The Longest Friday

After scouring the hostels for information on boats to Columbia, I settled on the Stahlratte (Steel Rat). It was an easy choice because all other boats were refusing motorbikes due to rough seas. As a full size schooner the Stahlratte stands apart from the typical single masted sail boat. Built in 1903 as a Dutch herring ship, it has since been modified and improved to become a round the world sailing vessel.

The Stahlratte is owned by a non profit group based out of Germany. There is no single owner and the crew is all volunteer. They are running passengers to Columbia to pay for some new sails and various equipment. This fund raiser proved successful, as the German Captain Ludwig knew how to run a business properly as opposed to the random private sailboats who may leave you hanging on some random Columbian beach.

El Capitan

The Captain and crew were wonderful and they’ve taken the time to ensure a great experience for the passengers. Immigration is all worked out by the Captain. The food is excellent, and we spent more time goofing off on beautiful tropical islands than actually sailing. It wasn’t just a mode of transportation to Columbia; it was about playing hard, eating well, and putting some miles along the way.

The success enjoyed by the Stahlratte subsequently caused them to be blackballed by the Colon Yacht club (the normal embarking point from Panama to Columbia). Not to be deterred, the Captain worked out a deal with the independent Kuna Indians along the San Blas Coast. This was a plus in my book. Because the Steel Rat was anchored off the San Blas Coast, I was faced (happily) with the adventure of getting out to the Carti River and then hiring some Kunas to transfer my bike from the Carti River to the Ship anchored off shore.

I woke up early at my hostel in Panama City and left late. Pretty standard for me really. Within an hour I was out of the city and turning off onto a dirt road leading into the forest.

The dirt road was in the process of being repaired and was in fairly good condition. It would have been a nightmare in the rain, but the weather was on my side. The road was twisty, steep and contouring the mountainous terrain. As I rode closer to the Caribbean coast the rainforest became taller and denser. It was hard to keep my eyes on the road as I kept starring off into the dark depths of the jungle, wondering what wild critters lived there. The sky turned dark and threatened to rain and I pushed on hoping to beat the rain.

Various local folks would hoot and holler at me from the side of the road. At several points I was flagged down, but I pushed on full throttle. I had over 700 dollars cash in my pocket for payment to the Steel Rat, and I was more than a little nervous about stopping for anyone.

The ride was truly enjoyable and the climax was a river crossing a few miles short of the coast.

I balked as a truck passed me and sank well above his wheels as he splashed through. I parked the bike and waded in to find the shallowest  crossing point.

thanks Alberto for the action photo!

A local Kuna pointed me out to a very reasonable crossing point. I hooked up the snorkel, although I probably didn’t need it  with the route the Kuna had shown me. Better safe then sorry.

Just as I was about to cross, three additional bikers showed up.

Roberto taking her deep on the BMW F800GS

Andreas on the Africa Twin

Alberto on an Africa Twin

As the Steel Rat was the only boat taking on motorcycles, we found ourselves in a sailing biker rally. Okay, so all told there were only 5 of us bikers on the boat. But given the fact that I’ve only run into other bikers twice on the tour so far, it was an exceptional gathering, and all of them were fun to hang with.(Maybe its because we have something in common, I don’t know )

Roberto, Alberto and Andreas were from Venezuela. These guys were too much fun to hang with, and I’m looking forward to riding with them in the future some time. They opened up my mind toward riding in Venezuela. A possibility I hadn’t considered. If not this tour, I’ll have to make it back there some day. Stories of Angel Falls (world’s largest waterfall located in Venezuela) incited a mixed reaction of loathing fear and seductive attraction as I dreamed of stepping over the edge with my glider. Thank you guys for helping me to see beyond Chavez in respect to Venezuela.  I hope to visit you and your country!

from right to left, Randy, Alberto, Roberto,Andreas, Josey

Randy and I had been riding parallel courses through Central America for the last few months. He’s another very cool biker. (As far as I’m concerned all of us bikers are very cool….go figure). Randy started riding from Vancouver shortly after I set out from South Carolina. His plan is similar to mine…. a vague and undecisive intention to ride whatever direction calls, a direction which will hopefully lead around the world. I expect to be riding with him in the future somewhere. We haven’t exactly resolved the problem that we are wearing the exact same riding suits and helmets. (Which is kinda gay for lack of better terms.) For starters, we agreed to never order the same fruity drink in the cafes we stop at, lest give across the wrong impression.

the legend himself..Randy the Skillrider!

So we all arrived at the coast, faced with the challenge of getting our bikes out to the ship anchored off shore. I placed my faith entirely on the Kunas and it was ultimately well placed.

anybody have a plan here, or are we gonna wing it?!!

The first two days on board were bliss.

Randy and Andreas hoist the sail

The hearty German chow was a relief after the rather bland rice/beans diet standard to Central America.  I explored the deserted islands and snorkeled for hours, cruising through coral mazes and chasing giant spotted rays. After playing all day and working up an enormous appetite, we settled on the beach over a barbecue pit as the sun was setting.

Two days of heaven were followed by two days of hell. I was arrogant to think I was above getting seasick just because I’ve never experienced it before. I spent the next 30 hours with my backside glued to the deck as we pitched and rolled over the biggest waves I’ve ever seen. It was some consolation that all the bikers of the group were suffering the same fate. Josey and Kyle, two American passengers from New Orleans, were kind enough to offer me some of their coveted motion sickness pills and they got me back on my feet for the last day.

