Peregrinations

New adventures, new blog

alpiner84 — Fri, 28 Mar 2014 03:34:00 GMT

Quick update: for those of you who haven't yet made their way to my new blog, check it out at www.uneventenor.com I'm embarking on my grandest adventure to date, to follow my travel hero, Richard Halliburton, around the world. Who is Richard Halliburton, and why is he worth following around the world? Find out here: http://uneventenor.com/project/who-was-richard-halliburton/ Hope to see you on the new website! Cheers, Sarah.

Photos: Weeks 27 & 28: Panama City

alpiner84 — Wed, 28 Sep 2011 13:48:00 GMT

The End

Weeks 27 & 28: Panama, aka The End

alpiner84 — Wed, 28 Sep 2011 13:38:00 GMT

Have I really not written since I arrived in Panama? I suppose with the end of the trip looming ever closer, it didn't seem so important. Of course, now that I have some downtime, I realize I've got a lot to catch up on, like usual.

I last wrote from southern Costa Rica, at the edge of the border with Panama. The crossing was time consuming but easy, not notable in any way other than for this single fact: it was to be my very last border crossing of this remarkable adventure of mine. On one hand, feelings of success and pride. On the other, sadness that this small six-month period of my life was coming to a close.

The guys and I parted ways at the border, just for a couple of days, and I cruised up to the mountain town of Boquete. It was cool and rainy there, and the hostel had all the amenities I look for after five rough days of mud and rock: hot water, a washer and dryer, a bed, and secure parking for the bike. I spent two nights there. I cleaned out all of my gear (you wouldn't believe how much dirt had accumulated at the bottoms of my panniers...and, oddly, how much cinnamon) and cleaned and lubed the chain on the bike.

There were some very nice, very fun people at the hostel. Sadly, I was still on antibiotics for the hole in my shin, so I wasn't able to join them for beers, but it was still good hanging out. One guy in particular, Josh, was about to embark on his own motorcycle journey north. He asked if Burrito was for sale, and I quickly responded with a "hell no." But I was able to give him information and tips for the journey, at least. It was during one of those conversations when I had a very strong moment of "how did I get here?" (This is not my beautiful house...). To think that I, of all people, have become a knowledgeable resource on transcontinental motorcycle travel...I can hardly believe it. And it's during moments like that, or when I flip back through my journals or look at the line I've drawn on the map, that I realize just how far I've come. And I'm not talking just miles, either.

At any rate, I left Boquete two days later, well-rested and ready for Panama City. Good thing, too, because about 250 of the 320 miles to the city were completed in utter wet-season downpour. But my raingear was up to the challenge, and I made the turnoff for the Puente de las Americas still warm and dry.

I was not at all prepared for the bridge.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew that it was going to be an important moment, crossing over the Panama Canal and entering the city. But I didn't know the bridge was going to be so majestic, spanning the waters with such style and grace. I didn't realize the canal was going to be so wide there, and so scenic, with the silvery water melting into a silvery horizon to the south. And, most of all, I didn't expect such a welling up of joyful emotion, such a feeling of achievement and victory. This was it: I did it. I stood up on the pegs and whooped at the gray sky, heedless of the looks I was receiving through open car windows. I did it, I did it, I did it.

I was greeted with a veritable hero's welcome at Panama Passage, the overlander hostel where all my new friends were staying before they boarded the Stahlratte and sailed to Colombia. Tyler and Arthur had apparently said nothing but good things about me since their arrival. Or maybe they just kept showing that funny video of me driving straight into the deepest part of the river.

The next day we caught a cab to the Panama Canal and spent the morning watching the massive Miraflores locks in action. As the cab pulled up to the visitor's center, a cruise ship was passing through. Watching that enormous, pristine white ship pass silently through what appeared to be solid forest was an amazing sight. From the viewing deck, we saw a large cargo ship and numerous smaller boats enter the locks, get raised up a few meters using nothing but gravity-fed water, and sail on into Lake Gatun.

In the visitor's center, I was thrilled to have the opportunity to take this picture with a sign commemorating my hero, Richard Halliburton, who swam the canal in 1914:

The next day was a sad one for me. Tyler, Greg and Arthur, whom I'd come to adore in the past ten days, left for the Stahlratte and Colombia along with ten other motorcyclists. I managed to say goodbye without crying (just barely), and waved them into the distance. With everyone gone, I was the only motorcyclist at the hostel, and Burrito was in the driveway by herself. It was time to start thinking about going home.

