Waterfalls. Volcanoes and more friends lost

In Quito the University buildings are right next to the main square and house an interesting display of exhibits including, while we were there, an exhibition of photographs from international photographers. After seeing them I walked around the University admiring the Art Nuevo murals decorating the walls, before returning to the main part of town and inevitably to the main plaza where I saw that something special was going on. There were police and army clearing away the old men from their normal seats around the war memorial and cordoning it off. Trumpets sounded, the Presidential Guard marched onto the terrace of the Presidential Palace and a military band struck up. Lancers rode their chargers slowly in from both side of the plaza and formed up in front of the Palace. Dignitaries took their places on the balcony and the Ecuadorian flag was unfurled. Today was Independence Day!
I listened to the presidential speech, not understanding any of it, listened to the band, and watched as the whole thing went into reverse and the old men resumed their seats by the war memorial. An interesting diversion for a little while, and I do like ceremony, especially when everyone is dressed up like toy soldiers.
The Presidential Guard line the balconies

While those on horses line up on the street

and the National Flag is unfurled

We returned to ‘The Turtles Head’ that evening and I was delighted to find my radiator had been repaired and was as good as new. Apparently just a tiny hole in it somewhere, maybe a stone. As good an excuse as any for a few celebratory pints. Also we were bidding farewell to Curtis and Janet who had decided to fly back home from Quito. Fred had told us earlier that he would be leaving in the morning too, as he was anxious to get to Ushuaia before the weather closed in down there. That left Roger, Linda and I who planned to make a leisurely way down to Chile where Linda was to catch a plane home in early April, leaving Roger a month before he too must return.
I assembled my bike amid more gushing soapy water and by late morning was ready to resume the trip. Roger and Linda were taking a guided tour of the city, so I wandered up to the Cathedral for a look. The cathedral in Quito has all of the worst aspects of organised religion built into it. It seemed to me to shout ‘Thou shalt not…..’ from every corner. It was of course built in another age when the church was out to dominate rather than nurture, but where others may have softened their message I felt that Quito had somehow not done so. All the people who looked as if they worked there appeared pleasant enough, it was the building itself that seemed cold and uncompassionate.

The daunting Quito Cathedral

Albert had marked on Rogers map some of the better rides on the way to Santiago and we headed for the first of them at Banos. The dirt road to Banos went through small villages and farming communities before once more getting back to asphalt. After rejoining the main road we came to an area that was under intense construction efforts. Here the local volcano had spewed larva down the mountain and across the road. A year later and they were still clearing up, only to find that the mountain was blowing its top again.

Notice in shop window at Banos.....
'If the volcano blows, run, but run in the right direction!!

The shops had notices posted on what to do if the volcano blew up again and we also saw that there were trips up the mountain opposite to se the lava flows. The bus we got on that night had a wooden seating platform that was a bit worrying in its construction, and we hurled around blind bends in the dark going up that mountain road. Now I know what it’s like for all those poor backpackers who catch country buses.
At the viewing point we had a brief lecture in Spanish which we could not understand, plus a tot of some local drink that tasted of aniseed. We gazed out at the town spread below us and up the valley where the volcano should have been, but all we could see was cloud. We amused ourselves watching the local TV reporter going on air with his night’s bulletin, before returning to the coach for the death defying decent. If it had not been for the actual coach ride, the whole thing would have been a waste of time.

Linda and Roger on the 'Volcano Express'

The road out of Banos towards Puyo, travels along a river valley that leads to the headwaters of the Amazon River. There are many tunnels and lots of waterfalls, the scenery is beautiful. We rode steadily to Payo and after a coffee for me and lunch for the others, we headed back now aware how much time we had to linger and take photos etc. There is one stunning waterfall (I’ll try and look up the name) where I walked down to the bottom of the gorge, whilst Roger and Linda explored the jungle gardens and the top of this spectacular cataract.
Having taken my pictures of the falls from the bottom, I trudged back up the footpath and went searching for my two companions finding them only when I got back to the little café where we had left the bikes, the owner kindly looking after our motorcycle jackets and helmets while we were gone.

Waterfalls tumble through the jungle onto the road....

and swaying bridges cross gorges over torrents....

....while intrepid explorers hack through the jungle

....searching for who knows what?

Roger and Linda getting ready for another leg of the outing

The border crossing near Santa Rosa was our destination as we said goodbye to 3 pleasant days in Banos. As we rode down the mountains there were frequently places where debris had fallen into the road, or where the tarmac had been washed away to be replaced by slippery white or red mud. In most places it had been compacted down, but sometimes we were switching from one side of the road to the other to try and find the best line. Coming out of the mountains at last we witnessed the flooding that the last week of rain had caused the lowland inhabitancies. The rivers were swollen and many of the roadside houses were flooded by a foot of water or more. I felt so sorry for the people here, but wondered how many times it would have to happen before they twigged and built their houses on stilts like in Belize.

Stopping at a petrol station just outside Santa Rosa we had a chat with some local riders before pressing on along the half finished by-pass to get to the border crossing of Macara which is off the main road leading to Loja. Following the signs to Loja, I was puzzled as to why Roger had slowed down at a fork in the road, the sign clearly pointed to Loja. Off to the left. Not stopping, I just took the left fork and carried on, although I did appear to be heading north and not east, but you can never tell as the roads here sometimes do funny things. Just ahead a town looked to be coming up and Roger and Linda overtook me and a couple of lorries just as I saw the towns name; Santa Rosa! We had, I had; taken the road back into the town we had just by-passed. The road met a roundabout and I was lost as to which road to take, so took the busiest looking one and followed it through the town, looking right and left for Rogers orange Buell. I ended up in a suburb and turned back to head once again into town and look for Roger and Linda. Stopping to ask the way to Loja from a family group sitting on their porch I set of an argument. All the older folk said ‘Yes keep going north and the road bends east to Loja.’ All the young men said ‘No, go back the way you came and take the road south and it will bend east to Loja’. And the argument started getting quite heated until I got of my bike and told them all to gather round my motorbike while I took a photo. Handshakes and smiles all round and they seemed to have forgotten that two minutes ago they were shouting at each other, but it did explain why the signpost pointed the wrong way.

Go this way, no that way!

Another beautiful road through Piedras and along river valleys towards Loja. Where the road turns to Macara and the border, there is a little police post and barrier. I asked them if another gringo moto had passed through and they said no. I told them that it was probably behind me and could they tell them I was going for a hotel in Catacoche. Since there seemed to be only one hotel in Catacoche, I expected to see them later that afternoon, and since I had to park in the street, I was pretty sure they would see where I was anyway. I never saw them again, and as I rode to the border at Macara kept thinking ‘should I go back, or is this kismet?’ In the end I decided it was kismet and reached the bridge at Macara that separates Ecuador from Peru, being slightly puzzled why none of the petrol stations had any petrol. This I would find out during the coming afternoon.

In the end, go your own way!

Next; Barriers, Arguments and the £10 bottle of Coca Cola.

