Break on Through

Trying to cross the Guatemalan border the right way, by stopping and explaining the situation would just draw more attention to me. So as I approached the Mexican Frontier I knew I couldn’t stop. No explanations or excuses, just driving as fast as possible through the Guatemalan side of the border. I had planned on crossing at a border I had been through before, so I would know what to expect. But I got lost on a small dirt road for hours and crashed several times, so once I found civilization I followed the signs heading straight for the border.

Since I have never been to this crossing I don’t know what to expect. My brain is filled with explosions directing me which way to go, I am making life-changing decisions at 40 mph. Drive too slow the Guards may have time to react, to fast I may have an accident, get caught and well I don’t know what would have happened.

The familiar sight of 18-wheelers lining both sides of the road sent a shot of adrenaline racing through my body. This meant the border was right around the corner. At the first checkpoint the road split into 3 lanes for traffic leaving the country, there were chains in place to stop cars, but they were lying on the ground, and when I approached there were no other cars trying to cross. Guards with shotguns strapped to their backs waved at me to stop, I slowed down feinting I was going to follow the rules, then blazed right past them.

I thought that would be it, and sunny Mexico would be next waiting with open arms. But I could see 2 more checkpoints up ahead that I would need to pass through before I was out of Guatemala. The road split leaving a large median in the middle, and since I could see that the chains were up at the next checkpoint, I stayed left turning into oncoming traffic. Again large trucks lined both sides of the road leaving no room on the shoulder. Hoping for no cars coming my way I continued down the road. I can see the guards at the other checkpoints waving at me, and now all the truck drivers waiting their turn to cross are waving too. After a few nerve-racking minutes it was all over, I had made it to Mexico.

I already have the permit for the motorcycle, so I will just need a stamp in my passport from Mexico and I can be on my way. But here I am told that this crossing is only for truckers, tourists need to go to another crossing. They tell me I will have to go back to Guatemala, and south a little bit to the next crossing. I happen to know there are some very pissed off Guatemalans at the border I just came through, even if I hadn’t blown past the guards they still wouldn’t have let me in. I explain that me going back to Guatemala is impossible, they won’t let me back in. The guard seems to have some sympathy for me, and says, “Okay if you can go into that building and get them to stamp your passport I’ll let you go.” In the office the guy behind the desk gives me the same story, and tells me to go back. Smiling I walk out of the office stuffing my passport into the tank bag on the bike, “Yeah they stamped it no problems.” I tell the waiting guard. He is busy inspecting the permit on the windshield, and tells the suit standing behind him it’s good. The suit just shakes his head, and guard says I will have to go back.

Climbing on the motorcycle I apologize for what I am about to do. “Amigos going back to Guatemala is not possible for me. I hope you will not be angry, but I’m driving into Mexico.” A few seconds after thumbing the starter, I can see the Mexican border disappearing at 90mph in the mirror. I feel like I’m flying a cruise missile, trying to put as much distance between the border and I. Hoping the Mexican police won’t be waiting for me around the next corner.

--Ryan

25 Bucks

Making videos along the way has been a lot of fun. Youtube is the most common video site, but there are others that reward you for uploading or making a good movie. So I upload them to several different sites. While I was waiting for my tires to be mounted 1 of the salesmen let me borrow his computer so I could check my email. I had a message from www.flix55.com telling me that “Episode 1: Half-throttle” had won and award, and the prize was $25. I was pretty excited; it’s nice to receive complements on your work.

When I was done at the computer I went back to the clothing and accessories department to continue flirting with Bethzy the girl working behind the desk. She spoke good English and liked listening to my stories about incompetent border guards.

I walked in and told her about the prize 1 of my videos had won. “Your not going to believe what just happened.” I said with a grin. “I just won $25 for 1 of the videos I was telling you about.” Bethzy thought that was great, now my claims of being a Hollywood movie star were making sense. “Yeah, I’ve driven over 9000 miles, and somebody was thoughtful enough to give me a slap in the face prize of $25, not bad for 3 months of work.”

I had been at the dealership 4 hours waiting to pay for my new tires. There was a problem making the invoice because this brand of tires was new to the dealership. I accused Bethzy of keeping me there so long on purpose because she wanted to flirt with me. She denied having anything to do with it. I was still sarcastically ranting about how great it was to receive such a big prize. “I’m set now, maybe I’ll get a couple of those $400 BMW helmets.”