Mounting my bike in Cartagena was an enormous relief. I rode away from this experience knowing that I’m definitely a biker and definitely not a sailor. The whole crowd from the Steel Rat came together that evening in Cartagena to celebrate the adventure and make toasts to the wonderful solid, unmoving ground.

closing shot for this post, Randy coming ashore from the Steel Rat

the mira flora locks, check out the ocean liner in the background

So elections are coming up, and each party is posting campaign signs.  this is my favorite, vote for Dr. Lopez- your gynecologist and senator.

Cities aren’t my thing, but I had business to attend to in Panama City. I needed a way around the Darien Gap. Its seems strange for me to be looking for a way to avoid such mysterious and alluring region. The Darien is the missing link in the Pan-American Highway. A region to0 wild, remote and dangerous for anyone to even think about bridging it with a road. There have been a few who made history by pushing/pulling and paddling their motorcycle through it. There is no riding to be done, just a lot of block and tackle work through swamp tributaries and jungled mountains. No one has done it with a bike as big as mine as far as I known. I shuddered at the thought of the colossal effort of getting my bike into and out of a dug out canoe again and again. Not to mention,  I didn’t want to spend the next 5 years of my life being mind warped as a hostage of the FARC guerillas. Maybe some other time, with a strong team and a solid plan. Having just begun my tour, I would feel foolish to see it end in a swamp or the business end of a Kalashnikov.

My plan was to fly over it. I’d read about folks flying with their bikes over the Darien for  350 bucks or so. Ultimately I learned that this sort of deal is worked from Columbia moving North, not from Panama flying south. Airfreight and passenger tickets run closer to a grand in Panama city. The alternative to flying was way better anyway.

I setup in a Zuly’s hostel to gain information and gossip about sailboats leaving for Columbia. Many sail boats pick up passengers in route to Columbia to make a few bucks and have a few extra hands on deck. Unfortunately, the average vessel was refusing bikes due to high seas. I ultimately settled for the massive Steel Rat. Its a beautiful tall ship built in 1903.

With my passage to Columbia secured I found myself with some time to kill and a few errands to run in the city. Zuly’s Hostal was a dump. Okay, it’s not that bad I suppose. But the lady running the place was seriously disturbed that she had to arise out of her hammock to check me in. I asked her if I could park in the court yard. She said it wasn’t necessaryand that it was safe for my bike outside. After a quick look at the collection of homeless people sleeping in the trash alongside the road, the lack of lights, and no security guard,  I told her I’d leave if I couldn’t park it inside. After graciously allowing me to pay her for a night, she showed me to my room then stormed off.

It took a couple prayers, some bacon grease, and grand miracle to squeeze my bike through the hallway leading into the court yard. I had barely parked my bike, when she came storming down the stairs seriously angry that I had chosen to park my bike in that particular spot. She pointed to the other side of the courtyard. I explained that I was incapable of lifting my bike into that location. She said that “other bikers with much bigger bikes” had managed to do it. I’m not sure how many bikes are out there are bigger than mine, especially in Panama. Maybe the Chicago gold wing club had just rolled through, but I doubt it. I took the little bike accusation personally and made a mental note to find another hostel first thing the next day. Ultimately I had to find several other guys to help lift my bike into the position that best entertained the hostel Nazi.

The upside to Zuly’s hostel was information and of course the backpackers. Hostels are fun because of the people you meet. There are no rooms to lock your self away in. You virtually have to get to know people as the rooms hold about 6 people. I found myself with no end of good conversation and excellent traveler stories. I linked up with Calvin and Danny and we decided to grab a beer down the street at a Casino. I didn’t drive all the way to Panama to waste time in a Casino, but a cold beer and good company made it seem okay. It was just a beer after all!

Things got crazy when we met up with Ian and his buddy Brad. They were a strange but fun duo. Ian was super smart tech dude who’d rigged something online to score a week at the Panama Hotel for a dollar a night (normally around $100 a night). Not to mention he was the ID director of John McCain’s campaign. His counterpart, Brad, was also fascinating, -a politics type dude from the upper echelons of American society. Danny, Calvin and I had barely sat down at their table when 5 buckets of beer appeared and we proceeded to drink respectable amount of booze on their tab. Thanks guys! It was good times! A lot more happened that night, but some stories are best told around a campfire.

I bumped around town and found the best hostel in Panama City, perhaps even Central America. Casa de Carmen was the opposite of Zuly’s. I was welcomed by friendly staff as they opened the gates to let me park my bike inside the courtyard. The hostel was a beautifully converted house. I soaked up the air-conditioning, free wireless, free coffee, and lush garden. The vibe was perfect. If you’re a biker riding through Panama, and you’re reading this, do yourself a favor and stay at Casa De Carmen. (Reference your Lonely Planet travel guide)

It wasn’t long before I was chatting with a local Peace Corps Worker over a cup coffee. I’ve got a lot of respect for these guys. I’ve run into a few of them on my travels and I’ve never been anything less then impressed. These guys and galls are not idealistic hippies. They are in fact well educated, realistic, rugged and in most cases faced with the daunting task of surviving and thriving in the extreme third world. You’ve got to be pretty rugged to pull off your whole two years with the Peace Corps. Peter Lokken was no exception. If you want to hear some stories, this guy has got them.

Peter and I hit it off. We are both similar age and like minded. I jumped at the opportunity when he offered to take me to meet his village. It was a couple hours ride south to the lake. At a tiny provincial border post (La Puente), I scored safe parking for my bike with the local army captain. We killed a few hours on the shores of the lake waiting for boat heading to his village (Tabardi). I was fortunate enough to meet the Sila (chief) of Tabardi at the La Puente and he helped secure our boat.