The Turtles Head

So we’re off, Curtis and Janet, Roger and Linda, Fred and I, heading out through the early morning rush hour in Bogotá. In the middle of an underpass my bike cuts out leaving me stuck in the middle lane of traffic while I watched my companions weaving through the traffic ahead of me. Fortunately the traffic was hardly moving and slightly downhill so I was able to get to the roadside between impatient buses. Roger and I had discussed my bikes propensity to cut out and he had told me that some of the early BMWf650s had a habit of doing this due to a sticky relief valve in the fuel cap. This caused a vacuum and the fuel wouldn’t flow. I quickly opened the fuel cap and what do you know, she fired up and I was away again. Soon the traffic began to thin and I managed to catch up with the others. The roads in Columbia are quite good and we carried on through the hills towards the Rio Magdalena valley. We had had a little conference the evening before, each explaining what we wanted from the ride. Curtis and Janet had no wish to get into the culture of the countries we were going to drive through, Fred, well Fred wanted to get to ride as much of South America as he could in the few months he had available. This meant that while he was achieving his aim, he would also be riding long and fast, (to get to Ushuaia before the winter set in was a worry for me too); so two plus points for him there, but also he would not perhaps touch the real world as often as I wanted to. Roger and Linda wanted what I wanted, to see the sights, hear the sounds and try and get a real feel for the countries we were to visit. I made it plain that I had no intention of riding over 300 miles at 80mph every day, and if they saw that I had disappeared from their mirror not to worry, if I knew the town and hotel we were heading for that night, I would arrive eventually.

The Colombian countryside

The road was serpentine and rose into the mountains lining the valley of Rio Magdalena. The guys in front of me breezed past the trucks effortlessly but I needed to choose my moments being half the size of their bigger bikes. This meant I would slowly loose them and then with a reckless spurt I would catch up a little. Also my bike had a leaking radiator, so I had to keep one eye on the temperature gauge. I usually don’t stop for lunch, a swig from my water bottle and a chocolate biscuit were usually enough, so when the others pulled into a café or restaurant, I would see their bikes and pull over for a quick cup of coffee and top up my radiator. The radiator cap is quite difficult to get to on my f650, so I took to removing the temperature sensor and topping it up with my hydropack feed tube. Roger was very good at finding good places to eat. His maxim was, ‘If it don’t smell of cooking and no ones in eating in there, there must be a reason, on the other hand if it smells of cooking and tables are busy then it’s ok.’
In response to my feelings we had agreed to overnight in Ibague, a ride of less than 200miles. Riding into Ibague I became totally lost and had no idea where the hotel was situated. I tried to hail a couple of taxis but they looked at me oddly and drove on. In the end I rode in front of one that was about to exit a side street, parked my bike in front of him and managed to indicate that if he would lead me to this hotel I would pay him for his help. Realisation hit him and his slightly pained expression turned into a grin. The streets got narrower and busier as we neared the pedestrian shopping streets in the centre of the town, and luckily for us a van unloading caused us to stop 50 yards short of the hotel. Indicating we were here, the taxi driver pointed out the ramp of a multi storey parking lot, and he and the car park attendant gave me enough hints so that even I got the idea that the hotel used this parking lot and it was free for hotel guests. The only thing that worried me was I could not see the other bikes, but the car park attendant said that ‘si’ the Americanos were in the hotel. ‘Well to hell with it,’ I thought, ‘If it’s not my Americanos I’m about to make new friends and I have at least found a hotel for the night. I was unused to the concept of the hotel being above the ground floor while the ground floor was used by shops, so following directions, ‘50 mtrs and on the right,’ I walked right past the glass hotel door amongst the shop frontages, and turned right into the pedestrian shopping street looking for something that resembled the frontage of a hotel. Not finding one I turned and walked back. ‘No nothing looking like a hotel entrance, is there a sign on one of the buildings then? I looked up and there were Janet and Linda standing by a first floor window drinking coffee. I found the door amongst the shop fronts, yep the one with HOTEL in big gold letters written on it, and joined them with a cup of coffee. Apparently they all arrived in the street by the hotel door and nearly caused a riot due to the crowd that gathered to see, touch and ogle at these big gringo motos. However when they eventually got their luggage off and into the hotel, they realised that the parking was 50mtrs back up the road and the local cops wouldn’t let them ride back to it as this was a one way street, something that normally doesn’t bother us, so they took off round the block, and that’s about the time I arrived, so I wasn’t that far behind them after all. Trouble is they took a wrong turn, got lost again and eventually turned up 10 minutes later.
The lounge of the hotel had a good view on the street below, and I can say that from what I saw Columbian women are amongst the most beautiful in the world. Only trouble is they go for the same understated sophisticated style that Brittney Spears goes for so successfully. (For those who do not recognise it, this is irony) Shame really, but I put it down to the way that Latin men like to see their women. Same on the telly by the way, the presenters often look like tarts, and I’m sure that they are all intelligent women, well some of them anyway!
I took a couple of pictures of the town from my window as we did not get time to do more than walk up and down the shops, eat chicken and chips, and return to the hotel.

Ibague from the hotel lounge

At breakfast I mentioned that for the first time on my trip I had wanted to, but not stopped to take pictures of the scenery. I would therefore be even further behind today as I intended to stop if I saw a nice view. This was not a problem for Curtis or Roger of course, as they had pillion riders to take pictures for them. I don’t think a photo journal was high on Fred’s list of priorities on this trip though.
I was first to the car park but as I needed to fill my radiator, was last out. Reaching the street I saw not a sign of them, but managed to catch them up a few miles up the road. Roger hung back for me and we watched Curtis and Fred swapping lead in the distance ahead. Roger has this one trait though which I found amusing, and I’m sure he does not know he possesses. He can’t abide a lorry being in front of him and would ride quite nicely at 60 until about 100 yds from the lorry, then speed up to overtake it. Me? I’m as like to slow down by 2 or 3mph and follow it until we hit a hill and it started to run out of steam.
This was another easy day and we ended up in Cali through mountains with brooding black clouds in the distance, but we only caught the odd shower as we topped the higher passes. I say we, but once again I found myself alone at the end of the afternoon, although I was sure the others were just ahead by about 10 minutes. Then on the last mountain before town the traffic crawled to a stop. After a while engines were turned off and people began to stretch their legs. I, with my British propensity not to jump a queue, did likewise, while other, smaller, locals rode past. Never ones to miss an opportunity to sell things to passing motorists, some local villagers were walking along the stalled traffic selling hot broth, empanadas, sweets and fruit juice. I became the centre of attention as people asked about my bike, luggage and trip. I in turn learned that there had been a landslide and the way ahead was totally blocked although a crew of about 100 were working on clearing the way but no one knew how long it would be before the road was open again. The sun was disappearing behind the mountains when a policeman indicated for me to pull out of the traffic and go on ahead. The work men had carved a corridor through the landslide with their bulldozers and earth movers and left a clay surface several feet above the original asphalt. This was slippery and not at all nice to ride on, I later learned that it was even worse for the others as earlier they had left a hump in it as well, but when a lorry started to slide sideways trying to get over it, they stopped the traffic and removed it, but first let the motorbikes have a go. I think the guys said they made the ladies dismount because it was so slippery. They knew I was ok because a local dirt bike rider and I had spoken earlier in the queue and he had ridden ahead. Seeing the others he told them I was just down the road a little ways. Anyway somehow or other I caught up just outside of town.