At first I pursued the option of shipping the bike home. The cost for the bike was going to be $1200 (gulp!) but I was willing to take the hit in the bank account in order to have my beloved motorcycle back home with me.

Or so I thought.

Two days before I was scheduled to leave Panama, Josh from Boquete showed up at the hostel. A group of us started got into a discussion about the advantages of selling the bike here...and within half an hour I had changed my mind about shipping home. Throughout the entire trip I'd been adamant that I wouldn't sell the bike at the end, but here I was, doing exactly that. What changed my mind? Well, largely the money. I sold the bike for a very fair price, and saved an additional $1200 in shipping costs. With that money I could buy a new bike in the states. Also, it helped Josh out a lot. The pickings are slim here in Panama, and he was going to have to pay a lot of money for a lower quality bike. Burrito is already set up for adventure travel, and I have no secrets about the condition of the bike--she's great.

I'm going to miss that little bike like crazy. My first ever motorcycle, the one that tolerated all my mistakes, the one that kept me upright far more than I deserved to be, the one that guided me along my horrendously steep learning curve. I'm surprised, and grateful, that she didn't just buck me off back in Baja and say, "No way am I going to drag your ass to Panama!" I can't imagine having done this trip on any other bike. Yesterday we took a farewell ride to the top of Cerro Ancon, squeezing in a few final hairpin turns before I handed over the keys to Josh.

And that's it. This journey is over. I can't believe that this lifestyle is coming to an end. I've gotten so darn used to it! What do you mean I'm not going to pack up the boxes tomorrow, hop on Burrito, and ride to a new corner of the world? What do you mean I won't be speaking Spanish? What do you mean I won't end every day with dirt and grease on my hands, and with my head filled with reminders to lube the chain, check that one bolt that keeps coming loose, find a gas station in the next fifty miles, and, crap, hit the brakes!

On the other hand, I can't believe I'll be shopping at grocery stores that sell real cheese, fresh berries, and food that isn't deep-fried or full of sugar and corn syrup. I can't wait to get my hands on a bra that isn't held together with safety pins, a shirt that hasn't been worn every three days for the past six months, and shoes that don't stink. I can't wait to walk down the street and not have strange men whispering, "Psst, gringa!" as I pass them. I'm excited to ski, hike, ride my bicycle (gasp!), and rock-climb. But, above all, I can't wait to see my family and friends, to sit down over a nice, cold microbrew, and swap stories of the past six and a half months of life gone by.

In summary, I guess I'm experiencing the same range of emotions I always feel at the end of a trip like this: excitement to see my family and friends again, trepidation about what I'm going to do when I get home, pride that I've completed such an epic journey and come out of it alive, and gut-wrenching sadness that it's all over. And of course, I'm already making plans for the next trip ;-)

Thanks for reading, everyone. I look forward to having more tales to spin in the coming year!

Until the next adventure begins,

Sarah

End-of-the-trip motorcycle gear review

alpiner84 — Sun, 25 Sep 2011 05:16:00 GMT

Today I pulled all my gear apart, cleaned everything (including the bike), and took full stock of what gear survived the past 9,500 miles and 6 1/2 months of overland motorcycle travel, and what fell apart. Also, with far more experience under my belt than the zero I began with, I have pretty well-formed opinions as to what gear I will and will not bring on future trips. Read on, gear heads!

Motorcycle Specific Gear and Equipment:

2005 Yamaha XT225 motorcycle - Status: SUCCESS. The little bike that could, my Burrito has done me proud. From sea level to 10,000 ft, over pavement, potholes, mud, sand, gravel, dirt, rock, river and grass, she kept going forward. In the future, I would like a slightly larger, more powerful bike for the journey (don't tell her), but only so I can keep up speed while climbing hills. On open road, I can cruise at 65 mph easily, but my speed always drops as soon as I encounter an incline. On rough tracks, this bike is a champ, only held back by my limited skills and a lack of knobby tires. Mechanical issues on the trip: none worth mentioning.
Sheepskin - Status: MODERATE SUCCESS. I can't imagine having done this trip without my thick, fluffy butt-buddy. Given the size and shape of the XT225's seat, only ol' sheepy made things bearable. With the sheepskin, I could last between 70 and 110 miles before needing a quick respite, and on day trips without it I was dying for a break in under 50 miles. Carrying a full-sized sheepskin, in retrospect, was a little excessive, but it did come in handy as a knee-pad when working on the bike, and as a cushion/mattress when waiting hours for construction workers in Guatemala to let traffic through. However, it's looking a little worse for the wear: it will never be white again, people tend to shrink away from it whenever I hold it up, and it's falling apart after throwing it into a washing machine (although it does smell much better now). Best part of the sheepskin? The funny comments it got. At various times throughout the trip it was identified as sheep, llama, polar bear and dog. Yes, dog.
Happy Trails aluminum pannier system - Status: SUCCESS. They're a little scuffed, a little dinged, and a little bent, but these suckers are just as waterproof, secure and durable as when I bought them. Back in Guadalajara I had to hammer on one a bit to get it flush to the pannier frame again (ended up duct-taping a butter knife to the pannier frame to close the gap), and the bolt that attaches the pannier frame to the right passenger peg fell out three times, and is now held on with zip-ties. I tested the waterproofness by dropping the bike in a river, the security by leaving the boxes on the bike in a dodgy town for two months, and the durability by crashing on them twice. They passed on all counts with flying colors. See next section for opinion on aluminum versus Pelican versus soft luggage.
Pirelli Scorpion tires - Status: SUCCESS. These babies survived in a big way. After 9,500 miles, the front tire is nowhere near needing replacement, and the rear, while thinner, is usable on pavement for at least another 1,000 miles, especially once I'm not traveling with full panniers. They were excellent on pavement, but in the future I would like something a little knobbier for dirt, mud, rock, etc. Still, they carried me all the way here without a fuss, and, best of all, I didn't get a single flat tire the whole way.
Fieldsheer mesh jacket - Status: SUCCESS. I'm a big fan of the jacket. It fits well, it breathes well, it sticks out like a gringo in Michoacan, and I'm quite sure I would have broken my shoulder in the Mexico-crash without the armor in the jacket.
Shift Kevlar-lined jeans - Staus: SUCCESS. I'm a huge fan of these jeans. The Kevlar lining made me feel much more secure while riding, although the only two crashes I had were impact-crashes, while Kevlar only protects from abrasion. In fact, I was punctured straight through them a couple weeks ago, which just goes to show that Kevlar only works in certain situations. Even though proper padded/armored riding pants would probably be a safer bet, I love these for their versatility: not only good on the bike, they looked damn hot as well. After six months of nearly continuous wear, some of the seams are starting to fray, but nothing is coming apart just yet.
Vega waterproof leather riding boots - Status: MODERATE SUCCESS. These boots were absolutely fine for the trip, but they weren't perfect. I never slipped in them, they were comfy enough for walking around towns and borders without thinking twice, and the snug dual-zipper setup meant they fit well. On the downside, the soles are beginning to separate from the uppers, they stink to high heaven, the liners are not removable for washing, and the waterproofness was not complete. In most rainstorms they were fine, but in heavy downpours and river crossings they let water in. Also, I think I would like higher boots next time, since these were too short to protect my shin in my last crash, resulting in puncture wound to the bone.
Homemade tool tube - Status: SUCCESS. The tool tube, overall, worked very well. I had to change the original zip-tie setup to metal hose-clamps, and then it stayed on perfectly. It fit all my tools and a puncture kit and a rag, no sweat. Next time I make one, though, I'd like a threaded cap because the non-threaded one got glued on whenever conditions were wet and dirty. Also, the hose-clamps dug into the pannier frames and allowed them to rust a bit. In the end, I started keeping my multi-tool and three-pronged 8-9-10mm socket tool in my jacket pocket because they were used so often, it wasn't worth opening the tool tube every time. Additional perk: the length of the tube was perfect for creating a stand to get my rear wheel off the ground for chain lubing.
Use of regular rain gear while riding - Status: SUCCESS. Months ago, before I knew anything about riding and gear, I opted to forego fancy (and expensive) riding gear with zip-in waterproof liners, choosing instead to wear regular rain pants over my jeans and a regular rain jacket under my riding jacket. To my surprise and delight, it worked perfectly. I never had a single drop of water on my body after riding through Central America in the rainy season. And, better yet, the waterproofs packed down small and were usable as regular rain gear while not on the bike. For the record, my rain pants are five-year old Helly Hansons, and my rain jacket is a five-year old REI.
Note on bike modifications: Before leaving on the trip, I installed numerous additions on the bike. The 4-gallon Clarke tank was awesome. The range on it was about 300 miles in theory, but I only ran it to reserve once (in Baja), and otherwise had copious amounts of fuel wherever I went. I didn't have to carry spare fuel a single time. The Moose Racing hand guards probably saved my shifting and brake levers numerous times, and the matching bark busters kept my hands warm and safe from flying rocks on the highway. The kickstart, which was hell to install back in the winter when I didn't have the adequate tools or knowledge, came to the rescue twice in the past few weeks, once when the battery was dead on a beach in the middle of nowhere, and once when my engine was flooded. The cigarette-lighter power adaptor never came in handy because Mexico and Central America are full of electricity.

