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

Border Crossing

Crossing borders can be difficult. Crossing them with a vehicle you can be strangled to death by red tape. On average you will have to visit 5 different buildings per crossing. Shell out money at each place, fill out forms, get stamps and stickers wait in long lines out in the heat. Through the whole experience you will wonder how you could have arrived on everybody’s first day, since nobody will know for sure what you need done.

When we crossed from Guatemala to Honduras we came to large new looking facility. It was a welcome sight, maybe this would be over quickly. We filled out some papers and our passports were stamped in minutes. Next came the permit for driving in Honduras. Apparently the office was down the road and we would have to be escorted there. So a guy who spoke about 3 words of English gets on the back of my bike to show us where to go. We end up driving an hour to Cortez, Honduras where they issue permits. But when we get there the office is closed for the day.

Our helpful friend wants to keep our passports and original titles for our bikes, to make sure we don’t skip town without the permit. After talking him out of that idea we stayed in a hotel for the night, and were back at the office bight and early. 6 painful hours later we were back on the road. Time stuck waiting for a permit: 30 hours.

Yesterday we left Nicaragua for ecotourism friendly Costa Rica, if any country down here would have the system streamlined it would be Costa Rica. But in the fifth building we came to the computers were broken, and some of the truckers trying to get through had been there for 6 hours. With the computers down there was no way for them to do it manually.

Mitch and I tried just going for it, but got stopped at a checkpoint and escorted back. After a few hours the computers came back online and people started to move very slowly. The girl typing in the information must have been going at about 6 or 7 words per minute. We were stuck there for 8 hours, didn’t get out until after dark, and it had started to rain. We had to do 15 miles in the rain and dark to make it to the next town.

Hassles like this make miss the chicken bus.

--Ryan

Lawyers, Guns, and Money

I have Garmin Zumo GPS to guide us on the trip. Down here it’s more like a $700 compass, but it can be loaded with music and used like an iPod while riding. I haven’t tucked my headphones inside my helmet since we crossed the Mexican border. At first I was nervous about driving in Central America and wanted to be able to hear everything around me. But after I became comfortable on the road, I didn’t put them back in.

Honestly I like singing to myself. For one whole day while riding in Honduras I sang Warren Zevon’s “Lawyers, Guns, and Money”. It’s been worth driving to Honduras just to be able to sing that song. On the bad dirt road between Gracias and Tegucigalpa, with the jungle all around I shout the lyrics to put extra emphasis on “And I’m hiding in Honduras, I’m a desperate man. Send lawyers, guns, and money the _____ has hit the fan.”

After singing it so many times my voice becomes harsh. I sound like a lifelong smoker, like Dirty Harry singing Karaoke. When my voice changes from smooth to harsh, and before it starts to hurt from singing too much I sound like a rock star, snarling at the jungle.

I am creating my own world inside my helmet (It’s a muggy humid world where people sweat a lot). It is where I am a Jedi Knight flying a landspeeder through bad traffic, where I am a rock star singing to an adoring crowd. Where become a fighter pilot leaning hard into a corner to feel the G-forces pulling on me, and compressing the suspension of my bike.

--Ryan

How I learned to stop worrying and love the Bike

Guest Bloggers: Andrea and Julia

Guest Bloggers, you ask? Yes. Guest Bloggers that are forever indebted to their knights in shining armor. Well, knights in shinning motorcycles, at least. Julia and I met Ryan and Mitch at the aguas termales, thermal hot springs, just southwest of the town of Gracias in Western Honduras. Julia and I hail from New York City and came to Honduras searching for adventure and to get as far from the beaten path as possible. Turns out we got more than we bargained for.

Prior to our encounter with Ryan and Mitch, we spent a few days in and around Copan, gawking at the Mayan ruins and learning the more colorful bits of Mayan culture and history that were omitted from our public education. The Mayans were an awfully productive community considering the civilization was ‘shrooming for over 1,000 years.