Curtis and Janet

We were going to stay at a hotel run by a German couple that night, one at which both Curtiss and Roger had stayed before, but they seemed to have forgotten the way and while they discussed it on one side of a road junction I waited at the other side for the outcome. ‘Right, that’s straight on then!’ I thought as they rode off leaving me cut off by a sudden swell in the traffic. My own fault, I should have joined them on the opposite corner, but I thought it looked a bit exposed to the traffic. Needless to stay no one noticed I was gone, but when the German hotel told them it was full, they were kind enough to ask them to give me a message. I, in the meantime, stopped at the first really good looking hotel and had a hot bath then ate a five star meal accompanied by a fine bottle of red wine while I watched the traffic go by 6 floors below my restaurant table.
I figured that if I started early, then either they would catch me up and overtake me, or I would see their bikes parked outside a roadside café. In the event, I had pulled in for petrol and was just getting a cup of coffee from the outside cafe when they pulled up for gas themselves. After gassing up they joined me and had their lunch. Just as we were about to leave the local school turned out and Roger, Linda and I, being slower to get away than the others, found ourselves signing autographs for about 2 dozen 13yr old girls and boys. Quite sweet really.

In Pasto there is a fantastic plaza with a modern theme to it and wonderful bronze plaques. Also there is a small museum with articles from the earlier culture that lived amongst the hot springs of this hilltop town.

Bronze Plaque in Pasto

One of the earlier inhabitants

Again I got left behind somehow and nearly rode straight through the frontier area, I thought it was a recreational area with cafes, toilets and stuff. The Columbians just took the copies of the documents we were issued in Bogotá and stamped my passport. I could see on the desk the paperwork from Roger and asked if they were far ahead, I made out from the reply that they were about 10 minutes ahead of me. Riding over to the Ecuadorian side of the border I saw Janet and Linda standing by the bikes and drew up next to them. Fred, Roger and Curtis came out of a small office towards me. ‘The computers down,’ said Fred, ‘It may be an hour of so until we can get our paperwork! They have called the main man and he is coming in, it’s supposed to be his day off!’ He duly arrived, diagnosed a faulty server connection and we all retired to another part of the complex and used another computer there. Fortunately it was Sunday and so a lot of the offices were empty. Armed with our paperwork we hit the road for Quito, and this time I was determined not to loose them.

Janet and Linda at the Ecudorian border

Fred, Curtiss and Janet soon disappeared off the radar and Roger, Linda and I rode towards Quito together. We were headed towards the zero line on the map and knew that there was a park with a monument somewhere. Along the way we saw Fred stopped talking to some other BMW riders and pulled over to find out what was happening. These were a group of guys and girls from Quito out for a Sunday ride. Unfortunately one of them had hit a dog in the village but luckily there was no serious damage done. The dog died on impact though. I should explain to those of you who have not witnessed the canine way of life here why this appears so callous. Dogs roam the streets everywhere in South America with no apparent owners, and strangely it is only in the cities where dogs are on leads that you see dog crap on the streets. In most towns the dogs rummage in the garbage for food and lie in the sun or practice group sex to make more little doggies. They also chase cars and motorbikes through the town but are quite subdued around people. They howl and bark all through the night like in those cartoon films, one setting the next off. In the markets there are dozens of puppies for sale and often a young family can be seen cuddling a puppy as they walk up the street, but I bet it will be left to its own devices when they get bored with it. I think the dogs regard the engine noise as an animal growling at them or something, but half ignore you and the others chase you out of town. Anyway we follow them to a local café and chat and they say they will lead us to the road that leads to the monument before they peel off to finish their ride.

Coffee with the locals

Arriving at the monument park we walked through the shops and booths to take pictures of the line that marks the equator. After a cup of coffee and a pastry we got back on the bikes and headed the short distance to Quito, Fred had already left it was Roger Linda and I that headed into Quito looking for the hotel by the Theatre Plaza.

Cheesy, but you gotta do it!

We got hopelessly lost as we had to ride past our exit from the freeway because the lanes were separated by a series of lane dividers about the size of half a football, which you could get over if you were in a truck or bus, but were out of the question at that angle for a motorbike. We left at the next junction thinking that we could run back parallel to the main road, but ended up in a cul-de-sac after going up one of the steepest roads I have ever encountered. Choosing not to ride down the stairs, which were just as steep, we eventually found a cab and followed him to our hotel, outside of which Fred’s bike was parked. I did not know until later in the afternoon that Curtis and Janet had elected to stay at The Quito Marriot in a better part of town. We all agreed to meet up and go on to The Turtles Head, a British Pub run by a Scot who brewed Real Ale there. Curtis then told me that he and Janet had decided to return to Texas by plane, and generously gave me his maps and guide books to the countries I would be visiting if all went well.
During dinner Albert arrived and introduced himself and we were all having a good old chinwag about our plans, when I mentioned my radiator problem. Albert said that I was in luck because one of his chillers was having the heat exchanger repaired the next day by a guy who was probably the best aluminium welder in town. If I could get my radiator to the pub by 10am the next morning, he would get him to fix it. What a star!
After an early breakfast I stripped out my radiator in the cellar garage, not realising that the spot I had chosen, under the light well, was also the point where the hotel washing machine emptied, I thought the outlet was a rain pipe, and as the weather was fine, was of no threat. By the time the first flush of soapy water gushed around my feet it was too late to move. After delivering the radiator, I returned to walk around the town.

Mechanicing. Again!!

Next; Waterfalls. Volcanoes and more friends lost.

New friends found

New Friends and on to Panama

Fred introduced me to a Texas couple, Curtis and Janet, who were riding a GS1150 and also to Roger from Alabama who was on a Buell. Roger was on a mission however and could not stay and chat. You may remember that I described a large pot hole the size of a tabletop that I had seen when first entering Costa Rica, well Roger hit it and it took out his front and rear wheels and his rear sub-frame. Lucky for Roger he was not injured and lucky for Linda that she was still in the States waiting to fly out and join him in Costa Rica. Being an ex-dealer, Roger was able to organise the spare parts he needed and Linda was going to fly in with them, thus hoping to circumvent the long customs delays and import duties that he would normally encounter if he had them shipped by carrier. The next day Linda arrived with all the parts required and then found out that a Yellow Fever jab was mandatory for Columbia, so she and Janet went off to the local hospital for their jabs and certificates. In the meantime Fred introduced me to the local travel agent and I signed up to fly to Bogota with the rest of the group.
While Roger oversaw the rebuilding of his bike, and Curtis, Janet and Linda relaxed in the hotel waiting for him, Fred and I lit out for Panama. It was our intention to travel along the coast, and the others, by following the PanAm would catch up with us in Panama City. Leaving San Diego behind, we headed into the mountains and south to the coast. A KLR kept us company for a while, and I found out why Fred’s nickname is ‘Fast Freddie’. I was soon one lorry and three cars behind them, but when we were stopped by road works I attempted to rejoin them. Unfortunately the lorry that was behind them was slowly inching forward anticipating the signal to move off, and I was so preoccupied with the rapidly closing gap that I caught the empty pannier frame of the KLR with my pannier and slowly fell over sideways at about 1mph. That put paid to my already damaged windshield, and severely my dignity. At the next town, Porto Cortes we all pulled into a MacDonald’s and I found out that the KLR was hired, but a bit of brute force bent its pannier frame back, and while Fred bought the guy a coffee I went over to a garage I had noticed to see if I could get something to put in my Radiator to stop the water leaking out. It was Sunday and no mechanics were on duty, but one of the girls from the office disappeared and came back with some liquid radiator sealant. I duly poured half of it in, figuring since it was probably meant for cars my small cooling system would not need it all. After handshakes all round and no hard feelings about the knock, Fred and I proceeded south towards the coast.. Fred had a desire to see Golfito, a natural harbour on the Golfo Dolce, (Sweet Gulf), which was famed as a pretty spot for yachts to make for having passed through the Panama Canal. We duly arrived, dismissed the first try at an hotel for being too expensive, and continued on past the small commercial dock and found a small hostel at reasonable prices. There we met a British couple who were on holiday here, he for the surfing, and she just to relax. As it was the off season they had the beaches and waves all to themselves which was perfect for them.
Fast Freddie