“Tell you what Bethzy, let’s me and you take that 25 bucks and burn it on the town tonight.” She readily agreed, and we made plans to meet later that evening. For dinner we had tacos, the bill for 2 of us came to $1.93. And the movie we went to see was $3.00 a ticket. By then it was late, and my plan of spending all the money had failed.

Hmm, maybe that slap in the face was more of pat on the behind.

--Ryan

Avon Distanzia

This trip has taken me over 9000 miles so far, but I had my Distanzia’s before I left. I would guess they had about 12,000 miles on them, pretty good for a motorcycle tire. I have been through everything with those tires. They crossed 12 borders with me, and took all the potholes, ruts, mud, and road kill Central America could throw at them. Through all that I didn’t have 1 flat tire.

At the BMW dealership in Guatemala City I changed them out. Normally a person would be happy to have new tires, but I felt like I was losing an old friend. I knew I could depend on them to carry me over whatever stood in our way. The dealership didn’t carry the Distanzia so I had to get something from Continental called the “Attack”. They have a tread pattern that looks like it’s mostly for show. Hopefully I have the same good luck with these tires as I did with the old ones.

Now that I have my new tire’s I plan to get out of Guatemala as fast as I can. I know it’s beautiful here, and the people are great, but I just don’t have good luck in Guatemala. And my drama with the border guards may not be over. I still need to make it to the border without being stopped by the police, and get through the Guatemalan side without any papers on the motorcycle.

--Ryan

Breaking Point

Corinto, Guatemala
9255 Miles

After a long drive from El Salvador and a few nights in Copan Ruinas I made it to Corinto the northern Frontier of Guatemala and Honduras. On the Honduran side there is a large new customs building. A man there glaced at my passport and handed it back to me. I asked if there needed to be a stamp. He told me, “No we don’t give stamps here.” The guards down south had insisted they did. I cancelled the driving permit in Honduras and headed into Guatemala. When I came across the small shack housing the guards there, I stopped and pulled out a paper with 2 names on it. I had been given the names at the first border I was turned away from, they told me that they had telephoned these 2 guys in Corinto and they would be expecting me.

When I found 1 of the guys listed on the paper he didn’t know anything about my problem. He took 1 look at the expired permit and said there was nothing he could do. He said he could let me into the country but when I tried to leave they would want to see my permit. I’ll take my chances, this whole mess started when I was waved through this very border by the same guards who are telling me I will have to show a permit to get out. I’m likely to find the same thing on the other side.

During those 4 days when I was stuck on the Guatemala/Salvadorian border I reached a point where I wanted to curl up in a ball and cry. I didn’t care what happened to the bike or if I ever got home. I had hit my limit and didn’t have the strength to fight anymore.

This feeling of hopelessness, and despair is what I had come for. To put myself in a position where only I could help myself. Where there is no one to pat you on the back, and tell you everything is going to be all right. Your mind begins to fracture with each side pulling you to a new stage in your life. Whether you become a blathering idiot begging a Guatemalan border guard to let you in, or keep your cool until you can catch your 2nd wind is up to you. Travel is beautiful, enlightening, and sometimes heartbreaking, but never taking the journey means never finding out.

--Ryan

Sleeping at the Border

One of the Mormons has a friend of a friend that works at a Guatemalan border. So today I drive north to where this hook up works. I was disappointed when I got there to see that he was just one of the “Border crossing experts” who hound tourists, and not actually a border official as I had been told. He took all my papers and went off to get me a permit. Which I knew was impossible from the last 3 days of trying.

By the time I had become completely fed up with everyone, those trying to help and those who didn’t give a damn. Everybody at 2 borders knows me now, the local people who live, and sell food and goods there felt bad for me, the border officials hated me for giving them so much trouble.

Had I driven up and given them my fake permit they probably would have let me right in. But I let somebody else help and now my cover is blown. Everybody is watching me now, but I am also a crazed lunatic and not thinking straight. So I drive up to the border guard and try the fake permit anyway. They see through it straight away and take the copy away from me, I have more but knowing I want to run they have the road blocked.