Peter at the La Puente crossing

looking for a boat to Tabardi

In a dugout canoe powered by an outboard, we motored for over an hour to the far S. Eastern edge of the lake.

The Kuna village of Tabardi was jaw dropping third world. A clan of less then 100 Kuna Indians lived here in their village of thatch huts. It was my first exposure to anything like this before. Although, I’m not sure who was more surprised, me or them, as I was Peter’s first visitor.

We jumped ashore and Peter led me up the dirt path into town and began introducing me to the Kunas. I got a timid smile and light handshake from the men while most of the women stayed inside. They are small people; Peter says they are second only to the pygmies of Africa in stature, but that each subsequent generation is growing taller. The Kuna also have the highest rate of albinism in the world, and I hadthe opportunity meet a number of them. When I asked Peter about the roles of the albinos in their communities, he explained that they are known as Moon Children and upon birth, treated as special and hold a respected status in Kuna society.

Peter and I made a few forages into the jungle taking GPS grids of potential water sources for the village. We both shared a fascination for the jungle critters and plant life and we’d be stopping ever few minutes taking pictures of bizarre plants or chasing after this lizard or that frog.

leaf shaped bug

We found some brilliantly colored poison frogs, but I failed to get my camera out in time.

It was that evening as I was gathering water that I realized the importance of Peter’s project. The Kuna were drawing water directly from the lake, which was the deposit for all types of nasty byproducts that come from human communities. I squirmed a bit about drinking the water myself, but Peter’s filter was top notch. Ultimately Peter’s project would provide purified running water for drinking and bathing from a sustainable low maintenance system.

That night the mosquitoes came out in force, reminding me to cover up and load up on bug spray. Peter got a good laugh when I accidentally sprayed myself with household cockroach insecticide, thinking it was standard bug spray for human use. I was so heavily dosed in various bug spray I was probably killing all the bugs within a ten meter radius. This is good thing to, because I was neck deep in Malaria country and I only just popped my first tablet on the boat ride out. You really need to dose yourself for malaria a week prior to entering a Malaria threatened area.

In celebration of Peter’s first visitor, he concocted some campocoladas, as he would call them. A little Abuelo rum, some tang drink base, sipped in the glow of kerosene lamp in a thatch hut, it was an awesome experience. I’d never been so happy to have a tent that night as I pitched it on the dirt floor of Peters hut. My little REI tent was turning out to be the perfect mosquito net.

deer meet for dinner, freshly killed by a local dog

I drifted away that night listening to the Kunas chanting away in the hut nearby.

I wanted so desperately to know what they were chanting about, what their religious and cultural beliefs are, how they view our world, and how they view their role as they become increasingly subjected to my world.

I recall Peter translating a for me a heated debate among the villagers. A hut had burned down recently in a nearby village, spurning a torrent of suspicion about why god had seen fit to burn this house down. It hadn’t even crossed their minds that it could have been a simple accident. Peter tried with little success to explain this, but the Kuna were pretty sure that God was punishing them for using a few solar panels which had been donated to them to power radios. After learning about this, I could only imagine the challenges Peter must face in introducing a modern water purifying system into the village. It would seem that what we would call superstition, is to them, things happening for a reason, what ever supernatural reason that may be.

learning spear fishing from the experts

Costa Rica has a lot to offer and I didn’t spend enough time there to fully understand the country. My impression is that Costa Rica is like a good looking girl that knows she’s good looking, and not afraid to use it to her advantage.  It’s an ecotourism gold mine,…and they are mining it to the hilt!

looks like a nice swimming hole eh!?

just keep an eye out for these monster salt crocs

As the second wealthiest nation in Central America(I believe-no foot notes here!, it fairly first world. Middle class folks seem to live just like middle class folks in the States. The cities felt safe and progressive. The only downside is that things are probably more expensive here than any other country in Central America.

I eventually worked my way to Caldera, looking for a chance to fly. I homed in on some GPS coordinate I poached off the web. A little ways down a dirt road I topped out on a paraglider launch called Nemecly’s Look Out. It’s a private launch owned and operated by Jean Claude of Switzerland. This wasn’t the usual profiteering off of some poor farmer’s field. This was a top notch, perfectly maintained, and inexpensively priced launch. There was actually a bar on the launch,…you could call it a paraglider pilot’s version of swim up poolside bar. As a full time engineer Jean Claude had little time to swap stories with me, but he let me camp on the grassy outlook of the launch. I had the best real-estate in the neighborhood with a panoramic view of Punta Arenas, Caldera, and the ocean. The only down side was the damn wind was still roaring in from the North keeping me on the ground.

-these guys ran the local internet shop in Roble near Caldera. Had a great time hanging out with them.

A serious of emails and a few phone calls the next day landed me a flight at a newly discovered launch near Jaco. Two older gentlemen were paragliding their way through retirement in Costa Rica. They were kind enough to give me lift up to launch and introduce me to the site they had founded. It was a gorgeous launch in the coastal mountains. Regrettably,… no pictures and no helmet camp. In fact, I was so occupied with focusing on the flight and catching thermals that I didn’t take much time to relax and soak in the flight. The launch was easy, but you could find yourself short on landing zones if you sank out in the wrong place.

