From Romero to Ortega

Originally my travels were to take me from Belize by ferry to Honduras.  Instead, riding with friends, I left Guatemala entering El Salvador and have now progressed to Leon, Nicaragua.  I was very aware of these countries as a teenager in the ´80s.  These were turbulent lands convulsed not by their volcanoes but by class conflict and the Cold War.  It was a thrill to see a bit of what has come of the land where the outspoken Bishop Oscar Romero took the side of the poor and paid for it with his life.  Nicaragua is equally thrilling.  The leader of the Sandinista regime, Daniel Ortega, is again El Presidente and while he is fairly tight with Chavez and the brothers Castro and pays lip service to la Socialista, his politics are reportedly fairly moderate.

But there is much, much that has happened since I last wrote, so let´s get on with it!

The rain in Antigua, Guatemala seemed likely to go on ad infinitum (and ad nauseum).  Kevin, Andre, Mark and Maggie, and Nick and Ivanka, and I set off on a damp but not yet rainy morning.  Our convoy made a number of false turns and even tried to push through a marketplace (just where the GPS devices pointed us!) before we found ourselves on gently winding roads through flat sugar-cane countryside decorated with not so distant volcanoes.  Soon the rain returned.  The first destroyed bridge we encountered was easily circumvented, but not without driving up a two track with about six inches of water gushing down at us.  Cool!!  The next destroyed bridge seemed more dire.  It was a major bridge on a major road.  Again, there was a way around, but this mostly dirt road was pockmarked with potholes.  Still, we forged on.

Now the roads led us up into some hills where the air was cooler.  The rain had stopped, but I was getting a bit cold (being soaked through and through) and it was foggy.  Kevin and Andre led the way; I was third.  As I rounded a bend and crested a hilltop, I came across Andre standing shocked next to his red, white and blue Africa Twin lying in the middle of the road.  A dog had jumped out in front of Kevin and Andre.  Both had to make evasive maneuvers, but Andre was not able to recover.  His bike tipped and flipped and so did he.  His shoulder was very tender, but otherwise he was ok.  His bike was not so lucky.  The front forks were uniformly contorted.  The frame appeared to be wrecked.  A small crowd of onlookers gathered in no time.  Mark in his fluorescent green rain gear and Ivanka directed traffic after a semi almost failed to stop in time to avoid our inconvenient location.  Two local men in a small pickup agreed to take Andre and his bike to Guatemala City where a friend, Juan, would be able to help Andre decide what to do next.  Mark and Maggie and Kevin decided to go back to Guatemala City to support Andre.  Nick, Ivanka and I rode on into El Salvador.  We believe Andre´s bike is now repaired and he will join us again soon.

Leaving Guatemala and entering El Salvador was trouble free (and almost free of rain!).  It was exciting to ride across the suspension bridge over a deep canyon and enter a new land for the first time in over two weeks.  El Salvador is Central America´s smallest and most populous land.  While our route did not take us through any major cities on this first stretch, it was clear that there were a lot of people even in the countryside.  Lots of people were waiting for buses and others were walking along the road.  We soon saw that many of them were out to survey the toll of the recent floods on what was probably the first day without rain in weeks.  Nick and Ivanka had heard from backpackers about a nice hostal in Tecuba, a short ´dogleg´ from our route to the Pacific.  We ended up staying there for four nights. Tecuba is a very modest city of about 40,000 perched on the edge of some impressive mountains.  The buildings and homes are squat, their doors are steel and windows are barricaded.  Some homes are painted to show political affiliations.  Horizontal bands of red, white and blue are not celebrating the US nor the Netherlands, but instead the Arena Party, the conservative party I can still recall from the 80s.  There were a couple red flags flying  and some orange ones for the GANA party.  The major industry in this town is coffee.  The owner of our hostal and his son, Manolo, both own coffee fields.  There is a platform scale in town to weigh the harvest.  I checked to see if it was from the Fairbanks company, but it was from the Toledo company.

"Mama`s and Papa`s" hostl was indeed nice.  The owners are a sweet couple in their 60s.  They have hammocks a plenty and offer a menu of breakfast and dinner selections.  We enjoyed the ´tipico´ breakfast of eggs, refried beans, fried plantains (similar to bananas) with a pancake on the side.  For dinner, we walked to a pupseria for pupusas.  These are tortillas with beans and your choice of meat and/or cheese inside.  Very filling; very inexpensive.  Our first night and the following day saw more rain. Under a tin roof, it was hard to sleep.  I tried mentally to appreciate the racket as something beautiful and peaceful.  It occurred to me that I might be acoustically trapped in a John Cage composition.  Add to that the nightly, repeated chorus of roosters near and far and you can imagine why the hammocks were treasured the next day.  Kevin, Mark and Maggie joined us on our second full day there after Nick, Ivanka and I had toured Manolo´s coffee fields.  That`s when we considered Manolo`s offer to take us on an adventure on the nearby Naranjo River.  We decided to go for it.