Before I get arrested in Guatemala I turn back for Salvador. But I have already cancelled my permit there, and they won’t let me pass. When I try to get a new one they tell me I can’t cancel 1 and get a new 1 in the same day. Which I know is a lie, because I had cancelled 1 and received a new 1 the same day at the first border I tried when all this trouble started. But I have stepped on enough toes for 1 day so I stay quiet.

I pull my motorcycle across a parking space to protect where I will set up my tent and sleep for the night. An older Salvadorian woman comes over to see what I’m doing; I explain the situation as best I can. As she wipes the mud from yesterday off my helmet with her fingers, she starts to cry while apologizing for all the problems I’m having with her country. She walks back to her shop and comes back with a large piece of black plastic and starts to spread it over my tent, to protect from the rain. I thank her and explain the tent doesn’t need it and she understands after awhile.

The night in the parking lot was uneventful. 18-wheeler trucks passing through all night with brakes hissing, and engines grumbling made sure I didn’t get much sleep. But nobody messed with me, and as promised I had my permit at 7:00am to go back to El Salvador.

--Ryan

Stuck in the Mud

On my way to the border with a plan on driving straight through the Guards I stopped to say goodbye to some of the Mormon’s who had been so nice to me. When I told them my plan they begged me not to do it, “First let us go to the border with you and try to talk with the Guatemalan’s.”

I rode the bike to the border and tried to walk across the bridge to talk to the Guards. But I was stopped by the Salvadorians and told I couldn’t leave the bike here, like I had done yesterday. The more I try to leave and get turned away the more suspicious I look. So my friends walked over and tried to talk with them.

They came back in a few hours frustrated and told me, “They think you stole the motorcycle.” Never mind that I have the original title and over 30 movies online following the trip from home to here, if that is what they think then nothing will change their minds. Now my idea of running the border doesn’t seem like a bad idea. My friends agree that it may be the only way.

I decide that if I am going to do it I had better go to a different crossing, there is 1 farther to the south. They won’t be expecting it there, so I said goodbye and headed south. The nice twisty road soon turned to mud with large ruts. I had made it pretty far into the mountains, when the bike started to head for a big rut on the side of the road. I watched it all happen in third person, unable to do anything about it. I had closed the throttle and remember wondering why the bike wasn’t stopping. After almost 9000 miles of riding grabbing the clutch and brake slipped my mind, and the bike went crashing into the rut.

I fought with the bike for hours, lifting it off its side and trying to drive it out of the rut only to have it fall more than 10 times. I had to unclip the luggage off the sides to shed weight, and use the fold up shovel (E-tool) I had “borrowed” from the Armory before I left. I turned the bike 180° as it lay on the ground and then had to drag over 500 pounds of motorcycle out of the ditch, something that I would have thought was impossible before. All this and I still had to lift the bike up 1 more time. Water was still running down the ditch, several times I almost had it up but my boots slipped out from under me, forcing me to start all over.

Covered in mud and exhausted I started to wonder if I should set up my tent and spend the night there. It was starting to get dark and I was running out of strength, it wasn’t likely anybody else would be foolish enough to use this road; help wasn’t coming. It took a lot of yelling and cursing to lift it that last time, I was surprised when I did lift it successfully. I rode back to the little town that had warned me not to go up the road. Stopped at small store for a something to drink, the owner looked a little frightened when the mud covered gringo walked in, and found a cold Gatorade for me to drink.

Back at Juan and Raddis’s house they washed my clothes and let me take a shower. I was exhausted my arms still shaking from all the lifting and pulling I had done on the mountain. Finding the edge of sanity is what I had come on this trip for. Getting stuck in the mud and having to fight my way out is why I bought a GS. I had every right to be angry, frustrated and disappointed. But I couldn’t stop laughing.

--Ryan

Just 5 more minutes

This morning at 5:00am when the Bishop went to teach seminary I left on my motorcycle to try the border 1 more time. Being Monday I thought, maybe there will be a manager there who can do more to help me. I waited until 6:00am for him to show up, but I was already out of patience. So I asked 1 of the other Guards to write down the address where I needed to go in Guatemala City. After he gave me the address and phone number, I walked back to Salvador and rode my bike to town. I parked my bike back in the garage, and packed a bag with a change of clothes.

