (it was hard to tell) had turned out for the spectacle: 20+ pairs of eye glued to our every move.  But alas it was soon pitch black, and gringo TV flickered out of view – leaving only our headlamps to dance like sluggish and over sized fireflies. Interesting for a moment, but lacking detail.  Fortunately mother saved the day – appearing with a handful of kindling, which turned out to be ‘lena de jacaranda’: heartwood so resinated that it burned like a torch.  Light a couple and wa-la: instant campfire, light heat, and no mess.  Thanks to the ‘lena’ our audience had the pleasure of watching us finish cooking dinner, eating (out of our space age folding bowls) and putting the stove away. Exciting stuff. About the time we were ready to retire for the night, Jorge reappeared; he had found what passed for the local store and supped on coca-cola and chips.  He refused the portion of oatmeal we had saved, saying he was trying to lose weight and went off to sleep under a cactus.  We eventually convinced him to accept a jacket and a tarp, but he would have none of the warm dry bed we had prepared – he didn’t want to disturb us with his snoring, he explained.

 

We awoke half an hour after sunrise or so, to find the whole family and Jorge waiting silently for us to appear out of our cocoons.  Jorge had hardly slept a wink, cold damp and uncomfortable under his cactus. As we set about breaking camp, preparing breakfast (our big meal of the day) and otherwise entertaining the locals, Jorge set out ahead of us saying he wanted to warm up, and would meet us in the next town, leaving us to our audience. Exposed by the light of day they didn’t crowd as close, but watched just as intently.

 

The women of the house were especially fascinated – men cooking: unheard of, could they really do it?!  Rice and beans in the same pot?! Etc.  When our food was ready they sent the smallest child over with a cup for a taste of our strange (and luxurious – cheese, meat, vegetables, rice and beans – in prodigious quantities too) meal. We filled it to overflowing, figuring there would be plenty of interested samplers.  Finally nourished and dressed for the day, we had to turn off the TV and take our leave.

 

In about an hour we reached Jorge sitting in town outside of the lone ‘pulperia,’ coke in hand. He brought us all drinks (Russ and l refused soda, and were treated to liquid sugar labeled orange juice), and taking a deep breath broke the news: “I´m really sorry, but…..” unfortunately he was called back to Tegucigalpa on business, and couldn’t ride with us to the Nicaragua border as planned, in fact he was heading back immediately.  A little relieved, we left him beaming and waving in front of the ‘pulperia’ and headed down the road.

 

Almost immediately the nicely maintained gravel road we had been following ceased and a challenging 4wheel drive track began.  We ground up hill, turned off the rough road we were following for a truly rustic track, and clawed our way to the top of a flinty ridge, pouring sweat and struggling in our lowest gear. Abruptly the track plunged down the other side – tight turns and steep grades complicated by the size and quantity of the loose rocks which surrounded the ruts.

 

At the bottom of the hill we collapsed in the shade next to a creek, and thanked our lucky stars Jorge had turned back. By the time (two days later), we popped out on smooth roads, and rejoined the Pan-Americana to cross the border; Russ’s bike was thoroughly christened by “the hardest biking [Russ] ha[d] ever done”, and cloaked with a heavy coat of dust to prove it. We could only hope the drivers in Nicaragua were a little more sane (and that we would be able to get off the pavement and into the mountains quickly).

On New Years Eve we crossed into country number five of our bike tour: Honduras. In the week previous, Jacob had broken both front and rear derailers rendering his bike into single speed mode, and I, suffering from some stomach infection, couldn’t hold down anything more than plain tortillas. With the both of us enduring system failures, we desperately needed some R&R. Luckily the resort advertisement billboards lining the highway hinted that we were approaching an appropriate destination for a much needed break. Faded and discolored by countless tropical storms, they still managed to conjure the image of breathtaking white sand beaches, coral reef diving, rivers of rich rum, and a booming night life.