It wasn’t long before I felt Panama calling to me. I gambled with the Pan American as the best route. I’ve come to know the Pan American Highway as the Pan American truck route with endless lines of diesel trucks belching black smoke in my face. I found myself a bit turned around in San Jose, but eventually wandered back on route. I was disappointed in this route as I the negotiated the truck lines along the coast, but I was loving it as I escaped San Jose moving south into soaring mountain ranges. I zipped up my jacket vents as the temps dropped and I ascended into the cloud capped mountain forests. Every so often I caught glimpses of the valleys way below and instinctively made mental notes on potential roadside paraglider launches.

I found myself racing the clock again as I neared the border. There are two crossings into Panama on the Pacific side. The primary crossing is along the Pan American highway. The other crossing is a backwoods depot in the mountains of the interior near the town of San Vito, Costa Rica. In hopes of avoiding the usual misery zone of a major border crossing, I aimed for the backcountry route.

I pushed hard along a small paved road that turned that quickly turned to dirt. There were no signs and I was working off a vague gps track and directions from the locals. At every cross road I’d look for a farmer and ask how to get to Panama. That was my mistake. I should have asked where to cross LEGALLY into Panama. It wasn’t long before I was in Panama, looking like a fool as I asked how to get to Panama. It always gets some good laughs from the locals.

I eventually found my way back to the closest border control agency, which was by this time closed on both sides I explained my situation to the border guards who laughed and waved me back into Costa Rica. I was disappointed that I’d missed the closing time, but the situation landed me in the very beautiful and relaxed town of San Vito for the night. I stayed at the Rino Hotel, soaking up the great rates and friendly staff. I splurged on a full size pizza at a legitimate Italian joint nearby and topped off with a few beers before bed.

The following morning was upstairs in my room packing up my bags, when was startled by a loud rumble as the whole hotel shook on its foundations. Alarmed I looked down from a balcony as other folks came out of their shops and houses. One of the hotel staff let me know it was “just another earthquake”. Some of the locals were saying it was a 6.2. Apparently it happens quite often down here. I got a good laugh when one lady told me, “that’s why we Costa Ricans dance so well,..we gotta stay on our feet when the ground moves”

I arrived at the border expecting a smooth crossing. There were no lines, no trucks, and no hawkers. The only issue was that there were no border officials working either. The work hours were posted on the doors, but they apparently were more of an office joke. I was told it would be just a few minutes by one of the guards. An hour and a half later I got my exit stamp from Costa Rica.

this stuff works great to keep gravel from getting into the whole

I found the same issue on the other side as I waited 2 more hours for some one to stamp my passport. The border official finally arrived and explained that it was now too late to stamp my passport. He told me to get it stamped in David the following day. (I went to David the following day and there was no one working their either)

The highlands of Panama are lush and cool. And there’s an ice cold trout stream gushing down the mountain around every bend.

I’m now I Panama City with no entry stamp on my passport. Hoping to make a go at it tomorrow at the immigration office in the city here.

I’m currently holed up at a local hostel collecting information on Columbia and looking for passage on a sail boat to Cartagena.

Edit- went to Migration agency today in down town panama city, but big surprise….it was closed. I’ll try again tomorrow. I got out of the run down and badly staffed Zuly’s hostal and I’m now holed up in the best hostal in Central America, Casa de Carmen. Anyone coming this way should stay at this beautiful hostel.

dead boa

this photo doesn’t do justice to the madness well beyond the gate

I’m not sure why, but it would seem that the scum of the earth are content to collect themselves at Central American Border crossings. It reminds me that scene from the first Star Wars movie as the main characters enter the shady cantina full of weird and dangerous alien creatures.

I had now weathered a few of these border crossings and had a general idea of the process. What I didn’t expect was a complicated exit process from Nicaragua. Usually it’s a one stop deal to get your exit stamp on your passport as they squeeze your wallet one last time before you exit their country.

The hawkers went wild as I pulled up to the border crossings. About 30 of them ran at me full speed offering their services, explaining how complicated the process was, and that I simply couldn’t do it on my own. (turns out that this station was pretty complicated)

Much to their disappointment, instead of rolling through after them direction they wanted me to go, I pulled over, bought a gaterorade and sat on my bike sipping my beverage and assessing the border. This works wells, as they eventually grew bored of my lack of concern in actually crossing the border, and it gave me time to watch the direction of traffic and general flow of things.

Hawkers want some one in a hurry. Because if you are in a hurry, you actually may need a hawker. When they tell me it takes a long time to cross the border and mountains of paper work, I explain that I’ve got about a 12 months to figure it out and I absolutely love paperwork. I attempt to appear content, confidant and in no hurry what so ever. (Although inside I’m nervous and exhausted and a bit sick from my recent bought of food poisoning. Border crossings in Central America are like basic training, it makes for good stories and we may laugh about it later, but it’s a miserable experience at the time.)

As the hawkers rushed off to overrun an SUV full of potential victims(caucasion types), I slid quietly up to the border gate.

Here is the mad sequence of events that followed in order for me to leave Nicaragua

1) I stopped at the first gate, parked my bike, presented my passport. I received a white piece of paper with a signature.

2) I pulled 70 meters forward made hard left, then another hard left around the back side of the Nicaraguan Immigration center. (asking directions as I went)

The Immigration center was huge, there were no signs, hundreds of people in lines and about eight different agencies with no signs.

3) By following my nose I found immigration. I got another stamp on the white piece of paper and was told to have my bike inspected.

4) By asking around I eventually found the inspector inside another building across the street. He signed my paper with out looking at my bike.

5) I then returned to immigration. They sent me back to inspectors building for a police signature.

6) I returned to the inspectors building and got the police signature

7) I returned to the immigration and got another signature. At this point they told me that I was finished and could leave. I said I still needed an exit stamp in my passport. The said told me to go to the other side and pointed down the road.