Before getting on the bus I called the number I had been given at the frontier. No one answered, so I took the bus back to the frontier and asked again where I needed to go. This time the manager was there; he looked at the address and told me it was wrong. Through a translator he told me that maybe he could help me, and I should stay there while he made some calls.

As I wondered around the frontier the “Expert” from yesterday shouted “Mister Mister Mister! You give me $5.” “Why would I give you $5?” I asked. “Because I help you yesterday, cross border very fast.” “Really? Then way am I still here?” He had a disappointed look on his face as he realized this was an argument he could not win. I laid down on a bench with my backpack on my chest, and fell asleep for a while, once startling myself awake with my own snoring. I was still so tried from trying to sort all this out. The Manager wanted to see the stamp in my passport from when I left Guatemala the 1st time. I told him that where I crossed there was no building giving out stamps. Then he wanted to see the stamp from Honduras, I searched through my passport a dozen times but couldn’t find it. Maybe they didn’t give me 1, maybe Mitch has 2 in his I don’t know what happened. Now after 10 hours of listening to this guy tell me “Just wait a little bit longer, I will help you.” The solution is for me to go back the 600 miles to Corinto in Northern Guatemala. Since I can enter Guatemala, and my bike can’t I asked if I could take a bus to Corinto, it is only about 100 miles from here. “No they will want to see the bike.”

After 10 hours of listening to them say, “Just 5 more minutes.” I walked back to El Salvador to get a bus to town, the Guards there wanted to know why I was being turned away from Guatemala. So I was taken to an office and asked questions I didn’t understand for 30 minutes. After I said “tourist” enough times they let me go.

I honestly can’t remember anything being on the Guatemalan side of the border, and feel that if I drive all that way I will be stuck with the same problem even father from home. The people here tell me that the form they need to cancel my permit is in Corinto. The guards in Corinto just need to push the “send” button and email it down, but they won’t do it.

I have one last hope; the sister who is letting me store her bike at her house has a friend of a friend who works at a Guatemalan Border. She doesn’t speak English so she called her sister in Calgary, Canada where I served my mission. We passed the phone back and forth as her sister translated the conversation. She is going to call him to see if he can do something to help me.

While she is checking on her connection, I went to an internet café scanned the expired driving permit, and emailed it to JaggiLines. In his control room he will be able to change the date on the document no problem. I have driven to the edge of insanity, and it is Guatemala.

--Ryan

Border Crossing Bureaucracy

“Mister Mister Mister!” The Guatemalan border-crossing “expert” shouted as I pulled up to the Frontier. Another know-it-all to help me through the process of getting my passport stamped, and a driving permit for the motorcycle. I ignore him, but he stays with me shouting “Mister Mister Mister!” Pointing in the direction of the next office that I am already walking to. After a while he gives up, and leaves me to figure it out by myself.

7 hours later I left the Guatemalan border and headed back to El Salvador a broken man. On my way south we passed through northern Guatemala, but Mitch and I left the country through a seldom used border crossing. There was a building on the Honduran side but nothing in Guatemala. There was no obvious place to cancel my motorcycle permit. I found it in my mess of papers while I was at this border, but it had expired 2 days ago.

The 1st person who helped me told me I would have to go back to were I left Guatemala the first time. That means back through El Salvador, and Honduras nearly 600 miles out of my way. I was polite at first, but it didn’t last long. Our conversation ended after I pounded my fist on the Lonely Planet book several times, crumpled up the expired permit, and threw it on the ground. The guard with the 9mm picked it up, straightened it out and gave it back to me. I noticed he kept the hammer on his pistol was cocked, anybody who carries their gun that way means business, so I walked away to cool off.

I went and sat by my bike, and thought about how far I needed to back track for 1 stupid paper. Some middle aged men driving 2 white vans from California showed up and asked what the problem was. 3 of them were from Poland, 1 Costa Rican, and 1 American. They had loaded their vans with toys to give out to children while on their roadtrip. Some very cool, very helpful dudes, the Tri-lingual (Polish, Spanish, English) Costa Rican took me back to the office and helped plead my case. During the arguing in Spanish he turned to me and whispered “Go outside and put $50 in your passport.” Which I did, but the Guard would not take the bribe. He said he wanted to help if he could but the computer would not let him make a new permit. I would have to leave the motorcycle here at the border and go to a government office in Guatemala City to take care of the expired permit. But wait, the 1st guy I talked to tried to send me 600 miles back to where I crossed the 1st time. My new friends reached into their bag of toys and gave me a yo-yo shaped like baseball. “Looks like you might be here for a while, you could probably use this.”