Golfito

In the morning I topped up my radiator and we headed for the border with Panama. This was another easy border crossing, I think both because they have the information infrastructure and, more importantly, both countries are stable politically and trust their citizens, unlike the other countries I had passed through recently, which until a few years ago had all had bitter civil wars. Fred set out at his usual high speed and I kept thinking that if this was his normal pace, then come Columbia I might have to bail out of the group. I prefer a speed of about 55-60mph, with lots of time to look around. I have no urgent desires to pass a lorry just because it in front of me, and will often slow down and let it get away from me, rather than speed up, overtake, and then have it sitting on my tail for the next half hour waiting to re-pass me whether it is safe to do so or not. Anyway our dash down the Pan-Am at 80mph bought us to the developing coastal area of Santa Clara on the Pacific, and we rode down a likely looking road to find a hotel for the night. What we found was a hotel complex that wanted $250 a night, but it did have its own golf course and tennis courts, but we informed the man at the gate that he would not have the pleasure of our company. The next bay had a rough little road leading to it and on the second try we found a little place with holiday cabins which the owners hurriedly got ready for us as the place was empty. Fred decided to go back up the road for dinner, but as I had serious misgivings about my ability to handle a nasty little hill in the dark, or the daylight for that matter, I stayed and cooked up a small meal using the food that I was carrying.
Near San ta Clara

The next morning I surprised myself my negotiation the rubble strewn ‘nasty little hill’ without much difficulty, you must remember that while Fred was able to stand up on his foot-pegs, thus transferring all his weight to them and lowering his bikes centre of gravity, making it more stable, my arthritic knees won’t let me do this easily anymore, so I just have to sit there and do the best I can not to fall off.
Soon Panama City came into view and despite our best efforts we could not locate the shipping office that we needed to find to finish off our shipping arrangements. It was necessary that we did this as soon as possible because the coming weekend there was a big fiesta coming up and if we did not clear our bikes through the system by tomorrow, then we would loose four or five days. In the end we hired a taxi and since we only knew it was near the Panama Hilton, ( I think, but anyway a swanky hotel in the middle of town) we left our bikes there while we sought for our shipper. They we very good about it, and we had several of the guests talking to us about our plans with great interest. Eventually finding our shipper, we completed our paperwork and they helped us find a local hotel, being the eve of a big fiesta this was not easy, but we only needed it for a night as the next day we would ride out to a hotel much closer to the airport, meet up with Curtis, Janet, roger and Linda and ride our bikes to the cargo area for shipping. All this time there were emails flying back and forth to James Cargo in England who were the Shipping Agents, albeit that we were using their local agent to do the ground work in Panama. The agent had taken us the day before in his car to the cargo area of the airport and help us fill in the forms. Later that day, while browsing the shops, I found a shop selling Garmin GPS units and went in for a closer look. Now I have always resisted the temptation to get a GPS, but after wandering around many of the central American towns searching for the way out, your lucky if you find a signpost and then probably there is only one somewhere in the middle of town, I thought a GPS might help. The only units they had were designed for cars, but one had a suction pad and I thought it might stick on my redundant rev counter which had stopped working when I crashed in Canada. Apparently it did not have Garmins ‘World Map loaded’ but while I was away getting my passport from the hotel to verify my identity, I think they must have loaded it in, as it was there when I switched it on. Dissappointing then that it only includes the main roads and no details of town roads, bt at least it gave me a direction to head in! I told Fred about the Smelly biker maps and encouraged by him spent several hours trying to download them for us to evaluate. Due to firewalls on the hotel wi-fi links and misunderstanding the download instructions, I was not able to get this option working until much later, and it has proved a boon. I must say though that it does take a bit of ‘nerdification’ and would advise others to get it sorted before leaving on their trip.
Panama City skyline

We all met at the airport hotel, and the car park boy cleaned our bikes while we lounged around the pool. Fred, Roger and Linda hired a car to go and see the carnival in the city, but with so many streets blocked off and such a huge influx of people they saw little except the cars around them before calling it a day and heading off for a general drive outside the city limits. In the meantime I was puzzled by an itchy rash that had appeared on my right leg, until I realised that although the silencer for my exhaust is on the left, the pipes run along the right side of the bike after leaving the engine. What with the hot weather and the heat from the exhaust pipes, I had a nasty case of heat rash which I needed to make sure would not turn septic. Hmm I would have to think on that a bit, as I could not afford to let it get worse. I had also recently lost my big toe nail, but that was not unexpected as it had been black from when I tripped over something in my garage while getting set up to travel. I knew it would go when the black bit moved halfway up, what was unexpected was at about the same time as it came adrift, my left big toe nail also decided to part company, maybe it was my sweaty boots, but whatever it was I needed to look after my feet a bit better than just washing them and using talcum powder every day. Maybe I would find a solution in Bogota.
Heat Rash

The next day the four of us rode down to the shipping company’s warehouse at the airport and prepared our bikes for shipment by removing the mirrors and odd loose parts. We did not need to drain the petrol or disconnect the batteries as the cargo plane was listed as carrying ‘dangerous cargo’ which covered us as far as the bikes and contents of our panniers was concerned.
Getting to the airport was easy as it was just down the road, but the security was very tight and even had me take off my boots to walk through the checking area. Why I’m not sure as they contain no metal, but there I was walking through the airport lounge in my bare feet looking for a seat to sit on while I put my boots back on. It had seemed curious to me that the group had reached the airport on the same shuttle, but once there, it appeared that it was every man for themselves. This did not bode well in my mind as I am used to my friends, even temporary ones, keeping an eye on each other and aiding where necessary. The loose dynamics of our group is not unusual I was to discover by talking to others who have joined up in ad hoc partnerships, and these temporary mutual aid partnerships often just fly apart for no real reason except that the members do not really know one another well and are only hanging together while negotiating a difficult period of their journey.

And so we land in Bogota, where my Britishness comes to the fore as I refuse to jump the queue to join my friends, having been last off the plane by allowing various families with children to exit before me, instead of just barging into the aisle. It has always puzzled me why people surge to get off a bus or plane, why don’t they just relax and wait for everyone else to do the pushing and shoving? Of course in the airport concourse you have to join in as there is a constant stream of passengers arriving from other flights, but even so a few minutes delay will not usually cause a problem, and we had a hotel booked, and there were plenty of taxis weren’t there/ Yes there were, and were soon installed in our hotel, but we thought it was in the downtown area, but this chain had three hotels in Bogota and were well out into the suburbs.
Janet and Curtis have no interest in cultures or history, this they freely admit, while Roger and Linda enjoy visiting museums and trying local food. Fred has his own agenda that takes him off on lone walks, so it is no surprise that Roger, Linda and I find ourselves bidding Fred farewell for the afternoon in Bogotá’s main plaza. While we three wander around searching for the ‘Museo del Oro’(Museum of Gold), we notice that there are many groups of young people about. We eventually find the museum, but it is undergoing renovation and some of the exhibits have been temporarily moved to the bank just off of the main square that we left earlier. Deciding to take a round about route back we encounter a huge column of chanting protesters, and we decide to join in. The protest has been organised to take place all over Columbia to demand that the FARC people release their hostages, some of whom have been held for six years.
Army guys look on.....