I drove down the road to the last stop before Costa Rica, believing that they would stamp my passport. The man this stop, took my ticket with all the signatures and waved me on. I stated (in Spanish) that I needed an exit stamp on my passport. He continued to wave me on.

9) Thinking there was yet another stop on the Nicaraguan side, I rolled forward and and subsequently found myself in Costa Rica being hosed down by insecticide. Frustrated, I explained that I had to return to Nicaragua because I didn’t have an exit stamp on my passport.

10) I returned to the Nicaraguan border agency(disaster zone). I found another side of the main building that seemed to have an agency that I missed. As I stood in line I was almost suckered into buying paperwork that I didn’t need by a sweet smiling young lady in uniform. I finally made my way to the front window and presented my passport. The man on duty explained that I had to return to the immigration agency that I was originally at and that this window was only for those with out vehicles. I explained that I had already been there twice, but he simply shrugged and handed my passport back.

11) In order to go back to the agency, I knew I needed the white ticket that I had already handed over near the Costa Rican Side. So I rode back over to the last stop on the Nicaraguan side and begged to have the paper back. After a few minutes they decided to oblige and I returned back into the fray with all my signatures.

12) At this point I was fuming. I had been to every agency in this entire place multiple times and could not convince anyone to stamp my passport so I could leave this horrible place. I was nearing the point of negotiating with a hawker or mule to get me through. But I was hardheaded and decided to keep trying. I figured that if I annoyed enough people, someone would stamp my passport.

I returned to the original immigration official that had earlier told me that I was done. Upon seeing me he called me forward, explained that he was sorry, but there was actually one more stop in his office I was sopposed to go to that he had not told me about. And of course they were for the moment out for lunch! I was actually ecstatic. I finally had a lead on where to get my stamp. Ultimately they came back from lunch and stamped my passport.

This is one situation where using a mule at a prenegotiated price might have been handy. On the other hand if the immigration official had not misguided me out of his office, it would have been a smooth process. It goes to show that my theory of using officials to find the next window is not always effective. I do stand firm on attempting all borders on my own, then if I’m failing miserably, I’ll negotiate with a local mule or hawker for help. (Not all the mules are bad, some can be genuinely helpful at a very reasonable price, I simply had one bad experience back on the Guatamala/Mexico border that set a serious prejuicide.(Victor the Fixer)

Usually entering a country is much more difficult than leaving one. I expected the worse for entering Costa Rica, but was relieved to experience a relatively smooth and inexpensive process. The only inconvenience had when entering Costa Rica was at the immigration office. I entered and presented my passport. The man looked at me, and then at my passport and said gruffly in Spanish, “What do you want!”. Surprised, I said I wanted my passport stamped so I could enter his country, and I asked him if this was not in fact immigration. With out saying another word he pointed across the street. Apparently I would not get my passport stamped in the building marked as immigration (weird). I was thinking that if they didn’t want tourists like me annoying them with stupid questions, then they could save themselves a whole lot of trouble by posting a sign. But that might require a little initiative and would detract from what must be an incredible source of entertainment for the border agents watching tourists bounce around like doomed moths around a light bulb. It’s a system that makes us tourists look and feel like real jack asses and draws a lot of snide comments from superior positioned border agents.

Ahhh borders…enough of that for a few days at least. I wont lie and I will admit that since I became sick in Nicaragua I’ve been in a bit of rut. Besides feeling weak, tired and bit queasy, the weather has been rough for both riding and flying. Fortunately it hasn’t rained, but the winds have been incredibly strong. I’ve had to bypass a number of flying sites that I’d really had my heart set on flying. Also, as I drive the wind feels like its trying to rip helmet off and slams my bike around on the road Thus of late… my postings have been largely negative.

There was bound to be tough days on the road and these minor inconveniences will probably pale in comparison to what lies ahead at some point or another. Fortunately my health is returning, the bike is running well, the sun is out, and I’m cruising through Costa Rica. I woke up this morning to the roar of howler monkeys just outside my window, and I knew it was a sign for good times to come.

soaking up a little luxury

Copan is a lovely little town. I stayed an extra day to wander down its cobble stone streets, browse through delicious smelling cigar stands, and of course visit the nearby Mayan ruins. I regret that I have bypassed lots of world renowned natural and archaeological wonders. It’s not a lack of interest but rather matter of time, a matter prioritizing with my favorite activities, a matter of a budget, and of course avoiding the major tourist traps that often plague what would otherwise be very cool places. It’s difficult to absorb a Mayan pyramid, or a natural preserve in the jungle, if there is a crowd of hawkers following your ever move, reaching for your wallet and making a general ruckus.

Copan was different! People left me alone as I wandered. The Mayan pyramids were fantastic and it wasn’t bustling with tourists like many of the Mexican sites. I was happy to have the opportunity to wander the ancient ball courts and temples alone at my own pace.

The following day I aimed for Yuscaran. I had heard of a backwoods type flying site in the area and some local hot springs. There is no quick and easy way across Honduras, and if there is, I wasn’t on it. I chose the most direct route, which included about 45 miles of dirt. It was a poor choice coupled with some bad directions from a local farmer that left me circling the Honduran highlands for the better part of the day. I crashed at the first roadside hotel I could come to. The truck stop place was secure, but the staff was unfriendly and food was terrible. I was happy to be rolling away from the hotel that morning, when I decided to double check my bike and have a look at my brakes which had been making some squeaks the day before. I had spent most of the day riding through dusty conditions, so it didn’t surprise me when I had heard some squeaks. I had replaced my brakes a mere two weeks ago, so I assumed there was no problem.

