The Former SGT Gutkin

In the weeks leading up to our mission in Central America we had been working at the Headquarters building in Draper, UT. Gathering tools and completing endless amounts of online courses, and death by powerpoint briefings. In the hallway leading to the office there is a large recruiting poster. It’s holographic so depending on which angle you view it from there are different images. In bold letters across the top it reads “CITZEN SOLDIERS.” The main picture is of 9 or 10 people both men and women from different ethnic backgrounds, all of them wearing civilian clothes and sporting huge smiles. Walking past it I noticed that when the angle changed the citizens changed into soldiers, standing at attention in their shiny new class A uniforms. Noticeably gone were their smiles, I’m sure they were photographed that way to show their new level of professionalism. To me it looked like they had been happy as civilians, but now after joining the Army had realized they had made a huge mistake, and the uniform/Army was making them miserable.

They had held our connecting flight in Houston as long as possible, but now it was time to move. SGT Gutkin (pronounced Goot-ken) had shown up at the gate left his carry on luggage with us and gone to get some food. That was the last we saw of him, after repeated calls to his cell phone and pages over the airport intercom we had to get on the plane without him.

“I want you to make sure that man gets a court marshal.” Said the small Canadian woman sitting next to me. The baggage guys had been under our plane looking for SGT Gutkin’s luggage for the last 45 minutes. Since he had not boarded the flight his luggage had to be removed, severely delaying our take off. Finally we pushed back from the gate, relieved to be on our way to Panama.

As the plane taxied from the gate to the runway Captain Thomas was busy on his cell phone, calling Headquarters in Utah trying to find out what happened to Gutkin. If Gutkin was smart he would call headquarters and coordinate what to do next through them, and if he was smart he wouldn’t have missed the plane in the first place, we were quickly learning what a dummy former SGT Gutkin really was.

Being miserable in the Army is not uncommon, every soldier understands that things going wrong is part of the job. This was the first time I had seen a case of DUMM syndrome (Dummies in Uniform Made Miserable) become contagious, and spill over into the civilian world. During all the waiting and phone calls CPT Thomas had been informed of riots in Panama City. He was told that if we could get off the plane we should. So moments before the plane throttled up for take off we turned back for the gate. I always get a laugh when the Army pretends to care about my safety. They went out of their way to save me from savage tourist destination Panama, but anytime I want to volunteer for a mission to Iraq I’ll be gone in a heartbeat.

Groans filled the plane as the pilot announced we were headed back to the terminal so a few of the passengers could get off. Thankfully he didn’t announce anything about the riots in Panama. Honestly a couple of school girls could have been pulling each others hair in the streets and the Army would have shut the mission down. I felt terrible for the people left on the plane. One passenger was on her way to her sister’s funeral which was being held the next day, and was going to miss her connection in Panama City. I never found out how long the flight was delayed, but after having to pull back to the gate, then waiting for the baggage guys unload our luggage, I’m sure it was a long time.

After picking up most of our bags, and visiting the lost luggage office to tell them which bags had gone to Panama without us we headed to a nearby hotel. If former SGT Gutkin would have just gotten on the plane it wouldn’t have been delayed, and we wouldn’t have had time to get the message about a couple of homosexuals spraying each other with water pistols. We would have made it to Panama on schedule and the mission would have gone on. Gutkin threw a major wrench into things, when the Lifers finally found him it was around 11:30pm he had managed to stay lost for nearly 10 hours even though we had airport security looking for him.

A soldier can get away with several small mistakes, but one big one was enough. As I type we are on plane to Panama, while Gutkin is on his way back to Salt Lake City. He will be picked up at the airport, and taken to headquarters where his stinking cowardly body will be ripped apart limb from limb by grouchy Sergeant Majors, Colonels, and Captains.

Looking out the window of the plane I can see Panama City, the crossroads of the world. Tall buildings and twisting roads jammed with wild drivers, smoldering buses and honking horns. It is good to be back but one thing is certain; I am really going to miss my motorcycle.

--Ryan

900 X 16

My helmet had been giving me problems ever since it fell off the handlebars and bounced down the road on the way south through Mexico. The visor was broken on the left side making it flap annoyingly in the wind, and it was so scratched I really couldn’t see much out of my left eye. Still I kept it all the way to Panama. This morning I glanced over my shoulder to check another road and the wind popped it off. I looked in my mirror to see it bouncing down the road, and realizing how nice it was to be able to see, I decided not to turn back for it.

I rode 900 miles that day and spent 16 hours on the bike. If I eat then I will have to go to the bathroom, which will slow me down even more, so I only stopped for gas and a small snack at a KFC in Chihuahua. I thought about getting a hotel there too, but I felt like I had a little more I decided to ride to the next town.

It was starting to get dark, and I was driving through mostly rural areas with lots of farms along side the road. When I switched on my high beam I felt like I was in lightspeed, it looked like I was driving through a tunnel of bugs. Although I was crouched low behind the windshield I couldn’t get low enough to be out of the path of the bugs. And since my visor was hundreds of miles back on the road I was constantly getting hit in the face. The best I could hope for was a reassuring splatter when they hit. If I couldn’t feel the cool bug juice running down my check after the stinging impact, then I knew there was very pissed off bug climbing around inside my helmet. Several times I had to reach into the helmet and smash one of the insects against my cheek. To keep them out of my eyes I had to keep my sunglasses on long after the sun was down. Driving through the pitch black with sunglasses on I could only see a few feet in front of me. Once bouncing over what I guess was a blown tire. I never saw it, maybe it was a stay dog I really don’t know.

Because it was dark I stopped at the first hotel I came across after leaving Chihuahua. Staggering through the door I asked, “How much for a room?” The man behind the desk replied “300 pesos ($30.00).” Maybe I was a little punchy from my long day with little food, but I thought I heard hesitation in his voice. “300 pesos is a lot for one person amigo. Do you have wireless internet or a swimming pool or Air conditioning?” They didn’t, and in a small town like this hotel’s should be going for $10-$15 not $30. Tired as I was, I knew this guy had seen an exhausted Gringo walk through his door, and thought that I would pay anything to get some sleep. I offered him $20, when he didn’t take it I said, “You know something Amigo, I’ve been traveling for 3 months and I’m tired of being charged more money just because I look different than you.” I staggered back out the door holding the frame to steady myself.

It was about an hour to the next town, where I walked into a hotel and had almost the same exact conversation, “$30 is a lot amigo…” Again it was another hour to the next town, through bug-infested roads. Where I paid $30 for a hotel, but at least they had Internet and A/C.

--Ryan

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