Upon arriving in Puerto Cortes we were disappointed to find a gloomy industrial port city; suspension cranes towering over warehouses, eighteen wheeled semi’s racing out of freight yards. An advertisement displaying a large hand gun offered directions to the largest arms store in Central America. The ambience made me daydream of shady underworld dealings which, perhaps wasn’t completely far fetched considering that this port was used as a sitting area by private foreign interests for soviet made firearms destined for Nicaraguan Contras in the 80’s (1). We changed our currency (stuffing large denominations under the soles of our shoes –Goat in the secret compartment of his top-hat) and walked around looking for a cheap hotel.

“Can you feel the Holiday cheer?” Jacob enquired, as we passed through a nearly deserted park dimly lit with Christmas lights.
“Festive.” I nodded. “Though, only a fool would stick around for the party without a flashy piece to shoot holes in the sky. We’ve got to visit the arms depot.”

Unfortunately the gun shop was already closed, and not wanting to make the mistake of screwing up the secret after-hour handshake I decide to find medicine for my stomach bug instead. At a Pharmacy, an old lady who claimed to be a medical practitioner diagnosed my symptoms as amoeba, and advised me to take an over the counter anti-diuretic.

“I’m already stopped up.” I pleaded with her in Spanish. “I haven’t been eating. I want to know what I can take to kill the Amoeba”.

She starred at me quizzically, hinting that this tiny pill was all I needed.
A man standing next to her, who I took to be her friend or co-worker, finally interrupted the stand-off, rephrasing what I had already said. She deliberated his words, heaved a sigh and fetched two different packages; one holding ten white tablets, the other holding four green tablets.

“These are more expensive…” She pointed to the one holding the green tablets (the package was marked Secnidazol). “but more effective.”

As I was about to leave my translator waved to me with a package of his own Secnidazol.

“You have the amoeba too?” I asked.

“Of course.” He winced. “And where did you get yours.”

“Guatemala.” I said. “I’m pretty sure a bag of chicharrones (pork rinds) did me in.”

“Man, they have dirty food in Guatemala.” He chuckled to himself.
“And here…” I inquired.

“Oh… uh.” he abruptly stopped laughing. “In some places its worse.”

We found a cheap hotel room was just barely large enough to accommodate the three of us. A giant spider lurked on the wall above a leaky sink, and a hundred tiny bars of grimy soap clung like white leeches to the window sill above the shower stall. The last bit of advice my pharmacy translator had bestowed upon me before we parted was: “Here you will most certainly be shot for your cell phone… just your cell phone”. None of us were particularly eager to venture outside to check out the night life.

All of us suffered from nightmares and awoke restless and itching. Nothing was open (except for a few Liquor vendors) and it didn’t seem that anything would be at any point in the day. The dusty streets of post-fiesta Puerto Cortes were littered with garbage and occasional un-detonated m80s. I searched around hoping to find some relatively sober locals who could relate a sense of the night’s festivities. All I found were tongues bloated from perpetual soaking in Aguardiente (cheap cane liqour) flapping incoherently from bruised and busted faces.

While in the process of aimlessly wandering, wondering what to do with ourselves a man flagged us down in the parque central. Accompanied by his eight year old son, he was hastily scribbling some information being dictated by a cheerful woman of corresponding age. As the woman (beaming with delight) stood up, the man introduced himself. All of us immediately forgot his name. He worked on Uitla (The Bay Islands) as a guide of some sorts, and claimed to be a “champion” in a Honduran bike race (though due to car accident some years ago he was far past his prime).

“Come out to my beautiful home,” he said. “We live in a tranquil fishing village just a few kilometers down the road.”

Our brains dully pondered his offer. Hazily I scanned my surroundings; where was the bustling underworld, dangerous and intriguing? It being nearly noon, the sun was high enough to intensify the unattractive desolation of the ghostly still town. A few locals, perhaps beyond hope of recuperation from the night of celebration, had melted into stains on the sidewalk. Despite the heat, they sought no shade and their coinciding urine puddles proved somewhat resistant to natural rate of evaporation. Not one of us could form a decision.