What I found was that I had purchased crap brakes! My brakes were finished, metal to metal, and were warped from the heat. Trying to save a buck on spare brakes, I’d purchased off eBay while back in the states. A stupid mistake.

Fortunately, it appeared that I hadn’t done any real damage to the brake caliper. I spent the next 20 minutes unpacking my panniers, and replacing my brakes on the side of the road. I was thankful that I’d kept my old brakes, which were still worth a few miles.

Just outside of Tegucigalpa (capital of Honduras) I was told to pull over at a police check point. For the most part the police officer just wanted to ask about my bike and talk up a bit. He asked me for my paper work and I only gave him what I could afford to lose, in case he wanted to use to barter over a bribe. He did in fact ask for money, but he didn’t push it to hard and I told him I didn’t have any money. Eventually he grew tired of trying to score some cash off me and he let me go.

I had expected Yuscaran to be large town with at least a gas station. I was surprised to find a small village with a single cobble stone street running through the middle of town. I was a bit disorientated, not sure where to go next or where to find a room for the night. I spotted a Caucasian man walking down the street. Hoping I’d lucked out with a local pilot, I greeted him and inquired on the local flying.

A long story short, this gentleman was a geologist from Canada that had married a local woman and settled here. He wasn’t a pilot, but warned me that it was the wrong season to fly and that the winds were to strong. He said there wasn’t much in the way of a place to stay in town, or eat for that matter, and he kindly invited me over to his house for lunch.

A few minutes later I was enjoying an ice cold beer in the wonderful atmosphere of Nigel’s pad. It was a beautiful house, half hidden by the extensive garden of tropical plants and flowers. I didn’t get to fly, and I didn’t even spend the night in town, but I sure enjoyed Nigel’s hospitality in Yuscaran. I’m always surprised by good people’s hospitality towards strangers. It reinforces my faith in humanity.

The border between Nicaragua and Honduras wasn’t easy, but it wasn’t difficult either. All things told, it went smoothly. I elbowed the hawkers and mules away, figured out which stations I had to go to and paid my dues at each window. Aside from the mules, every one was fairly professional. It was a huge relief to be riding happily away from the border into Nicaragua with out having been ripped off.

I don’t have to much to write about Nicaragua. What I had planned to be a relaxing rest stop at Laguna de Apoyo was quite the opposite. The friendly staff that I had met last year were replaced by a rather cold group of hippies from Argentina. As I tried to soak up the beauty of the Laguna from a hammock, Argentinean rock was blasted full force day and night. On a brighter note I met some local bikers for the first time in Central America. I believe it was 5 of them on KLRs and one KTM rider. A good bunch of guys who had simply bungee corded their kit to their bikes and headed south. I was looking forward to riding with them for a day, but a series of events kept me at Laguna de Apoyo.

Riding into the nearby town I found an internet café and did a google search for the nearest BMW dealerships. I thought I was going to have to make it to Costa Rica on just my front brakes, but the net search turned up a small dealership in Managua. I didn’t want to ride into Managua, but I was eager to get my stopping power back.

Thanks to google maps and some nearby landmarks, I was able to plot out the course and save it on my gps. An hour later I was standing the air conditioned BMW dealership. A cold ice tea was brought to me on a silver platter. I was surprised to ring up a bill of $269 for just brakes, filter, and oil. The brakes were $149. they looked much beefier than the standard stock brakes I’d been using. So hopefully they are worth the price. The BMW oil and filter were standard price, then there was an additional $35 fee which appeared to be taxes. I can’t help but wonder what those guys on Kawasaki KLRs are paying.

So I was happy to have new brakes, a fresh oil change and I was ready to roll the next morning for Costa Rica. Turns out that it wasn’t just my bike that got an oil change! At some point that night I launched myself out of my sleeping bag and made a dead sprint for the latrine. I was rocked by a severe case of fever, vomiting and diaria for next 8 hours.(sorry no pictures!) By morning I was obviously in no shape to ride. I picked out a quiet corner of the Monkey Hut’s lake front terrace conveniently close to the outside bathroom. I was tucked away in my sleeping bag, alternating from shivering to sweating bouts trying to sleep off the effects of the previous night. At some point that day a large party of German tourists and their kids decided that my location was the best place on the lake to have a fiesta. Their kids nearly trampled me as they reenacted various Hollywood sword fights over my sleeping bag. It was a rough miserable day/night.

By the evening I felt I could manage prying myself away from the bathroom for a run into town for some drugs. Riding the motorcycle in contrast to laying around feeling miserable was a relief. I explained my predicament to the local pharmacy and a dollar later I had few pills of something or another. On my way back into town I stopped at a gas station to load up on Gatorade and anything that looked like I might be able to keep down. This was apparently the local hang out for young misfits. Some young men aggressively approached me to try and sell what appeared to be pornographic DVDs. Upon exiting the shop an aditional gang of boys demanded payment for guarding my bike. When I refused to acknowledge them, one of them lunged for my helmet(as it sat on the bike) and I had to physically restrain him as I mounted my bike. This annoyace coupled with an upset stomach seriously pissed me off. To top it off one of the young men jumped on his bike and attempted to trail me, signaling me by repetitively flashing his brights. I could never have been more happy to have 1150cc of motor as I left his headlight fading rapidly into the darkness behind me.