Non-Motorcycle Specific Gear and Equipment:

MSR Dromedary water bag - Status: FAILURE. I bought the bag because not only does it hold water perfectly, it can also hold gasoline without any degradation. Of course, I never wanted to put gasoline in my water bag, so I never used it for that purpose. As for holding water, it was fine, but not necessary for the trip. I ended up using simple disposable plastic water bottles, going through about one every month or two. Only actual failure of the product: a few months ago the lid started leaking. Really? A leaky lid on a $40 water bag? Good thing I bought it at REI.
Vibram Five-Finger hiking shoes - Status: SUCCESS. I love these shoes. Not to say they're perfect, but I sure do like them. They're small and easily packable, they're extremely comfortable, they worked very well on all but one of my volcano hikes (the other one would have sliced through any sole, not just these), and they were perfect for hikes involving lots of water crossings, like Corcovado. On the downside, the sole is already beginning to separate from the upper, and they stink to high heaven, even after washing. Guess that's what you get for wearing shoes with no socks. As for the sole-separation, again, REI will come to the rescue.
Hennessey Ultra-light Hammock - Status: SUCCESS. I love, love, love this hammock. In the past six and a half months, I spent 46 nights swinging in the breeze, in all sorts of conditions. It took awhile to get used to it, but once I was settled in, I slept like a baby every night. Even during intense wet-season downpours, I remained as dry and as snug as a bedbug in a hostel bed. It saved me quite a lot of money (fifteen free nights in Baja, most other nights $3 or less to hang a hammock versus $9 or more for a dorm bed) and enabled me to camp with minimal luggage. It's a little chilly in that hammock, but it's perfect for Central America. Next time, I want a sleeping bag liner, and maybe a blanket, instead of a sweaty down sleeping bag.
Primus Omni-Fuel camp stove and bottle - Status: SHIPPED HOME. Perfectly good stove, just wasn't terribly useful in Mexico, so I sent it home. There's so much cheap, good food everywhere, there was no need to lug it around. Then, in Central America I was staying at hostels every night, and they have kitchens. The only multi-day hiking I did was in Corcovado, and the people I was with had stoves to share with me.
Steri-Pen - Status: SUCCESS. Love the Steri-Pen. I was able to purify my own tap water in two minutes everywhere I went, on one set of batteries over the course of six months. It saved innumerable bottles from going to the landfill, and probably saved me enough money to have paid off the Steri-Pen itself. Great in the backcountry and for travel.
Patagonia Stuff-Sack Backpack - Status: DYING. This pack is awesome for its size and weight. Packed down, I was able to stuff it into my 1-liter cook pot. Unfolded, I could fit hammock, sleeping bag, clothes, water, first aid kit and some food in it. Not quite enough for overnight trips, but darn close. However, it doesn't carry weight very well. After lugging stuff to Little Corn Island in it, the seams began to fall apart. Fortunately, a little easy sewing fixed that, and everything is holding so far. Still, I'm disappointed that Patagonia couldn't create sturdier seams. The newer edition of the pack may be sturdier.

Future gear changes:

Next time I do a trip like this, I would change a few things. I would like a slightly larger bike, now that I know how to handle motorcycles in general. I would trade the chain-and-padlock security system for a disk-lock and a cable lock. I would also bring a bike cover, both to protect it from the elements (for instance, when I ditch it in the jungle for two months) and because eyes seem to slide over a bike under a cover. The HT panniers were great for pavement riding, but rougher roads made them clang around a lot, and things tended to rattle loose over time; in the future, I'd like soft luggage for rough roads, and the HT boxes for pavement and long trips. Don't know how to arrange that on a trip like this, though. The HT system was essential for my piece of mind since they were so secure and so waterproof.

I wouldn't change my clothing selection one bit (although I'm craving more variety in my undergarments right now, and I can't wait to have a bra that's not held together with safety pins), with the exception of underwear. Now I understand why the women on HUBB and ADV advocate thongs: there's nothing so uncomfortable as sitting directly on seams for hours on end. Other than that, I was warm and dry when I needed to be, and cool and cute when I wanted to be.

I only had my iPhone with me for communications, with the service shut off, so it was essentially a miniature computer. It was the most technology I've ever carried, and it was perfect for my needs. I also used it as my only camera, and it did very well. I also had a Kindle, which was an excellent addition to my luggage...until I got it wet in Corcovado.