So after 7 hours I turned back for Salvador. Unfortunately I had cancelled my driving permit there, so I was stuck trying to explain why I cancelled 1 permit and needed a new 1 the same day. Quickly I am being strangled to death by all the red tape, and being polite to the border officials is becoming more and more difficult.

On my way out of town to the border I passed a Mormon Church. Since it was Sunday I stopped and caught the last part of Sacrament meeting before heading to Guatemala. But after being stopped at the border, I would need somewhere to store my bike while I took the bus ride to Guatemala City. When I got back to Ahuachapan the Bishop was still at the chapel, and helped me to find a member with a garage where I could keep the bike. Then he took me back to his house and gave me some food. During dinner the Bishop told me there had been an assault on the road to Guatemala City today, and it could have been me. He thought it was a blessing I was stuck in El Salvador with them. I probably deserve a punishment more than a blessing, but as a Bishop he is the expert. I asked if they knew an Elder Dunn 1 of my best friends from home who severed his mission in El Salvador. The name sounded familiar to them so I pulled out my laptop and brought up some pictures I have of him. They recognized him right away, and said, “Elder Dunn needs to come back to El Salvador to loose some weight.”

I would have happily stayed in a hotel, but they insisted I stay with them. The Bishop pulled a mattress into the small front room of their house for me to sleep on, and asked if I would need anything else. I was exhausted from all the craziness of the day and just wanted to sleep. So he said goodnight and walked into his room. The 1 bedroom in the house had 2 queen size beds, 1 of those I was sleeping now. Which meant that he and his wife were sleeping on the box springs, or sharing the other bed with their 2 small children. So much kindness from these strangers made me uncomfortable.

--Ryan

Worlds Mildest Police Chase's

Driving on the roads in Central America is fun, down here it’s a free for all. Just do whatever needs to be done to get to your destination as fast as possible. For me passing cars is a habit. I will be happy if I can drive from Panama to the Untied States and not get passed once by another car. I feel it’s safer to drive fast, than it is to have cars sneaking up on me from behind.

Today around the city of Leon in Nicaragua the police were everywhere. It’s times like these I wish I could turn my headlight off. I can see the police checkpoint from a ways off, but because of the BMW’s super bright headlight they can see me too. When I see orange cones in the road ahead I will try get in close behind a truck or something bigger than me. That way I can hide all the way into the checkpoint, then cruise through before they realize I am there.

Today my plan backfired when they stopped the truck I was hiding behind, maybe they saw me, or maybe it was just a bonus I was there. The officer asked for my documents on the bike, which I gave to him. Then, pointing to his eye said he saw me pass a truck, and I needed to pay. I had been passing trucks all day, and couldn’t think if the last one would have been in eyesight of the officer or not. I pointed to the broken yellow line in the road and told him it was okay to pass. He shook his head and kept pointing to his eye, while I kept pointing to the yellow line, and pretending to not understand what he was asking. This went on for a while, but he eventually became frustrated and let me go.

After this I was on my guard for more checkpoints. I found a truck driving at a good speed and stayed behind it, no more passing and no more speeding. About 10 miles down the road there is another checkpoint. I can see it through the windshield of the Toyota in front of me. When the pickup is through and the cop can see me, he starts waving madly and pointing at the side of the road.

I love the TV show “World’s Wildest Police Chase’s” I watch it secretly hoping the bad guys get away. When they get caught I think, “If I was driving that old red Ford pickup I could have gotten away, even if the cops had spiked my tires and there was no rubber left on the rims.”

So here is this (likely crooked) Nicaraguan cop waving at me. My day has come. I pretend not to see his frantic waving and continue to coast at 10 mph right through the checkpoint. A few more meters I am over the speed bump, and have made a clean get away. We both know his old 4-cylinder cop car rusting on the side of the road will never catch me.

Getting away from the Nicaraguan police has given me a big confidence boost for when I get back home. Even if it would be classified under World’s Mildest Police Chase’s, it makes me think, maybe I could….