On a note for Nicaragua driving. Everyone honks and flashes me with their brights. At first I thought I was doing something wrong, or something was wrong with my bike, but upon seeing their smiles and thumbs up I figured out they were just excited to see a big bike. So, everywhere I go EVERYONE honks their horn at me and flashes their lights. I appreciate the fanfare, but it gets a little unnerving, especially at night. I’ve hence, decided to return the favor with a friendly blinding blast from my brights as well.

Things are better now. Its my third day at the Laguna and I’m itching to leave. I just put down my first real meal this afternoon and I’m feeling my strength returning. I need to put some miles in, but another bike problem is in the back of my mind. Plugging my computer in to my bike today I noticed that my Lambda Controller Sensor is off and I’m experiencing some minor engine faltering when the bike is cold. These are the same symptoms I experienced in Ensenada, which I had thought I had rectified by replacing my side coils. The bike still runs reliably for the moment, but the problem will have to be diagnosed at some point. I’ll probably deal with it in Costa Rica or Panama as I believe they will have a bigger inventory of parts than Nicaragua.

I also noticed a monster dent in my crash bars, of which I’ve no idea how that happened, I’m just glad it happened to the crash bars and not the bike.

Some good Canadian types managed to unplug the Argentinean rock concert in favor some thing a little lighter. I look forward to good nights sleep and some therapeutic riding tomorrow.

pic- Mayan ruins

There are some things which I’d say I’m pretty good at, but crossing international borders is not one of them! After my experience at the Guatemalan/Mexican border I wasn’t exactly feeling confident. By reading travel blogs online I’d found that most folks were getting through the Guatemalan border with few issues, but the Honduras border took the credit for seriously robbing tourists.

I did my research and put my cards on a small border crossing between Florido ,Guatemala and Copan, Honduras. By the time I exited Guatemala City, I knew I was running behind. I’d found embassy information online that stated the border closed at 1800 hrs. Ten miles out from the border I stopped to top off my tank. No matter where I ended up that night, or what happened, having the gas to get out of some place was a priority.

I asked the gas station attendant what time the border closed. I got excited when he said it was open 24hrs. Copan was only another 6 miles into Honduras and if I “survived” the border crossing I’d easily manage the short ride in the dark. But the last thing I wanted was to get into a time crunch while trying to process paperwork and work magic with extortionists if the closing time was in fact 1800hrs. I decided to ride to the border and confirm that it was open all night.

The border was nothing like I expected. It was a beautifull evening, there no hawkers, no mules, no lines, the agents were in Uniform, and the entire place had a relaxed, but professional vibe. Still recovering from the last crossing, I refused to let my guard down and I saw everyone as a potential threat. However, out processing from Guatemala was a breeze and the agents were helpful and friendly. I even got a decent exchange rate off a local money guy.

I asked two seperate agents if the border was open all night. They both replied, “yes, here it is open 24 hours”. What I failed to catch was that when they said , “here”, they didn’t mean this crossing, they meant the Guatemalan side of the crossing. I figured this out after I had out processed Guatemala. I was then informed that I had 6 minutes to get to the Honduran agency and process through. I had researched on the internet from multiple blogs that processing into Honduras takes anywhere from 2 to 22 hours. And to top it off, it was getting dark and raining. I had already out processed Guatemala, so I was in no man’s land with out permission to enter either country.

Everyone at the border told me to hurry up and go and I might make it. I assumed the Honduras agency was a little ways down the road, just as I had experienced in my previous crossing. I stowed my helmet on the bike, jumped on and roared off in the direction of Honduras. There was a gate, but it sat just high enough for me to rush under it if I ducked. I watched the guards as I went and believed they were waving me through. One kilometer, then 2 kilometers passed, and I started to wonder where the hell this control point was. I’m rolling through country side as darkness is falling as fast as the rain. I knew camping in the frontier was a really bad idea, and I was worried I was going to have to pull up to some house and ask to spend the night. After 10 kilometers I pulled into a large clusters of buildings that I assumed was the Honduran control point. I was really confused, when a local cowboy told me the border processing point was 10 kilometers in the direction I had come from. He told me I was now in Copan.

I realized then that I had illegally ran the Honduran control point, which was located about 20meters from the Guatemalan agency where I had out processed. I had actually ducked their gate, thinking it was the Guatemalan gate. Boy, did I feel stupid. I looked behind me just to make sure there wasn’t a police or military convey screaming after me to throw me in jail. The only thing I could do at this point was find shelter out of the rain for the night.

Pics of Copan Honduras.

As you may have imagined I didn’t sleep that well that night. I toyed with idea of not going back, but I didn’t want to risk the consequences of trying to exit the country with out the proper paperwork. I was up at 5am and rolling back to the check point to see what kind of trouble I was in. I realized that if I was going to have to pay up big again, I probably deserved it. At this point whats going through my head is; not only is this the most corrupt and difficult border to cross, but I just made it even worse by having illegally entered their country. I was sure they were going to have a field day with me, and I was prepared to pay my way out.

Life is strange, and things don’t always happen as you would expect them. I had gotten one thing right, and that was choosing the right border crossing point to enter Honduras.