I think that's about it. Whew! Gear overview complete.

Week 26: Ditching the Comfort Zone in Corcovado

alpiner84 — Mon, 19 Sep 2011 19:39:00 GMT

On the morning of September 15, 2011, in the dusty pueblo of Sierpe, I looked my Comfort Zone in the eye and said, "Thank you very much for the past six months, it's been lovely, but I must move on now." We shook hands rather formally (I think it was a bit miffed), then I turned around, hopped into the Millenium Falcon, and sped lightyears away. I never saw my old Comfort Zone again after that.

Why did we say goodbye in Sierpe, a little smudge of a town on the western side of Costa Rica? Because that's where the pavement ended and a ferry took us over to the dirt road on the other side. My Comfort Zone was going to do me absolutely no good from that point onward, and it seemed kinder to leave it in an actual town instead of at the first steep, muddy hill. At least it could go buy itself a drink.

As for me, I went forward, with Tyler, Greg and Arthur leading the way (and Kate in the sidecar, of course) and ventured into Day One of the Corcovado Adventure. We were taking a "shortcut" that wasn't on any paper or GPS maps, a route that was recommended to us the previous night by Will, the owner of the Yamaha dealership in Uvita.

The riding that day was surprisingly easy (flat, dirt roads with few rocks or potholes), with a three exceptions. The first two problems arose from rain. It began to rain gatos and perros halfway to Puerto Jimenez, our goal of the day. The road quickly became criss-crossed with streams and chutes of water the color of Crayola's Burnt Sienna crayon. Coming around one corner, I was faced with a steep, muddy, rutted hill. This is what I saw: Tyler standing next to his Ural waving me on, encouraging me to go fast...Greg and Arthur heaving on Greg's bike to get it upright just beyond Tyler...and Arthur's bike parked just uphill of Greg's. I found the only line, nailed it, and got through the obstacle course without falling. I must be getting better at this, I thought.

The second obstacle from the rain was this creek:

It was swollen and fast from the rain, and even the truck on the other side of the stream didn't want to cross it. So Arthur made a pot of coffee, we marked the edge of the water with a rock, and waited for it to recede. About half an hour later we were able to cross, and we all made it over safe and dry.

The third obstacle wasn't an obstacle so much as a difficult stretch that beat me. The hill was steep and covered in baseball- and melon-sized rocks that rolled every which way. Halfway up, I hit one that forced my front wheel into a wobble, and then it was deja vu: just like my crash in Mexico, the wobble carried me from side to side a few times before ejecting me highside up the hill. On my way over the bike, I clipped the handlebars with my left leg, and I faceplanted in the rocks. Whoopsadaisy. I managed to right my bike on the hillside and get going again without any help, and by the time Arthur came back to check on me, I was on my way again.

It wasn't until I met up with everyone else at the main road (hooray!) that I realized I was bleeding through my double-fronted jeans. Hm. Ends up I just had a little puncture wound in my left shin, but the sucker would not stop bleeding, and the risk of infection was high, so in Puerto Jmenez I went to the clinic. There I instructed the doctors how to properly flush a puncture wound (thanks RMRP!), they applied eight layers of gauze to it, prescribed antibiotics, and I was out the door for exactly $0. Half an hour later, I was bleeding through all that gauze, so I went back and had them close it up with one, single stitch. My first one ever! That, a Charlie horse on my thigh, and a bruised chin were all the remnants of the spill. Not too shabby.

But where did that leave us for the night? In Puerto Jimenez, a rather uninspiring town at the edge of something vast and beautiful: Corcovado National Park in the Peninsula del Oso. Corcovado is reknowned for its pristine beaches backed by dense jungle, and its abundance of wildlife (National Geographic called it one of the most "biologically intense" places on earth). To get there, we needed to ride to Carate, a tiny mark at the end of yet another dirt track.

Bring it.

We left the next morning, and two hours, twelve river crossings, and forty-seven kilometers later, we were in Carate. Good thing I left that darn Comfort Zone behind, because some of those streams were awful deep and rocky, and some of those stretches of road sure were steep, covered in rocks and punctuated with hairpin turns. But it was behind me, I was exhilerated, and (dare I say it?) it was fun. Really freaking fun. Good thing, because in three days I would be doing it all again, but it reverse. Victory photo:

In the meantime, Corcovado! Yes please. We parked the bikes at an EcoLodge, killed time on the beach chasing waves, and hiked in under the cover of darkness to avoid having to pay the outrageous park/camping fees. Minus fifteen silly minutes hiding in the bushes, it was an easy and successful hike. We camped on the beach for two nights, and spent our free time hiking, trying to stay dry, giving up on trying to stay dry, and watching the waves. I'd never seen waves like these before. They were enormous onslaughts of foamy water, like roaring avalanches rushing up the black sand. Lines of pelicans soared along the edges of the barrels, playing chicken with the crests of the waves, then diving in to gulp down a fish.