Three bus rides and 5 hours later, Julia and I to eventually made our way from Copan to Gracias. We spent over 5 hours in the back of decrepit school buses that have not passed safety tests for at least 35 years, practically sitting on the laps of some unlucky fellows. Since I caught a mild bug and ran a fever the previous night, we decided to take it easy and spend our evening at the aguas termales just out of town. We inquired around town and all the locals agreed that the hot springs were lovely and easily accessible. We hailed a tuk-tuk (yes, that's what they are called in Thailand, not Honduras. However, I have not heard anyone call these little golf carts anything of interest, therefore I will continue to call them tuk-tuks) and ventured out on a daunting dirt road leading to the hot springs. A road that would be totally sweet to take my mountain bike on, but was a bit of a killjoy in our un-shock absorbent tuk-tuk. The ride took forever, but we made it to our destination.

Shortly after submerging into the warm embrace of the hot springs, Mitch and Ryan came over and introduced themselves. Lovely conversation and several hours later, Ryan was kind enough to offer us a ride back to town. Immediately I felt my stomach turn. And then drop. I had only worn a bathing suit, skirt, t-shirt, and Chacos- hardly protective gear. Plus, that road was scary enough via tuk-tuk during daylight. Besides, riding off in the dark with a man I’ve only just met in a foreign country sounds like the plot to some B-Horror movie. Or maybe just an urban legend. Either way, I hardly knew these men. How could I put my life or Julia’s in their hands?

Looking around, I realized we didn't have many options for getting back to town as the other bathers seemed to have left and tuk-tuks were not as readily available as we were led to believe. It took a heck of a lotta convincing, but I realized it was the best option. Ok, our only option. I swear I could hear my dad telling me I’d be an idiot to get on that Donor-cycle. I guess my dad raised an absolute idiot. I wondered if being a registered organ donor in New York carries over international boundaries?

I didn't realize Ryan drove a Beamer. Ladies and Gents, it’s quite a sexy bike. More importantly, it looked like it could handle the ruts, rocks, and divots in the road. I didn't pay much attention to Mitch or Julia because I am selfish and extremely self-centered. Julia could fend for herself, right? Hmm, ok, so I was terrified and hadn’t felt this way since probably the last stupid thing I did. But Ryan assured me that Mitch would be very cautious with Julia in tow. Geez, what a relief!

Ryan, always the gentleman, gave me his helmet to wear. Lacking more excuses, I hopped on the back of his bike, wrapped my arms around him, and then proceeded to break at least 4 of his ribs. I kid, I joke. I only broke two. Ryan is a steady driver who finds his line and doesn’t panic. I admit, after a few minutes, I loosed my vice-like grip and just enjoyed the ride. A pretty sweet ride. Please note: Ryan is an absolute saint to have put up with some loony chick from New York freaking out on him and yelling obscenities in his ear. The man has patience, I tell ya. As for Mitch, this wasn’t Julia’s first rodeo. She didn’t make a fuss like me.

But Wait! There's more! Yes folks, the drama continues. After parking their bikes into their fancy hotel parking lot, the fellows insisted on walking us home. Of course I got us lost and we took a very long walk around a very small town to end up at the supremely budget hostel that Julia and I had decided to stay at. A hostel that both the management and the guide books failed to mention locked its front door at 9 PM. Promptly. As it was past 11 PM, once again Mitch and Ryan came to our rescue and told us we could crash at their hotel room .

Unfortunately for the boys, Julia got violently ill and spent the entire night in the bathroom vomiting and with diarrhea explosiva. With thin walls, I don’t think anyone slept through this ordeal. Also, Julia’s illness coincided with a broken water pump in town, so the hotel did not have any water or plumbing for the night. The bathroom was a disaster. Julia was dehydrated. I ran around the courtyard and hotel, scavenging whatever supplies I could gather: empty flower pots (Ok, I emptied them), a bucket of water in a tool shed (Yes, I broke in. But it was an emergency), and other items that might be able to alleviate poor Julia’s discomfort. Mitch and Ryan were so kind and understanding throughout the entire ordeal .

Readers, I am not sure how many people would have been as kind and generous to us as the protagonists of this epic tale. It’s not that I don’t have faith in people. But people have limits. Just like Paul Bunyan and Johnny Appleseed before them, Ryan and Mitch are true legends. At least in our book.


As a side note, the next day I ventured out on rougher terrain with the boys, got hooked on the adrenalin rush, and gradually felt comfortable enough to hold a camera with one hand while the other only lightly grasped Ryan’s shoulder. But that’s just my version.