I pulled up at the border and a uniformed Honduran guard pointed me toward the immigration office that I’d blasted by the night prior. There were no lines, no hawkers and I found myself explaining my situation to a patient Honduran border official. I was nervous, and explaining my predicament was maxing out my Spanish language skills. At first he didn’t believe me, saying that I would not have been able to enter after 6pm. I then, sheepishly,.. explained to him how I had ridden under the gate. I also explained that it was dark, rainy and that I thought the guards were waving me through. I apologized profusely, just waiting for something terrible to happen. Ultimately he understood what had happened, nodded and went forward with my paper work. A record 20 minutes and 26 dollars later I was free to enter Honduras. I couldn’t believe it! I apologized again for the inconvenience of the matter, and he replied that it was in fact the fault of the guards for letting me blow past their control point. Whatever losses I’d incured on the Mexican/Guatamalan border I’d made up with a wonderful experience at the Honduran border. If any biker, ever reads this,…please for your own sake, take the Copan border crossing into Honduras, the agents are professional, courtouss, and in my case down right sympathetic. My sincere compliments to the Copan Honduran border agents!

Mayan pyramids

Its not a rat, its not a squirrel,..something in between…wierd

After a couple cups of coffee and a solid Guatemalan breakfast I set out on my motorcycle to explore the area and see if I couldn’t sniff up the local paragliding scene. The locals were helpful and pointed me in the right direction. It wasn’t long before I came across Roger. Roger is pilot from Quebec that settled in the nearby Santa Catarina. He’s one of the local flying gurus, and I was eager to introduce myself and hear his story. After a quick hand shake, he told me that it was 80 US dollars to fly the local site. I was thinking here we go again, another Yelapa, who would have thought…these dudes really have Central America staked out! Stifling a chuckle, I explained that I was a dirt bag biker and his offer was way out of my price range. He replied that he’d cut me a deal for 40 dollars and it would include everything. By everything, I think he meant a ride up and a site introduction and permission to fly the site. And I got the usual line about how difficult it is to keep the flying sites open due to local land rights. I politely thanked him for the information, explained that I couldn’t afford to fly his site, and said I’d look for another local site. I was feeling a bit crushed, such a cool place, yet one guy claimed total monopoly and made the site exclusively for with 80 bucks burning a hole in their pocket. (I was led astray, and would learn later that Roger did not have exclusive rights to the launch and that the farmer (site owner) only asked for 2 US dollars.)

I rode my bike a few kilometers north of town. I felt I was close and stopped along side the road and asked an old man in a wheel chair where I might find a launch. Sure enough, it was right behind him. This old man was a cool guy. He pretty much just sat there all day in his wheel chair and watched the various trucks, cars and bicycles roll by.

I was impressed with his knowledge of local paragliding. He told me where to fly, when to fly and the best wind direction. I could read enough from the site to know he wasn’t bullshitting me. And he chuckled when I related my story about Roger and why I wasn’t flying the better site above Santa Catarina.

He told me to come back at 2pm for better winds. The launch was designed for hangliders with barely enough room to get my wing up before stepping over the edge.

Again, the old man was right, I’d need strong afternoon winds to pull off this launch safely. I gave the old man’s friend a lift into town, then went for lunch to wait for the winds to pick up.

Back up on the mountain, I felt the wind and knew I was going to get a flight in. I greeted the old man again and tipped him to watch my bike. You might think I’m crazy to trust my BMW to an old man in a wheel chair that I’d only known for a day, but I got a good vibe from him and was happy to employ him. Of course I locked the bike up to a pole as well. My python lock has turned out to be one of my most valuable tools on my bike.

The locals I met around this launch were good people. A couple of young Argentinans run a café that overlooks the launch. Leo came down and introduced himself. He warned me that the last guy who launched from here broke his neck and face. This is a good story in itself. A visiting pilot had bravely attempted a launch under light wind conditions. The hanglider ramp was rotten and broken up on one side. As the pilot stepped on the ramp, he fell through and was caught fortunately or unfortunately by his head. My Spanish is limited, and this is how I understood the story. And after inspecting the rotten side of the ramp I believed it.

That was alarming, but I took a good long look at the site, the wind conditions and I was confidant I could safely launch with out putting to much pressure on the ramp. Some of the local kids came out to see if I was going to provide as much entertainment as the last pilot. The kids went crazy when I pulled a big bag of cookies out of my harness and passed them around.

Leo helped me prep my wing, and the kids stood by holding my helmet and gloves. With everything in order I stood by feeling the wind cycles brush against my face. I needed a good strong wind or things were going to get ugly. It was a one shot deal with some ugly consequences if I screwed it up. Even with the hang glider ramp dropping off into space, it was nothing compared to the hairy launch on Orizaba. I felt good and the wind was there. I pushed hard off the mountain and was riding the wind in two steps.

The air was soft and smooth. It was my first flight in a new area, so I leisurely crossed over the water avoiding any potential lift or turbulence from the nearby ridges. It was cake flying and I easily crossed the bay over open water to a field I had picked out for landing. Some one in the field saw me approaching and was kind enough to give me clear hand signals identifying wind direction on the landing zone.

I touched down gently and was greeted by Joe. Judging by the lacerated and swollen face, I knew I was meeting the guy who had fallen through the hang glider ramp. Joe was a visiting paraglider pilot from Quebec. He was incredibly enthusiastic and friendly, inviting me to join him and his friends over dinner.

Dinner consisted of excellent food and excellent company. I provided the entertainment that evening by recounting my experience with Roger. They were familiar with Roger’s profiteering and after some good laughs they let me know I only needed to tip the local farmer a few dollars to launch.

The following day I flew over Catarina and then crossed over to Panajachel and landed in the river bed that bisects town.

I thought about possibly staying another day, but I was worried about the upcoming border crossing into Honduras and I felt compelled to face my fears. And of course, the not so distant Laguna de Apoyo was waiting for me down in Nicaragua. (probably my all time favorite place in Central America)