....while Linda, Roger and I protest...oh and another 999,994 people as well

Having done our bit, we leave the throng at the main plaza and carry on to visit the museum we were seeking. The exhibits are were interesting mainly due to the fact that they were in the old mint, and nearly all of the machinery on display originated in Birmingham. I visited a church to see the stained glass, which was extremely good, while Roger and Linda had lunch. Roger wants some socks, and while he is browsing through the little market it occurs to me that this may be the answer to my overheating leg problem. Until now I have eschewed socks as my boots had been tight, and they were yet another thing to carry. I had a pair of thin socks but had only worn them while camping in Canada to keep my feet warm. I bought a couple of pairs of ‘tennis socks’ and was surprised and pleased to find that not only had my boots expanded a little, (and my calves shrunk) but it made taking my boots off easier. The local pharmacy provided a tube of antiseptic cream for the tiny blisters that were now beginning to weep a little, so I was all set to continue.

If it's a mint, where's the hole?

Modelled on a cake perhaps?

The next day we set off to recover our bikes, only to find that three of them, Fred’s, Curtis’s and mine had been strapped onto the same pallet, and at some stage fallen over into one another, causing miner damage to all of them. Lucky for me, mine had only broken a front indicator lens, but the others had greater, although still minor, damage and dents. Roger’s Buell had been on it’s own pallet and was unharmed. After calling in the agent and getting the shipper to agree that their bikes had been damaged in transit, we went to get our customs clearance before rejoining our bikes. Here we met another difficulty; there was a four foot drop to the ground off of the loading dock and no ramp! ‘Surely’, I thought, ‘they must have had bikes through here before.’ We were not allowed to drive onto the airport apron and around to a gate at the side, and eventually had to drive onto a pallet held up by a fork lift truck, and be lowered to the ground that way. After about four hours we eventually made our way out into the rush hour traffic of Bogota and returned to our hotel. Perhaps tomorrow we can at last get under way and head out into the Columbian countryside?

Next: Friends lost

Christmas and New Year in Guatemala

Fred an his family left the hotel to go on to Antigua Guatemala for a week and then on to Cost Rica where after a short time he would continue with his journey on to South America and they would fly back to Canada. I, in the meantime, enjoyed a couple of relaxing days on the lakeshore in the Hotel Gringo Perdido.
Serious Research Opportunity

When it came time to leave I headed for Floris and then the road to Porto Barrios, and from this road I would head off to Guatemala City, or that that was the plan anyway. The day was cloudy with frequent rain showers, but the road was quite good and I enjoyed the journey as the road wound through the northern jungle area of Guatemala. At what looked to be my turn off, I couldn’t tell because there were extensive road works at this junction and the signposts were all lying together in a heap at the side of the road, I naturally veered off down the hill. There was a small village at the bottom of the winding road, but the road disappeared into a street market, and I suppose I should have driven through it, but my nerve deserted me and I made a u-turn and headed back up the hill hoping to find another turning along the road a bit. Of course I never found one and in due course was crossing over the wide spanning bridge that crosses over the mouth of Lake Izebal where it meets El Golfete at the town of Fronteras. Shortly after I came to the road junction where I could either turn right and head for Guatemala City, or turn left and go the 30 miles to Porto Barrios, I chose the latter.
Porto Barrios suffers like all commercial harbour towns with excess traffic and bad roads. I searched for a hotel that the Lonely Planet book suggested but ended up on a dusty dirt road leading nowhere and returned back to town where I pulled into modern looking hotel for the night. Later I sat outside watching the traffic negotiate the pot holes and railway tracks, on top of a badly worn 2ft high concrete hump, and no gates! This town like many in Central and South America, has suddenly discovered that cheap Chinese motorcycles plus cheap credit deals equals cheap easy transport, so they are all over the place. I think one of the most amazing sights I saw here was a middle aged woman driving a step-through while texting on her phone, with her late teens daughter sat side saddle on the back with a child on her lap; all three heading at a rate of knots for the aforesaid railway tracks. The recent phenomenon of cheap transport and cheap mass communication has outstripped the authorities’ ability to legislate safety controls that will protect the community, but as if to compensate the drivers of both two and four wheeled vehicles have an uncommon knack of avoiding disasters at the very last minute. Here and elsewhere in Central and South America is the constant sound of car horns, but unlike Northern Europe where they blast out in anger, here they are solely saying, ‘watch out I’m behind you’ or, ‘watch out I’m going to cut across your path and make a right hand turn into this side street that you’re blocking by riding along on the inside lane!’

It’s Christmas Eve and I’m heading for Guatemala City, with luck I may even get to Antigua Guatemala tonight. The first part of the journey is uneventful as I expect many of the trucks are off the road or at least heading home for Christmas. The last twenty or so miles over the last couple of mountains before reaching Guatemala City are a bit of a chore however, due to road works. Once more it is obvious to see the planners have never ridden a motorbike, diverting my side of the duel carriageway across a two foot high central reservation via a 45 degree slope that can only be approached side on, great, but I manage to slow down until the road is clear both ways and swing in more or less at right angles making it somewhat easier. Guatemala City is full of Christmas shoppers and I need eyes everywhere at once, searching for an hotel, the signs to Antigua, avoiding darting taxis and not getting too close to the buses, some of which have big metal stars fixed to their wheel hubs that remind me of Boadicea’s chariot and probably serve the same purpose. After riding around for an hour I spot a small hotel and pull over to inspect it. It has a small courtyard so the bike should be safe, and is opposite a new shopping mall with a McDonalds and Pizza Hut, so food should be no problem. The owner is a young man who wears a Colt 45 automatic at his hip, he has been to the USA, made some money, he didn’t say how, and returned to buy and run this little rundown hotel, but he has plans to improve it he tells me. I wander around the busy shopping mall watching desperate shoppers trying to make their Christmas purchase, glad that on the one hand I do not have to do it this year, and sad also that I do not have to do it this year. After a Pizza I walk up the road, past the hotel and into a more domestic district looking to buy a bottle of water. Walking on the left hand side of the road I notice that all of the side roads on this left side have big iron gates and a guard sitting in a little hut, stopping cars that want to enter and inspecting their credentials. Walking back down on the right hand side, there are stray dogs, pot holed side streets and youths letting of firecrackers and rockets in the streets. I meet my host on the roof garden, well it will be a garden one day he says, and ask him if the gun is really necessary. He replies that it certainly is, as the right hand side of the street is extremely dangerous and on no account should I walk down there!!
As I lay awake that Christmas Eve listening to fireworks banging away until the early hours of the morning, I reflected at the unhappy turn of events leading to this lumpy bed in a squalid little bedroom in Central America, and the sights that I have seen, people I have met and adventures I have had, if only I had someone with me to share them with, e-mail is just not the same!
The next morning I ride through downtown Guatemala desperately looking for signs to Antigua, after about an hour of this it suddenly occurs to me that ‘A.Guatemala’ means Antigua Guatemala (dooh!) and I am soon on the duel carriageway west of the city heading to my goal. The road leading there is a pleasant tree lined one, and leaving the highway you are fed into the grid pattern of Antigua town. Antigua used to be the capital city, but it is ringed with volcanoes and the earthquakes convinced the government to move to a safer location, leaving Antigua its cobbled streets, Spanish haciendas and ruined churches. It was at the commencement of the cobbles that I stopped. The cobbles were big, shiny, cushions of stone that were collapsed into holes or completely missing in places. I don’t like cobbles, not only do they make your teeth chatter going over them but they can be slippery as well. A young man on the opposite corner called across to me in perfect English, enquiring if I was looking for a hotel for the night. I replied that I was, and had come to this town to stay for a few weeks and learn some Spanish, to which he replied that he had a friend who ran a Spanish school and could also provide accommodation with a Spanish family, just what I was looking for! He asked me to wait while he collected his own motorbike and he would sort something out. I was a bit skeptical, this was Christmas Day remember, but a hotel or hostel for one or two nights would suit me fine. A few minutes later I was following my guide through the checker board of streets, everyone seemed to be called ‘Una Via’. How does the postman manage? ;o) We drew up to a doorway and were soon joined by an effusive older man who was quizzing me about my requirements. ‘I want three weeks tuition and somewhere safe to leave my motorbike during that time.’ I answered. He promised me that his was the best language school in town and we rode off to the cash point to get some money as a down payment, and from there to a small hacienda where I was introduced to my hostess, Margarita and her husband, ‘El signor’. They had a small garden where I could park the bike, and at the back were three bedrooms and a bathroom built above the utility rooms. I parked up and hauled in my luggage. The deal included breakfast, lunch and dinner for 6 days a week, not Sunday, and school from 8am until 1pm.Monday ‘til Saturday for 3 weeks, except with Christmas and New Year interfering it would be slightly more than 3 weeks.