--Ryan

The 6 Dollar Hotel

After being on the road for over 2 months it’s hard to keep shelling out money for hotel rooms. So staying somewhere cheap doesn’t seem like a bad idea. My place in Managua has really taken the glamour out of travel, and comes with a free case of the Heebie Jeebies.

My $6 room has 2 fluorescent lights, giving it an eerie glow. It has a fan, but no air conditioning. There is a toilet with no seat, which I use only as a last resort. There isn’t a showerhead in the shower, or a curtain to keep the water from spraying on the floor, when I use it I must be careful to not step on the cigarette butts leftover from the last guest. I can’t help but wonder if water from the sink is making my teeth dirtier as I brush them.

Staying in a place like has become normal to me. Not sure if that is good or bad, but when taking a trip that seemingly lasts forever you can’t always stay in nice hotels. So I must do what is necessary to get by.

--Ryan

South America Vote

By now some of you must be wondering about the vote to South America, so let me explain. The Trans-American highway (Alaska to Argentina) was started in 1914, and still remains unfinished, due to political and engineering problems. The swampy piece of land between Panama and Colombia is the Wild West, disease, and bandits are at home there.

The safest way to cross the Darien Gap is to ship the bike from Panama City to Bogotá, Colombia. A plane ticket for the bike is about $650, and for me it would be $250. Times it by 2 for the way home, and it’s about $2000 just to cross a border. That is just too much for my pocket book to handle.

My problem now is the voters sent me south. Can’t blame them it’s what I wanted before I knew how much it was going to cost. Luckily life in the National Guard has given me a new perspective of how voting works. So when faced with this problem I thought; what would “The W.” do? How would my Commander in Chief handle this situation? The answer was simple.

“All you voters can go to Hell.”

--Ryan

Rough Road

I was making good time on the road from San Juan del Sur to Managua, until the police diverted traffic onto a side road. If they were giving an explanation I couldn’t have understood, so I turned off without complaint. Soon the road turned to mud, and my bald tires made it feel like ice.

The ruts act like black holes pulling me closer, trying to swallow me whole. I have to steer into the rut to counter act the slide downhill, and soon find myself having to ride in the middle of it. My front tire misses a big hole, but the back falls in. It’s deep enough that my bike lands on the frame, and before I lose all my momentum I let the throttle loose and walk the bike forward, spraying a rooster tail of mud and water a mile high. Once I am moving again I have to keep my legs down to steady the heavy bike. But the road is too much and sends crashing to the ground.

Now covered in mud and pissed off I have 20 cars, trucks, and chicken buses spread out in each direction waiting impatiently for me to lift my bike up and get it out of the middle of the road. After violently throwing my helmet into the trees I heave the bike up and jump on. I almost fall over again, this time onto an oncoming car but wrestle the bike through the mud and back onto the main road.

After walking back for the helmet, I made it to Managua. Still covered in mud, but in one piece.

--Ryan

Solo Gringo

Nothing could ever match the hollow feeling I had as the plane circled lower to the Baghdad International Airport. The plump girl overflowing in the seat next to me was jabbering on about the desert. “Look at all the buildings, I think that’s the Tigris River.” She says tapping me on the shoulder, and pointing out the window. My head is buried in the book “Kite Runner” I keep hoping something in the book will be happy, just like I’m hoping the plump girl in the seat next to me will shut up. I don’t want to think about Iraq, or how crazy it was to sign up to go there. For the moment I want to ignore where I am, and the fear I have.

It has been 7800 miles since I left home, and for the first time I am riding alone. After traveling so far I have a habit of looking in my mirror for Mitch. Now he isn’t there, only this time it isn’t because he is broken down somewhere waiting for me to notice and turn around to find him.

Riding solo isn’t all bad, I will have to rely completely on myself. But not being able to carry on a conversation in Spanish will make the trip a bit lonely. Conversations inside my helmet have already started. Soon they will take place in the hotel, and then as I walk down the street. A good defense against would be thugs. “Hey, don’t mess that gringo. I heard him arguing with himself about whether or not it’s bad to drink motor oil.”

I am afraid to go alone, and just as before I will ignore the fear and do what needs to be done. I don’t know how much money it will cost, or where I will be staying at the end of each day. I don’t know the route I will take, or how much longer I will spend on the road. But I will get there…. Eventually.

--Ryan