In addition to the pelicans, we saw dozens of Scarlett Macaw's squawking overhead, whole herds of coatis (congregations of coatis?), many Northern Tamanduas (a type of anteater) climbing trees in their furry black vests, and one surprisingly large and oafish Tapir.

Then it was back to the road, to negotiate the same twelve river crossings and hopefully make it all the way to Boquete in northern Panama in the same day. But, you know what they say about the best laid plans...

All the river crossings were going fine until crossing number seven, a particularly wide and deep one. Greg took a fall, and I guess I decided that was a good idea, so I fell too. Somehow, I managed to pull a complete 180, and drove straight into the deepest section of the stream, dropping the bike and flooding everything. We tipped the bike on its end to get water out of the exhaust and throttle, opened the airbox and let out a liter of water trapped in there, and checked the oil to see if there was water in there. It didn't appear to the flooded, thank goodness, so off we went.

About five minutes later, Burrito, the little bike that got me so far, died in the middle of an extended, rocky hill. Crappola. Knowing it would be an intensive fix involving at least one oil change, I got the boxes and tools off the bike, and waited for one of the guys to come back for me and maybe help me figure things out.

Soon enough, Arthur came tearing down the trail. I explained the problem, and we set about changing the oil using a liter he had with him. After we were done, I cooed and purred at the bike for awhile, telling her how good she'd been on the whole trip, and how sorry I was for dropping her in a river. I held my breath and kicked the engine over--she started fine. But we weren't done yet. To make sure all the water was out, we had to change the oil one more time. So Arthur, wonderful man, drove all the way to Puerto Jimenez (20 km away) and back for a liter of oil.

In the meantime I emptied the current oil, and was dismayed to see that it looked exactly like the first batch, which is to say, like chocolate milk.

Looks like I'd need more than one more liter of oil. Fortuntely, a man on a horse with a three-foot long machete and a gun shoved into his back pocket told me had plenty of oil at his house, a mere four kilometers away. When Arthur got back, he ran out again to get a few more liters off that man. With a total of four liters on hand, I changed the oil four more times until it looked like oil again, while Arthur made coffee and tea. Hours later, we were finally ready to go find the others and try to salvage the day's plan.

But Corcovado wasn't done with us yet. Sometime during his many runs on the rough road, Arthur's front tire had gone flat.

While he changed it, I shouted suplications to the canopy, asking for a little leeway in escaping the jungle, and, if at all possible, no rain until we were past the hills and river crossings. The forest listened, and we finally made it back to Puerto Jimenez around four o'clock in the evening. I wolfed down two tamales and a liter of water, my first food all day, and we hit the road running, trying to make it as far as possible.

Apparently that was only one hundred kilometers away. Night fell and the rain came down hard, and it was foolish to try to go further. We settled into the town of Rio Claro, flithy, soaked, exhausted, and trilled at the successes of the previous four days. The next day we would leave the muddy mayhem of Costa Rica for the last country in North America: Panama.

Until next time,

Sarah

Photos: Week 26: Corcovado

alpiner84 — Sun, 18 Sep 2011 21:13:00 GMT

Week 25: South to Costa Rica!

alpiner84 — Wed, 14 Sep 2011 14:23:00 GMT

In the past week, an unprecedented change of pace has taken over my life. From the beach life on LCI to the mudpits of the Nicoya Peninsula, from the familiarity of my Little Corn family to the mayhem of traveling with three other motorbikes...there's a lot to cover here in such a short time.

It all started when I left the island last Tuesday. After six months of being on my own on the bike, I am utterly unaccustomed to public transportation, so the trip back to my bike was exhausting: panga from Little Corn to Big Corn, walk to the airport, shaky plane to Bluefields, taxi to the dock, wait two hours for a boat, take the lancha two hours upstream to El Rama...and arrive to find my bike...fine! Thank goodness for that. It looked like someone had tried to remove the left pannier (and failed! Go Happy Trails!), there was trash and birdshit on it, a bit of rust on the pannier frames and chain, and the clothing I'd left inside smelled a little on the moldy side, but aside from that everything was ready to go. The bike fired up after a few longs pulls on the electric starter, and we were ready to go. But first, a restful night in El Rama (considerably friendlier than Bluefields, for the record, although that's still not saying much).