Antigua, Guatemala

Antigua Guatemala is a lovely old town, with a bustling market and a busy main plaza lined with shops and cafes. It is also where the bikers of the area ride out to in order to see and be seen by the community at large. These were either the rich, who could afford big European, or Japanese bikes; or the youths who dressed like fashion conscious Hells Angels and rode Harley Davidson’s or the equivalent. Most of the locals rode Chinese 125cc that looked remarkably like the Japanese bikes of the mid 60’s.
That afternoon I was sitting in a square dominated by the primrose coloured cathedral, when I noticed a blond figure coming my way, who towered head and shoulders above the others on the pavement. ‘My Jupiter its Fred!’ I thought at just about the same time that he caught sight of me and called out his hello. ‘I’m just off to buy some fireworks,’ he explained, ‘there’s a big fiesta tonight and fireworks are the thing to have.’ ‘I’ll see you there later then.’ I naively replied.
Nadividad

I could hear fireworks and firecrackers going off later that afternoon as people became enthused with the festival spirit, and since the venue was just over the road from my habitation, it was going to be easy to get right into the throng later. After dinner, I wandered over and it soon became apparent that my chances of finding Fred and his family were going to be about nil. Cars and buses were streaming into town as villagers from miles around flocked to the celebration. I walked up and down the small triangular plaza there, where all the food stalls were set up, and then decided to join the throng on the road itself. Fireworks were going off everywhere and the crowd I was in stopped for a minute or two and I edged through it to get a better look at the people who were letting of major fireworks just down the street. A huge grin split my face as I came through the crowd, not so much a crowd as a procession; because I was part of the train of worshippers following the statue of the Virgin Mary from the Cathedral, as she was being paraded through the town.
Night Out for The Virgin Mary

A few days ago I was at a fire ceremony in Tical, now I was involved in the catholic Nativity Fiesta in the streets of Antigua Guatemala. We stopped alongside the local rock group who played an up tempo version of ‘Ave Maria’ three or four times, in which the crowd sang along, and then paused while the official firework display was set off from the safety of the school yard by the local firemen. Unable to contain themselves, the locals also did their thing by letting off huge fireworks on the pavement while youths let off yard long strings of Chinese crackers with complete abandon.
That night, and on most other nights I was there, the fireworks crackled and banged away until almost sunrise.
I was introduced to my maestro, Enriquetta, a couple of days later and she did her best to teach me Spanish. The trouble is our interest in each others culture was too great to allow mere grammar to get in the way, and we conversed in a mixture of English and Spanish until the three weeks were up, with me having all the tools to get by in Spanish, but with a firm conviction that I would never be fluent, and it did not matter anyway as sign language and smiling a lot seemed to have worked ok up ‘til now. I won’t bore you with accounts of lessons on rickety furniture in a pleasant garden with a horrible toilet that is best not described in detail. Often Enriquetta and I would go for walks in the town ‘for practical language demonstrations in the supermarket, or street market, or restaurant that did the best coffee and cakes, or DHL to get a parcel sent for me, you get the idea. Sometimes we would stop and chat to her husband and children if they were in the street by her rooms, or once insisted that we go walkabout when I heard that her youngest daughter had toothache and was going to the dentist escorted by her 14 year old sister. After coffee and cake we ‘just happened’ to meet the girls on the way to the dentist and with a smile and a wink I told Enriquetta that I had a headache and would see her at school in the morning.
Enriquetta and I in the 'school room'

New Year was even more chaotic than Christmas, and a couple of friends I met in the school and I wandered about enjoying the festivities. Yamoto was dragged away by some other Japanese he met in the throng and Jacqueline, Jerry and I slowly made our way into the main plaza where we listened to jazz, rock and marimba bands competing against one another from different corners of the plaza, all drowned out by the overhead firework display.
Fireworks and friends

I had wanted to use some of the time here to service the bike, but it was impossible to do more than a little cosmetic fiddling due to the fact that the garden was so tiny and it felt like I was intruding into the family space, plus the rabbit didn’t seem to like the motorbike much. However I did find that once again after a day or so the battery was flat again and decided it was time for a new one. There are lots of bike dealers in Antigua Guatemala due to the influx of Chinese bikes, some dealers use the street side as their workshops while other try and manage in cubicles that would be a tight squeeze for repairing roller-skates. I picked one that looked like some form of franchise; the three staff all wearing the same sky blue tee shirts; and gave them my old battery as a pattern. After a few phone calls they said that they could get one from a supplier in Guatemala City but it would be in two days time so call in Wednesday. After four ‘tomorrows’ I took Enriquetta with me and we walked in the shop just as they were unpacking my battery. ‘To fill with acid and check will be an hour’ they said, just enough time for coffee and cake at the restaurant around the corner.
I met Fred and his family again and he recommended that I take the trip to see the local active volcano, but to take the afternoon trip which gave an opportunity to see the lava flows as darkness fell. So I did. The coach arrived in the main square and I joined those already aboard. We duly set off, but about 500yds up the road the coach clipped a car and took its wing mirror off. The car took chase and blocked us in at the next junction. The police duly arrived and there took place a series of discussions in the street as to whether the car pulled out as the coach passed, or whether the coach was just too close to the parked vehicle. Every time our driver got out he took his cut down shotgun with him, I’m not sure if I was reassured because he had a shotgun, or worried that he seemed to need one. Now of course we were late and the driver was doing his best to make up time as we roared along the mountain roads overtaking everything in sight, although we did have to stop for diesel, which was taken on with the engine still running. While we filled up I noticed yet another family all aboard their small motorbike.
The family transport