The next day, we piled into the back of his rickety pickup and headed up into the mountains over bumpy dirt roads.  Like the locals, we stood in the back, holding a bar and learned why the locals do that.  Suspension just does not suffice in such conditions.  Indeed, neither did the pickup.  It broke down.  Manolo went back and got his Toyota Landrover. After an hour of winding upward on a one-lane roadway on the edge of mountains offering commanding views all the way to the Pacific, we stopped, poured out of the SUV and walked...farther than usual, as landslides made the road impassible.  After hiking down into a deep Glen, we reached the river.  Manolo admitted to never having taken guests when waters were so high, but he and his assistants were undaunted...and so were we, despite our reservations about the force of the water and the lack of swim vests and head protection.  Our first jump required us to inch across the crest of a waterfall to a tiny outcropping of rock where we could then jump a good 15 feet to the roiling pool below (that crossing was done with climbing rope and harnesses, if you were worried).  We followed that general procedure for about a mile down through this canyon.  Some jumps were a mere meter, but one last jump was probably close to 50 feet.  Right after that the water plunged over 100 feet to a more level section of river.  We clamored down the rocks next to the falls and then headed back to the Landrover electrified by the fun we had and relieved to all be safe!

We resumed our travels the next day and headed to the El Salvadoran coastline.  Along the way we passed incredible vistas of towering volcanoes and friendly towns.  Outside the towns, people along the roads were carrying wood for cooking, women were cleaning clothes in rivers, garbage was burning in small piles.  The roads were good.  We actually drove at highway speeds as we encountered and paralleled the scenic sandy coast.  Signs warned us to look out for "surfistas" crossing the road.

We stayed at a small hostal on the beach in El Zonte. We planned just one night there, but stayed another...not for a happy reason.  Before our departure the following morning, we all checked emails.  Kevin received news that his mother had died.  He lives in Australia, but home is Ireland.  Our team mobilized to figure out where he could fly from and where he could store his bike.  Kevin has traveled throughout Asia on his bike and aims to go around the world.  He is a man of great humor and kindness and it was crushing to see him stricken so.  Together we figured out the logistics and Kevin was on his way the next day.

That did not mean that there was no fun to be had that day.  Nick and I played in some excellent waves where I met a German from Neumunster where I had spent much time years ago.  That evening we all had a fine dinner, quite a bit of beer and learned how meeting locals can be great fun and also awkward.

The day of Kevin´s flight, the remaining group of five headed east along the El Salvadoran coast to get closer to the border, setting the stage for a two border day.  This part of El Salvador is poorer.  I saw a couple places bearing the emblem of the FMLN, the Marxist side of the civil war.  We hoped to stay in a coastal town, but found exorbitant prices in enclosed resorts and unhappy faces in the nearby towns, so we rode on to La Union.  This is a rather depressing town set on a scenic bay.  Well into the night, women sat on plastic stools selling items out of plastic baskets set upon plastic stands.  Like in other places in this part of the world, people sell the same things side by side hoping to make a meager profit off an absolute minimal investment.

Our mad dash across two borders started at 7am.  Within an hour we were at the Honduran border where we were swarmed by men offering (insisting) their services to facilitate the process.  It took three hours to take care of our immigration and our bikes´ importations.  We paid a modest amount for entering Honduras, but then paid hefty amounts for the importation and a certain ´road tax`.  We still don´t know if we were duped by these smooth operators (A french friend, Kerman is now telling me he did not pay any sort of road tax.).  We finally sped away at about 1pm hoping for a smooth ride across 80 miles of Honduras to the nearest Nicaragua crossing.

This part of Honduras appeared even poorer and certainly much more rural than El Salvador.  The roads were the worst we had encountered.  Potholes were everywhere.  We tended to follow each other´s path and avoided riding too close behind the few cars and buses, as they straddle potholes (when they aren´t too big!) while motorcyclists skirt them.  All this made it impossible to take photos while riding and left less time for my wandering eyes to linger anywhere.

