“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).