“Rum flows like water out there, and fish, delicious fried fish!” the man continued to tempt us (quite oblivious to the drunks in our immediate vicinity).

Before I realized what was happening the man had decided for us, and was lifting his son onto the back of my bike. He then set out in front of us, leading the way to Promised Land on foot. Goat had to convince him that it would convenient for all of us if he just accepted a ride on one of the bikes.

“We aren’t far at all,” cried out the man as he threw a leg over the back of Goat’s bike. “Two kilometers at most!”

After eight kilometers of riding I finally stopped expecting the village around every corner.

I turned to Jacob; “This guy wouldn’t have made this trip by nightfall if he chose to keep walking”.

“It’s possible he’d never make it, not with his post accident knee.” Jacob shouted back. “Erh, maybe he didn’t believe our bit about coming from Alaska… wanted to make sure we’re for real.”

My young passenger piped up, “Look, do you see the ocean”. (It hadn’t occurred to me that he understood English.)

Indeed the brown murky waters were now visible, dashing my expectations of crystalline perfection.

At that point we entered a small Garifuna fishing village. It was like crossing to another continent, as the men, women, and children of dark complexion gathered on the beach, or on front porches waved and shouted out to us.

The Garifuna descended from populations of African slaves and the Arawkan of northern Brazil that migrated up to the Caribbean coast. Today they number nearly 500,000 people, spread throughout Belize, Guatemala, Honduras, and Nicaragua. They are united by a common Garifuna language, which they use interchangeably with Spanish (or English in the case of ex-British mandate, Belize).

The locals appeared to recognize the man and his son, yet it was immediately evident that they didn’t live in the village and had no house to offer. They urged us to stay anyway, assuring us that we could pitch our hammocks in the yard of a man who appeared to be either ill or wasted.

“You can have the shack.” The man seemed to belch his words.

A few feet from the door was a puddle of diarrhea, and on his mattress were piles of soiled laundry.

“Thanks.” Offered Jacob “We’ll have to decide who gets the bed.”

Meanwhile, there was plenty entertainment to be had, as the locals, dressed in skirts of brown grass and colorful masks performed dances to the traditional Garifuna music known as Punta. Each dancer moseyed up to the small drum circle, and paused as if waiting for bath water to cool that essential half degree, before jumping in. Then their hips broke out in hyper-motion as their skittish feet shuffled back and forth. Their whole lower body would vibrate intensely to the break neck pace set by the drummers. Each dancer limited themselves to quick bursts of rapid fire grooves, then picked up their share of communally contributed Limpiras (Honduran currency) strewn on the ground, and swiftly leapt to the side to accommodate the next participant. As people began running out of small change to throw on the ground, the dancers became more hesitant to expend their energy. The dancing fizzled out, and the locals moved on to interrogating their unlikely company: gringo bikers.

Small towns are generally notorious for spreading news of strangers at wildfire pace. Evidently word had gotten around that Jacob was in need of a derailer for within forty five minutes of our arrival a man offered him a used derailer wrapped up in newspaper for fifty Limpiras (a few bucks). It had been fetched at the cost of great effort in ransacking the room of an absent friend.

After the business transaction was completed the man obliged us to eat with him. “We are family now, like brothers, we will fry up a fish and eat well together.” He proclaimed merrily.

Yet on second thought he realized that he hadn’t caught anything that day. “No matter,” He assured us. “I’m sure one of the other pescaderos has some, all we need is a little money to buy some fish and plantains.”

Goat declined his offer, using as an excuse a date with a friend in the next town.

“What’s the deal?” I engaged Goat, surprised by the sudden emergence of this information.

“I met this chill guy,” Goat responded coolly. “with a house on the beach, who wants to hang out with us.”