I resumed my motorcycle adventure the next morning, with an easy 180 mile trip back along familiar roads to Granada. Pulling out of town, I hit a speed of 35 mph and thought to myself, "Woah, back it off a little there!" I realized that the fastest I'd gone in two months on LCI was when I ran over hot sand to jump into the ocean. Seriously, life was slow there.

The ride was easy and straightforward, through jungle and grazing fields, and past flannel-and-Levi's clad men on horses herding cattle the color of the Burnt Sienna crayon in Crayola boxes. I had one run-in with the authorities, my third time being pulled over in utter violation of the law: this time I was riding with an expired bike importation permit, no insurance, no stamp in my passport, and an expired Nicaraguan tourist card. Whoopsadaisy. The cop had me at his mercy, but merely pointed out the deficiencies and sent me on my way with a smile and a wave. Really? Awesome.

I spent the night in Granada. Aside from a building fire across the street and a subsequent blackout, it was a normal and uneventful night. I left bright and early the next morning for the Costa Rican border for two reasons. First of all, I was in the country illegally, and itching to get out before the fines amounted to anything more. Second of all, I had been in touch with another adventure rider, Tyler, on www.horizonsunlimited.com/HUBB, and he and a few other riders would be crossing the border that same day. With any luck, I might be part of a group by the afternoon!

The border crossing went as expected: $105 in fines, three hours, and I was done. As soon as I finished, a motorcyclist pulled up and began the process. His name was Arthur (from Israel via Russia, riding a Honda XR650), and he was in the group I was looking for. Soon after, Greg rode in (from Toronto, on a BMW 800GS). Finally, along came Tyler (American in Australia, riding a 2007 Ural with sidecar), with Kate (British backpacker, lived in Mexico awhile) riding shotgun. We were a full on motorcycle gang! Right away I knew I'd get along with these guys. We are all roughly the same age, all solo travelers who had met up in the past few days, and all traveling with an open mind. Couldn't ask for more!

Or, could I? How about a sweet beachside house in Playa del Coco for a few nights? Done.

And an awesome Costa Rican girl to hang out with? That would be Ana. Done.

Oh, and diving in the Pacific with all sorts of sea creatures I'd never heard of before? Sure, why not. Consider it done.

That was Playa del Coco in a nutshell. Then the fun really began. What appeared to be a straight-forward three-hour drive to Montezuma on the southern tip of the Nicoya Peninsula, with the help of a few wrong turns and a bring-it-on attitude became a day-long adventurous slog through mud, rocks, potholes and sand. Only Tyler, Kate and I got this badly off track, so the other complication was getting in touch with the others in the group. This is Kate and I posing for a picture at the beginning, when we though the road was bad enough for a photo:

Three hours later, the road ended here:

To get there, we'd had to negotiate this:

And this:

For me, the most incredible thing was that I could do all that! And more that didn't get photographed. Even though some days I still feel like I haven't a clue what I'm doing down here (who's idea was this, anyway?), days like this stick out as examples of how far I've come in my motorcycling skills, and how much fun this whole adventure is. Tackling these rough roads with new friends, and coming out the other side upright and victorious is an incredible feeling. And when the road takes you to a place like this...

...it's even better. This is Coyote Beach, where we magically popped out. We camped there for the night, and met the others in Monteverde/Santa Elena the next day. Monteverde is an adventure-tourism hub, but in that very tame Costa Rican way. It sits at the end of a tedious dirt and pothole road, high up in the mountains. I actually was cold there, and had to snuggle down into my blankets at night to keep warm! Monteverde was also the site of my first hot shower since July 1st, over two months ago. More than that, though, it was a place where we went on an "extreme canopy tour".

There wasn't much time to observe the canopy as we went flying along a series of fourteen ziplines, but by the end of the trip I couldn't have cared less. The cherries on top were the heart-pounding "Tarzan Swing", which consists of a vertical plummet followed by a wild and free soar through the trees, and the "Superman", a 1-km long zipline where you're harnessed in belly down so you can fly like a bird high above the valley. It was beautiful and fun, and more exciting than I had believed it would be.

Since then we'd descended from on high and ended up in Uvita, a chilled-out beach town and our jumping-off point for the Peninsula de Oso. Tomorrow we take a back road (ie: not on any maps) into the peninsula, and after that we'll hike through wildlife-infested jungle and beach for a few days. Then it's on to Panama! Costa Rica is a lovely place, with fun and technical roads connected by smooth, paved main arteries, and plenty of street signs, and citizens who actually obey traffic laws. And Costa Ricans themselves are incredible friendly, happy people--noticeably so. I'd be loath to leave if it weren't for three things. One, it's very expensive. Think Mexico/US. Two, it's easy. And three, I'm finally traveling with a group of stellar, like-minded motorcyclists, and I don't plan on leaving them any sooner than I have to.