Ivanka took charge at the Nicaraguan border, learning the lessons from just two hours ago.  Her lead and a somewhat more formal atmosphere made this crossing much more pleasant, except for the very slow line I was stuck in for my bike´s importation.  After a good hour of standing and sweating, we finally were rolling again.  Nick pumped his fist:  We were riding in Nicaragua!!!  Here too there were potholes, but they appeared to stem not from neglect, but from flooding.  The swollen streams were sites of young men casting nets for fish.  Like Honduras, not many cars were cruising this region.  Instead, there were carts pulled by horse and giant tricycles with roofs that served as local taxis.  There appear to be less dogs in Nicaragua, but there are more horses along the roads.  I´m not sure if that is an improvement.  After absorbing first impressions (which included a wonderful ride around three sides of a volcano), I started looking for remnants of the 80s.  It wasn´t long before I passed a tractor, in good condition, brand name: Belarus.  Excellent!  We have passed a couple large farm complexes that I suspect were collective farms in the 80s.  Beyond that, I have so far only spotted numerous posters (in the customs office) highlighting Daniel Ortega, 30 years of victory and a flier promoting a celebration of the end of the Samoza regime.  Of course, a Sandinista supporter would argue the remnants are everywhere and living.  Love or hate those socialists, it´s indisputable that they dramatically improved literacy rates and some aspects of health care.

The people here seem very nice - perhaps the nicest collectively since leaving the US.  It´s hard to say if this is any sort of reality or merely perception.  Clearly, most people are good people. But there are places where one feels leery and where people appear less than content.  Nicaragua is a poor country, but the people I have seen so far appear to be in good spirits

Guatemala

I met Lenny, a Canadian from Halifax, as he rode his BMW G1200 into San Ignacio, Belize.  We drove into Guatemala together.  I was fortunate to be with him.  I went into customs with insufficient funds to pay for the importation, the disinfection, etc.  Stupid of me, but lesson learned.  In the border town, we stopped for a tasty taco treat and I sniffed out an ATM.  Although the ATM knew my name and claimed to be on the same network, it did not want to give me money.  Lenny backed me up.

The drive inland was lovely.  The rolling hilly landscape was green and the people friendly.  Children waved and many adults did too.  Within a couple hours we were entering Tikal Park, home to world famous Mayan ruins.  Heading north, we passed a couple on a BMW heading south.  Mark and Maggie!  They entered western Guatemala from Mexico.  There were road signs to see along the road too.  Back home, we are used to the diamond shaped signs with profiles of deer or moose.  At Tikal, the signs warn of jaguars, certain snakes, and other exotic critters.  We saw only the signs.

The jungle was thick and the heat and humidity considerable.  Lenny and I drove our bikes under our palm-leaf covered palapas and set up camp.  We wasted no time and rejected the offers for sunrise tours of the ruins and headed right into the compound.  After passing a big group of Japanese tourists, we reached the Gran Plaza, which is flanked by two temples facing each other and other structures on the other sides.  The skies were grey and getting darker.  Soon a few drops turned to a downpour.  I was armed with my umbrella.  Lenny was a good sport and suffered through the deluge.  Beyond the Gran Plaza was a temple still unexcavated, beyond that more temples.  We circled around, wading through instant ponds, and headed back toward the entrance.  The rain stopped though and just in time for us to view a truly imposing pyramid, with neatly hewn steps and precipitous sides.  All these temples were burial sites.  This last temple more than any other communicated absolute, unquestioned power.

After a somewhat restless night, Lenny and I headed for nearby Santa Elena.  I tried a couple more ATMs to no avail.  I decided to try the airport and finally got lucky there.  What a relief!  Lenny and I chose a route that would let us bypass Guatemala City.  This took us through more rural, rolling landscapes, much of it apparently deforested.  We passed a couple sizable plantations of young palm trees that looked to be an attempt at rectifying that situation.  At Sayaxche, our ride was interrupted by a river over 7 meters over its usual level.  I don't know if there was a bridge submerged there somewhere, but we took a ferry across to the bustling town and got a lunch of chicken, black bean puree and rice - delicious.

South of Sayaxche, a line of verdant mountains arose.  These mountains were almost more like a collection of giant mounds with rounded tops piled right next to each other.  There were many small Mayan communities here.  Men were hiking along the road, schlepping firewood bundles on their backs, uniformed children were heading home from school, and all were spreading corn on the side of the road where it could dry out in the sun.  As we headed into the hills, the mood of the people changed.  We were no longer greeted by smiles and waves.  Mostly there was indifference, but a couple kids threw things at us as we passed.