Apparently, while I was busy hiding from ladrones under moldy motel bed sheets back in Puerto Cortes, Goat had befriended a body guard for a joint that sold lottery tickets. The body guard had provided Goat with his name, Cappuccino, and the directions: “just show up in town and ask around, they all know Cappuccino!”

Fortunately he was right and we were directed to the house by nearly every passerby we encountered. Simultaneous with our arrival, Cappuccino mounted on a bicycle, rolled onto the sandy path to his beach abode. “You are here!” he shouted, “Do you see this. Look around you well! Do you like what you see?” The property was lavished with the shade of many palm trees. “If you go just a few kilometers down the road you will not find any shade at all.” Cappuccino proudly asserted.

His beach front property did indeed have paradise written all over. Benches and lawn chairs fashioned from drift wood were arranged under the shade of palms as if imitation of a resort lounge area.

“I heard you guys danced the punta down the way.” Said the all knowing Cappuccino.

“How the hell did you find that out.” We all glanced at him bewildered.

Cappuccino just smiled, shrugged his shoulders and went off to procure us fresh coconut juice. He was struggling with a machete, cursing its dullness as I threw back my first dose of Secnidazole — a high-dose one-day treatment, not clinically approved in the U.S.A. Bracing myself on my hammock, I attempted to relax and fall asleep, imagining my amoeba helpless and besieged.

Within an hour of setting up camp the sea was roused by a strong wind. I had been dangling on my hammock, toes lightly brushing the sand, when a terrible gale nearly tore my ropes from their stakes. I heard Cappuccino calling me, “Get your stuff into my house, man. The Storm is coming”.

Light headed from the medication, and aware only of the fact that the shack was the territory of Cappuccino and his lady, I was hesitant to obey the command. When finally I began dismantling my floating bed, the wind sent it flying into a brush pile of barbed palmetto branches. As I was untangling the hammock chords the rain began to fall. High velocity water drops sailed through the wind with abrasive force and my clothes were wringing-wet in minutes.

Finally, having dropped my belongings on the dirt floor of Cappuccinos shack, I perused the cramped enclosure. Almost immediately I had a foreboding sense of Cabin Fever – that the sight and odor of my biking companions in these cramped quarters would unnerve me irrevocably. Cappuccino ran into the house and threw us an affected expression as he braced the door with his ample body (his look read: The Wolf was right outside the door, blustering with all his might). A soggy cigarette kept one of his hands occupied, frustrating his attempts to fasten the door to its latch. Jacob finally had to take over.

“Oh sh!!t!” exclaimed Cappuccino between drags from his cigarette. “Oh Sh!!t.” He repeated with greater alarm. “You boys are scared.” He paused, smoke lingering around his mouth as he scrutinized our faces. “No you’re not scared are you?”

“No man, we’re used to wild weather.” Jacob tried reassuring him.

Presently Cappuccino went around the plastic tarp that served as a divider between his bed and the rest of the one roomed house. “Oh shh!!!t” He roared again, the degree of distress in his voice sounding way over the top when his lady friend, pacing around without a care in her head, looked mildly bored.

He came running up to us. “My bed’s already soaked through. We have to do something”. An eight by four foot Coca cola billboard sign was all we had to work with. No nails were required in applying the billboard sign to the leaky piece of wall; the incessant gale held it steadfast. Surveying the quick fix, we realized that very little was achieved. The rain still blew through the bamboo wall.

Without explaining a course of action, Cappuccino ran away, leaving my two biking companions, myself, and Cappuccino’s lady to stand around looking significantly uninspired. Luckily the valiant man returned quickly with a long strip of rubberized canvas.

“Oh sh!!t, get the nails, you (pointing to any one of us) help me with the stool.”

We were all munching sugar cookies that Cappuccinos’ lady friend had solemnly passed around like a captain distributing last smokes to the crew as the haul took on water.

“Now, man.” Cappuccino wailed again, “Before my house blows away”.