Arriving at the little village at the foot of the volcano cone, we were told it was a 3 kilometre hike up hill and the locals surrounded us with ponies calling out ‘Taxi, taxi.’, as they accompanied us for the first kilometre or so. After about half a klick I gave in and mounted a pony called ‘Palomino’ and was glad I did. Now I’mnot a horseman, in fact I can never remember ever riding a horse, a donkey when I was a kid at the beach 55 years ago, but a horse, never. The Spanish style saddle with its saddle horn and swept up back no doubt helped as this game little pony climbed up the steep rocky slope, and the dynamics of where to put my weight were soon apparent as we progressed.
Don Quixote

At the point where we had to proceed by foot only, I was to be glad that I had no change so was forced to pay for the trip down by pony as well. We crossed a previous lava flow and it was incredible just how sharp the rock was, it also seemed to be hot in places. Coming to the main flow in the twilight we took our photos and with some confusion as to where everyone was, made our way by torchlight back across the lava flow.
Making coke - the real thing

I was most pleased to see my hearty pony waiting for me, but how he managed to get down that steep path in the dark without breaking his legs, or my back, I’m not sure. The several of the young people found it hard going and one or two of the middle aged ones were in obvious distress by the time we got down to the village and were obviously relived to see the coach. For my part my thighs and calves ached as did my wrists, but all in all I quite liked the partnership that is necessary between horse and rider in order to succeed as a team. I felt like Don Quixote, although I probably looked like Poncho Villa.

Another trip we took was to the coffee plantation where we learnt both the history of coffee in Guatemala and its cultivation and processing. The yard in the farm was covered with coffee beans drying in the sun, and the smell of the natural yeasts coming off of them reminded me so much of the smell of barley in the farmyards I used to visit at home in Britain that I exclaimed out loud, much to the amusement of the rest of our little group. Coffee beans don’t smell of coffee until after they are dried and roasted. The coffee beans used in Guatemala are usually grown between lines of other trees in order to keep them in partial shade. They grow slower but the taste is finer, most of the coffee grown in Brazil for example is the Robusta strain and grown as quickly as possible for use as instant coffee.

All to soon my time in Antigua Guatemala came to an end, and as I went for a last cup f coffee and cheesecake in the main plaza I came across 3 motorcyclists who had just arrived on their KTMs. Martin and Simon, two Australian brothers, had met up with Jules, a Frenchman living in Mexico, and were headed south. Simon was looking for a winch as he intended to try and cross the impenetrable Darien Gap by motorbike, while his older, and more sensible brother intended to head for a Panamanian port and get a boat to Venezuela. I stood guard over their bikes while they sorted their money out and left shortly after. Simon had been on the road for four years, and was a competition enduro rider, but I often wonder if he made it through the Darien, if anyone knows perhaps they can let me know.
Trailblazers

Leaving Antigua Guatemala I headed northwest to look around Lake Atitilan which I had heard was very picturesque. Along the way I passed and in turn was passed by a couple on a KLR. We played unintentional tag like this all the way into the main town on the lake. Entering the town I followed a bus as I figure they know the best way in and out of town, whereas they turned off somewhere. I stopped to get myself a drink on one of the less crowded streets on the edge of town and they drew up alongside. ‘I guess we took the long way round,’ said the rider, ‘ Hi, I’m Larry and this is Sally.’ They were from the mid west of America I think they said, anyway they had hired the bike for the day from a shop in Antigua and were out to swing around the lake. After a brief chat they went on their way only to return about two minutes later. ‘I think we’ve got a puncture in the rear tyre,’ explained Larry. ‘I’ve a pump and tyre repair kit,’ I replied, ‘let’s have a look.’ The bike had no centre stand so we leaned it over and removed the back wheel, putting one of the crash helmets under the swingarm while Larry used my tyre irons to remove the back tyre. Sure enough an old patch had come off as it had been badly put on. Swearing about what he would do to the hire guy, Larry quickly had the tube repaired and we used my electric pump to inflate it. Another few minutes and they were fit to go. This time they went around the corner and never came back.
Sally and Larry

I continued around the lake until I passed through Santiago Atitilan. The road gradually grew worse until it consisted of about 4 inches of loose sand over cobbles the size and shape of bread loaves. At the point where the road took a 50 yard hill at 45 degrees I had to stop and admit defeat. No way was I going to attempt that with the night coming on and me in the middle of nowhere! It took me about 15 minutes to turn the bike around as the front wheel kept sliding on the sand, and the rear wheel, although first gear was engaged with the engine off, was turning the engine backwards. I pulled into a hotel with nice looking gardens set with bungalows and set my teeth for what was no doubt going to be another expensive stay. It was, but not too bad as it was out of season. The owner told me that the week before they had an Australian biker in for a week because he had pulled all the muscles in one leg attempting the same slope. Luckily a local found him and helped him recover his bike, it could have been a bandit though my host told me, because there had been several robberies at gun point up there at night. Apparently last year there had been uncommon amounts of rain and it had bought landslides of volcanic ash down across that road. Had I got over that last hill I was only a couple of kilometres from St.Pedro which was my goal.
In the morning I sat and watched the fishermen in their boats as the sun reached over the volcanoes and dispersed the early morning mist. A magical hour spent in a quiet and beautiful garden while drinking a really good cup f coffee after a well made breakfast.
Blue Haze; Lake Atitilan