We pushed on and reached Rabinal before sunset.  This town, named for a local Mayan tribe, was very friendly.  It was also inexpensive.  My hotel room cost about $4.  We strolled downtown, visited the marketplace in front of the large, simple, but elegant white church and filled up on a regional variation on the taco.

The next day, I headed into town again and came across a small religious procession of men and women in traditional dress, some carrying platforms with Jesus figurines.  The visited little shrines in each corner of the plaza and then climbed the stairs to the church where they knelt again toward each shrine and then joined the priests and entered the sanctuary enveloped in the smoke of burning frankincense.

Lenny and I were on different schedules.  I left town first, planning to follow route 5.  Well, route 5 turns to dirt in Rabinal and heads steeply into the mountains that were still awash with mud from all the rain.  It was exciting to drive up this steep, rocky road, but when I reached a serious patch of mud and figured I had another 40 miles of this, which may or may not prove passable, I turned around.  Lenny rode up later and made it through...I am a little jealous.

Now I am in Antigua.  Getting here took me through the capital, Guatemala City, home to some 3.5 million people.  Antigua is only about 15 miles out of GC.  The roads go up and then there is a very long descent into Antigua.  This city was once the Spanish capital of everything from southern Mexico to Panama, before repeated earthquakes finally convinced Spain to move the capital to GC in the late 1700s.  Antigua is filled with the ruins caused by those earthquakes.  This gives the city of about 60,000 a unique feel, but not a melancholy one.  This city buzzes with life with its vibrant markets and multitude of restaurants and hotels catering to the tourists who come here from near and far.

I am staying at Posada Refugio, where I have the only room on the 4th floor roof.  Out my door is a grand view of Mount Agua, the nearest of three volcanoes visible from Antigua.  In clear weather, Mount Fuego (fire) is visible.  This active volcano earns its name.

I have again met up with Mark and Maggie and others here, which has made for great fun.  However, my most memorable moment, indeed the most memorable lunch of my whole trip, was yesterday.  I went to Tienda La Canche.  Entering from the street, it appears to be nothing more than a tiny store offering soda, sweets and a few pastries.  Ask to eat, though, and you are invited in past the counter to a back room with three connected tables and lots of religious iconography.  I ordered a pepian de pollo - a sort of chicken stew, that reminded me a lot of a Hungarian goulasch.  The food was memorable, but soon I had company.

A group of women entered.  There were probably about a dozen of them spanning three generations.  Two boys were with them.  I was at a corner of the table and they filled in all around me.  On my left sat a cute girl of perhaps 16 years.  She asked me right away where I was from.  Then she asked me to take her home with me.  I played along and said 'manana' (tomorrow).  Her mother chimed in with 'Hoy!' - today!  The girl was bold enough to fold her arm in mine as she told her family about her plans with me.  We all laughed a lot.  I asked one of the boys at the far end of the table to take a picture of us.  By this time, they were all saying that this girl was my Reina or queen.  We posed for a first pic and for the next, the grandmother hauled out a silver Mayan crown for the Reina (apparently they had attended some sort of ceremony).  For this pic, this bold young woman, put her arm around me and even tried to tickle me.  I was astonished how comfortable she was doing something like that.  I never expected something like that in a place I would have thought so socially conservative.

It was with some sorrow that I finally excused myself.  A man who was there told me I should pay for everyone's meal (I am the rich westerner, after all).  I replied that I would like to, but cannot and would certainly never pay for his - more laughter.  As I paid for my meal at the counter, though, I saw a chocolate cake and had a piece cut for my queen.  Everyone laughed again, clapped, and the girl said "Thank you" in English.

Belize without photos

Author's note:  The first part of this is a slightly redacted journal entry from October 1

It's my first day in this little, mostly anglophone (but also Spanish and Creole) country.  The border crossing with the (bike) insurance purchase and disinfection spray (again for the bike, not me!) was neither cheap nor speedy, but neither was it expensive and onerous.  It was wet however.  It poured on me as I pulled into Corozal, the nearest border town..  I would later learn that my camera did not enjoy the drenching. Neither did I really, but still took the time, soaking wet, to find a bank and then an Indian-owned furniture store to exchange my pesos.