We nailed the strip of weatherproofing material to the leaky wall. Then Cappuccino attempted to heave a concrete cinder block up onto the corrugated metal roof to keep it from blowing away. Failing to provide enough thrust, the block fell back down, nearly crushing Cappuccinos head. Everyone took a step backwards, our limbs anxiously writhing as he made several more precarious attempts. Goat finally ventured forward to assist in the launch but Cappuccino, visibly aggravated, motioned him away.

“Stand back!” he screamed.

With a grunt, he heaved the brick into place then turned around, face beaming.

Suffice it to say, we improved the quality of life in that dimly lit shack thanks to the ingenuity of our hurricane relief expert, (Indeed he had a special framed certificate seemingly in imitation of a P.H.D, commending “Cappuccino for Valor in aiding relief efforts in the aftermath of Hurricane Mitch.”) and settled down to find as much comfort as could be had in the small shack.

The front door of the shelter, having been placed facing the sea, was the object of much grief throughout the evening. Its securement depended entirely on the creativity of the person tying its short piece of rope between two nails sticking out of the adjoining wall.

Inevitably the door would rip open and a flurry of brackish dampness would disrupt our habitational equilibrium. Luckily for me, my medication succeeded in alleviating my disfunctional bowel system and, as I was spared from running to the outdoor-latrine every half hour, I dealt little with the ineffectual door.

Cappuccino insisted the storm would not live through the morning, yet the winds held their pace all throughout the next day. Cappuccino brazenly took off for work on his bicycle, and left us holed up in his shack.

Further up and down the Caribbean coast, people did not fair so well in the storm. We were to read in the local papers of two bodies found in the mouth of a river not more than a few miles from our shelter –victims, perhaps, of a fishing boat wreck in the tempestuous sea. The first cold front of 2008 caused waves reaching sixteen feet and winds of up to forty three miles per hour across Central America.

This being a land much used to frequent storms of formidable vitality, I found it difficult to imagine how people could grow accustomed to periods of forced inactivity, much less how they could recuperate when a hurricane like Mitch reduced their homes to debris. After only a day and a half of being shut up in that cramped shelter I was already feeling stir crazy.

In a way I suppose we were blessed with the rest and relaxation we had sought in coming to the Caribbean Coast; Reading and lounging were about the only sane things to do with the gale raging outdoors. Jacob could now ride with multiple gears at his disposal, and I could hold down food. When finally the wind died down enough, we furiously packed our belongings and took off at a sprint.

We had to pass through downtown Puerto Cortes again to reach the highway. As soon as we hit the busy city streets, a hard rain began to fall. Goat went to an internet café to research our route through the rest of Honduras. As I waited for him, sitting on a chair, I saw a man rise form his seat, take his giant pistol off of the computer desk, and stick it down the front of his jeans. The man saw me watching him carry out this procedure, drew a smile and walked towards me.

“That your bike outside,” he asked.

I was too preoccupied, trying hard not to stare at the ridiculous bulge in his pants, to form a yes or no.

“Bad day to be riding through the city, No?” he went on amiably enough.
I managed a slight laugh and nod. Then he tried to offer a bit of encouragement that I didn’t entirely understand (something like, if it rains the very first day of the new-year, it won’t start flooding until mid-April).

“Que le vaya bien (fair thee well)”. He said before taking off.

Goat followed behind him.

“Who was that?” he asked

“Ah….”

“Let’s get the hell out of here.” He said as he stuck two hand-drawn renditions of a Honduran road map into a plastic case. “

The man with gun may have been right about the weather, but we weren’t about to stick around to see if things would clear up. Too worrisome was the threat of unpredictable storms obstructing our safe passage. We were heading back to the mountains.

1 See: Inquiries Look At Origin of Arms Sitting unclaimed in Honduran Warehouse, Stephen Engelberg with James Lemoyne, New York Times Feb. 22 1987

Check out the photos of our most recent off-road travels through Honduras.