The next morning I rode out to a junction I had seen the day before and this time passed by the other side of the volcano on a decent road. Reaching the main highway I turned east and was heading towards San Salvador, although I knew that I would not reach the border in time to cross over, and besides the little port of San Jose or the Nature reserve adjacent at La Areliane sounded inviting. They weren’t.! San Jose is the same as most of the other ports I had visited in Central America, the infrastructure totally unable to keep up with the demands of the heavy traffic, and the population very poor. La Areliane was no better, just being a smaller version of the port with no hotel worth the name in the little town. I returned to San Jose and booked into a no star motel for the night. I had heard in talks on Central and South America that the reason that motels existed there were different to the reasons in Europe or North America. We know them as no frills stopovers that are handy for the highway. In Central and South America they are where you take your girlfriend for a few hours of passion. To ensure anonymity each cabin has a drive in garage with a curtain that pulls across, or perhaps even a garage door. The one in Porto San Jose, for all its run down status, even had air conditioning, although the wiring looked exceedingly dodgy to me, but hey, it worked. The other good thing was that I was able to use the curtained off garage next to my cabin to make coffee and a meal on my camping stove without attracting attention.
Next morning I reached the border of El Salvador at La Hachadura and was pleased to hire a couple of locals to get me through the procedures. Once you have done it a few times, it is not difficult, but those first few times can be confusing. Basically you go to Immigration control and get yourself stamped out of the country you are leaving. Then you go to Customs to get your bike booked out. Then you may pass by a police checkpoint where they check that you have done everything correctly, before proceeding into the country you are heading for. Here you do it all over again but it takes ten times as long because you have to fill in paperwork declaring that you are the person that your passport says you are, you are only going to stay up to 90 days, and that the bike is only coming in for the same amount of time. Every piece of paperwork requires a wait at a different window, the Customs one is usually the longest due to the lorry drivers having sheaves of papers covering all the items they are carrying. Eventually you get to the barrier and are checked out, but often there is another police checkpoint a mile down the road and you may have to show all your paperwork again, once this happened to me three times as I went through a Border Police Checkpoint, a Municipal Police Checkpoint and a Federal Police checkpoint, all within the first few miles of the border. The local minders you hire can often cut the time down for you and as at later border, it can make a dramatic difference, but it will cost money. That’s another thing to remember to do, go to the money changers and change the money left over from your last country, into the currency of the new country you are visiting. It doesn’t matter who you do it with, they have a cartel and all give the same rate anyway.
I had hope to reach the outskirts of San Salvador, the capital of this little country, but the traffic was quite heavy and after investigating a little seaside town that didn’t seem to have any hotels, I passed another motel on the main highway and was offered an ‘Executive’ room, as these had metal garage doors which would protect my bike better. Now here was a much better class of brothel. The porter conducted me to the room, showed me the mirror walled bathroom, ensured there were condoms in the bedside table draw, and asked if I would like a beer. When I refused this offer he explained that there were two beers ‘gratis’ so I might as well have them. I took out my wallet to pay him for the accommodation and he shook his head and walked over to the built in corner seat and fitment, lifted a small lid, and gestured for me to put my money in the space below. I did, we closed the lid, there was the sound of a sliding panel moving, followed by a couple of knocks and, as if by magic when we opened the lid again, there was a tray with a couple of cold beers on it. The whole thing was then spoilt by the back wall sliding across and an old crone offering me up my change and a towel and soap.
Descrete service

As he left my porter offered me a ‘chica’ for the evening, ‘very clean and speaks good English’. ‘Just dinner would do fine,’ I replied picking up the menu card, and a few more raps on the corner cupboard produced a dinner which I enjoyed with the two free beers.
Informative decorations in my room

The round bed on a marble dais was comfortable, and as far as I could make out the shape of it neither added nor subtracted to my nights sleep. The only drawback with this place was that they wanted me out by 7am, but it did mean I had plenty of time to get to the border area into Honduras.

The roads here are very variable, and I found that following a car or van worked well, as they swerved between the potholes, only you have to make sure you choose one set of tyres to follow, as sitting in the middle will lead you to certain doom. Coming over one hillcrest I narrowly missed a pothole about the size of a tabletop, 9 or 10 inches deep and looking as though it had been just made ready for repair since the sides were clean and at 90degrees to the road surface. I remember thinking that if someone on a motorbike hits that unawares, they will be in serious trouble. Sure enough, 500 yards up the road there were all the signs that a road gang had been repairing the potholes, but looked as though they had run out of tarmac.
Coming into the seaside town of La Union, I could see all the work going on to build a new marina suitable for gringo sailors. More importantly I could see a Holiday Inn and just knew I needed a couple of days pampering. As it is out of season I get a very good rate and decide to stay for a couple of days, I am always a bit wary of crossing border at the weekend when I suspect there is more casual traffic that takes longer to cross, anyway the scenery is pleasant, the wine good and the weather perfect, so why not make the most of it.

Pleasant scenery in La Union


....and some more pleasantsceneryin La Union

The next border with Honduras was the easiest and most expensive. I didn’t have that far to ride so it was mid morning by the time I reached Goascoran. About 2 miles from the boarder. On the roundabout where the pan American meets the main road from San Miguel, a couple of young men flagged me down obviously touting for work as border crossing guides. I stopped and established the fact that this is what they were, and two jumped on a bicycle while the main man looked at my bike quizzically before wedging himself somewhere between me and my rucksack and standing up on the passenger foot pegs. In this manner we proceeded to the border. This was the most expensive border crossing I made, it cost me $180 to cross over. Usually the cost is about $20 for the guide and $5 to get a kid to watch the bike. Then there are sometimes exit fees and typing up document fees as well. While this was the easiest border for me, I just sat in the shade while my minders did all the running around, yes I was a bit concerned that they had all my documents with them and were often out of my sight, but as long as one of them was sitting by me I figured the others would return. Unfortunately just before we arrived at the border, so did three coaches, and there was a line of about 150 people all waiting for their documents to be processed and their luggage checked. My main man returned and informed me that it would take another 3 hours at Customs plus another 2 hours on top for immigration; or, since he had an understanding with the customs official, a $50 bill attached to the declaration would fix it. I watched as he walked over to the official, handed him my paperwork with the $50 attached, and return smiling saying that customs clearance was not a requirement in my case. Another $50 fixed the passport stamp. I must say that the long queue of people waiting at the immigration window never turned a hair when my minder walked over, ignored the queue, interrupted what was going on, and had my passport stamped. ‘It will not cost so much to get into Honduras,’ he said, ‘follow me.’ Again I sat in the shade drinking orange juice and $50 and 20 minutes later I was ready to go. Expensive yes, but he had just saved me 5 hours queuing.
To be honest I don’t remember much about driving through Honduras and Nicaragua, just more jungle sided pot holed roads, volcanoes and lakes in the distance, poor hotels and yet another border crossings. My next real memory was getting lost in Managua, Nicaragua; noting that most of the side streets had the covers missing from the sewers, I expect the local scrap dealer did a roaring trade in cast iron, and trying to look for a hotel while not driving down a 5ft deep corporation hole. I found a very nice hotel, a little off a main road, but although they had their own private driveway, because the bike was parked outside the hacienda walls, I fixed my lock to the front wheel as a precaution. Shame I forgot about it next morning and drove about a mile wondering what that curious clicking noise was. At least after that when I locked the bike I did it properly!
The signage here was up to Latin American standards so I not so much got lost, as found myself passing the airport going the opposite way than I had arrived. I knew this was wrong and seeing a sign, yes there are a few, to Granada, took this road as I knew it led roughly in the direction of the boarder. My guide book described the lakeside town of Granada as a charming colonial town, it looked like almost every other town I had passed through to me, but I did not stop and explore, I just got lost for twenty minutes before finding the dusty road that was being repaired and that led towards the border. Yet another border crossing and I managed this one myself, only paying someone a few dollars to watch the bike before heading into Costa Rica and its capital City, San Jose. In the mountains just over the boarder we were delayed, and crawled along at about 5mph. I could see no apparent reason for this slow crawl, but did notice my temperature gauge climbing into the red. Every time the traffic stopped I switched off the engine and prayed that the engine would start when required, it did. I stayed at a nice hotel on the city outskirts after riding around for an hour or more in downtown San Jose. I had ignored the Best Western and its Casino on the way into town, mainly because I couldn’t figure how to get off the busy motorway into town, but having settled into my room I opened my emails only to find that Fred, and friends, were staying at that very Best Weston. The next morning after checking and filling my empty radiator, I headed back onto the motorway, found the right exit and drew up next to Fred’s BMW 1200 Adventure.

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Hi all,
Some problems with my email address have meant that you did get my last notification. As I am not at home, Virgin have dumped my account so I am now using a Yahoo.co.uk account with the same name. Many thanks to Grant for letting me know about this.
Anyway if you go to the Horizons Unlimited site and go to Travellers Tales you will not only fin