Between that town and Orange Walk, the sky cleared.  No longer focused on the sky or slippery road, I examined the country-side.  It was flat and green.  Houses were small, square and usually colorful.  Some homes had neat lawns.  Some houses were on stilts.  The scenery reminded me of what parts of the rural US may have looked like in the 30s when life was poorer but simpler too.

In the fields grow papayas and sugar cane.  The latter grows more densely than corn and doesn't look all that cane-like (yet?).  At first, I thought it might be tall stalks of pineapple.

Elsewhere it was just open. Cattle wee grazing.  Wetlands are aplenty and home to what one would expect, including crocodiles.

I left the road to Belize City for a quick look at Orange Walk.  Not much there.  The biggest building that I saw was a 3 story school built by Presbyterians (still open?).  Smoke qualmed from a grill packed with chicken and pork chops.  Lunchtime!  For $4 US, a BBQ'd pork chop, cole slaw, and a savory crepe.  The Hispanic owners were friendly and talkative.  I bought a Coke from the next door store where I was helped by an adorable Chinese girl (12?) while mom packed shelves and dad squatted watching Chinese TV.  The meat was salty, but delicious.  And finally, I was drying out.

Belize is pretty diverse.  In addition to Blacks, Latinos, Creoles, and the unique Garifuna culture, there are many Chinese.  Belize maintains relations with Taiwan, whose embassy proudly shows the flag.  Indians are even more abundant. Both of these groups own stores, restaurants, and hotels.  There is even a prominent Hindu temple in town.

Religious institutions abound.  Along the road were Catholic, Presbyterian, Baptist, Pentecostal, Anglican, and 7th Day Adventist churches.  Per capita, there are less religious institutions in Belize City.  Mennonites are also present.  Across from my guesthouse, Mennonites had their razor-wire enclosed store open for business.  Their furniture is beautifully crafted.  The tall, slender, straw-hat-sporting gentleman I spoke to said they speak a German close to Flat German (Plattdeutsch).  He prefers to speak English even with Germans.  Douglas, the caretaker at the guesthouse, said some of Belizes recently discovered oil reserves sit under Mennonite land. It'll be interesting to see how Mennonites handle that situation.

An undercurrent of very slight ethnic tension seems to exist.  The Hispanic food stand owner had nothing good to say about Belize City, which is mostly black.  She also noted (responding to my questions) that Indians and Chinese have big families and may some day outnumber the others.  By and large though, it appears people get along.  The Chinese don't shy from giving their businesses Chinese names and the Indians seem pretty carefree.

Belize City is kind of quaint in a run-down sort of way.  Two and three story buildings with businesses below.  Mazes of power lines and cables overhead.  Busy sidewalks.  The famous "Slide Bridge" built in England and swiveling on a center cog, so boats may pass on either side of it (like the RR bridge in Grand Haven, MI). And a nice view over the water looking east to the Cayes (islands).

People are friendly.  Women will smile and return a greeting.  Guys at stores are readily helpful.  Even some beggars will introduce themselves and insist on a handshake.

There are many beggars and homeless.  Requests for a dollar are commonplace...even from kids swimming at a pier who look not to be so badly off (what do I know?).  Such requests, the sheer number of intinerant, and the ubiquitous barred doors and windows and security guards, do not make one feel safe.

Gotta record this:  Just spent time here at the guesthouse talking with John Speer, the proprietor's brother.  This guesthouse was his mother's residence.  His mother was the last British Colonial Governor General of Belize, except that she was never given that title because of her gender. That last name intrigued me, so I asked.  Sure enough, John's father was closely related to Albert Speer, the chief architect of Nazi Germany.  John and I started conversing when he shared with me that he usually lives in Montreal. When we discovered we're nearly neighbors, he offered me a glass of rum.  I do not like rum, so I declined.  He came back with a glass all the same.  I had no idea how tasty and smooth rum can be - a delightful local creation.

I should note that I have been unable to verify John's stories (except the one about the rum).  If they're all true, he has quite a storied family history and he certainly knows how to tell it!  If not, it made for a fun evening's conversation.

I am now in San Ignacio, Belize.  This is a far cry from dirty Belize City.  It is green and lush.  The locals are more likely to be Hispanic and many are proudly Mayan.  There are many ruins around here.  This town thrives on tourism, agriculture, and the Mennonites who are based here or not far from here.

Belize is going to be my country without photos.  I purchased a replacement camera in Belize City yesterday and after charging the batter here in San Ignacio found that this new one was already defective.  Couriers are returning it to the store and I am to get a new one this afternoon.  What a shame to not see this lovely country in more than prose.