Until next time,

Sarah

Photos: Week 25: South to Costa Rica!

alpiner84 — Tue, 13 Sep 2011 22:06:00 GMT

Returning to the bike, south through Nicaragua, across the border, and the Nicoya Peninsula

Month Six: Little Corn Island Part II

alpiner84 — Mon, 12 Sep 2011 09:07:00 GMT

So much has happened in the past few days that I want to catch you all up on, but I can't regale you with those shenanigans until I catch you up on the past month. Catching you up on a whole month of events? Yeah, right. Especially when those events became all blurred together in the phenomenon called "daily life". But I'll give it a shot.

After making a run to Bluefields and El Rama to make sure the bike was well-stored for an extended stay on LCI (which was an adventure in itself: gunfight outside my hotel room, a debit card that stopped working, and getting in a full-on yelling match with an armed military man who wanted to get a bribe out of me), I settled into my daily life on the island quite easily. Daily life included (but was not limited to) the following:

1. Wake up at my "home" at Three Brothers, where Randy and Lucilla took good care of me and all the other travelers. I was regularly threatened with a beating when I was gone all day without telling Lucilla. My alarm in the morning was one of two things: either the suffocating heat waking me up after the fans shut off (island power is only on from two in the afternoon to five in the morning), or my crazy flat-mates on the balcony outside cracking a crude joke or yelling "patti patti patti!" at the tops of their lungs. Then toe-in-the-hole with coconut bread for breakfast, while hanging out on the balcony with the same crazy people.

2. Head to the beach! I usually hung out on the north beaches, which were quite private and secluded, a situation that greatly assisted me in my plot to get rid of all my tan lines. But if the day was overwhelmingly hot, it was often better to hike through the swamp to the east beaches, which it was breezy all day. But I preferred the hike to the north, which wound through the edge of town, past the school and the basketball court, through the baseball field, along a hard-packed mud path through tall grasses and fruit trees, and eventually popped out a half hour later at the beach, where crystal-blue Caribbean waves lapped on white sand, and coconut palms arched out over the shore.

3. Head back from the beach, sweaty and brown(er). Take ice-cold shower back at Three Brothers. Is it two o'clock yet? Because that fan would sure be nice...

(Dive-shop cat Crazy Legs. He has a hair-fetish, don't hold it against him.)

4. Go diving! This usually happened in the morning, not the afternoon, but hey, there's a lot to include here. Diving with the best dive company ever, Dive Little Corn, was a fantastic experience. I did a refresher dive, then a ten-dive package, then my Advanced Open Water certification, then a two-tank trip to Blowing Rock, then another fun dive...it was a lot of diving, and it was all perfect. I saw hammerhead sharks, bottlenose dolphins, and king fish and tarpon (each the size of me); eagle rays flying through the water like, well, eagles; stingrays, moray eels, pufferfish, box fish, drumfish, filefish, angelfish; fish with electric-blue spots, fish with neon yellow tails, fish that swam with their dorsal and ventral fins, fish that looked like needles, and fish that looked like punk-rockers...the list is endless. I even had my fintips nibbled by an overly inquisitive nurse shark, although I'd rather not repeat that experience. Huge thanks to my excellent instructors, dive-masters and friends Jen, Dave and Jeff, and to Shell, Clint and Cheryl for running such a safe and friendly operation!I'll be back for my DM!

5. Go to work! Yes, that deserves and exclamation point. After a brief stint at Casa Iguana, I worked at Tranquilo, the most popular bar on the island. The view was amazing, the people were great (that's you, John and Lisa!), and the patrons were most often fun and interesting. We rocked out to awesome playlists from Lisa's iPod, mixed caiprihnis and pina coladas, cracked the lids on Tona and Victoria beers, and wiped massive puddles of condensation off the bar before they dripped onto peoples' laps. Out over the ocean, there were often lightning storms on the western horizon, which lit up the towering stacks of cumulus clouds like gigantic, apocalyptic fireflies. It was one hell of an office, I'll tell you that much.

6. Walk home via the dock. At the end of the dock was a tall streetlight, which, for whatever reason, called all the barracuda and eagle rays to it. I passed by the dock almost every night on my way home, and I usually had the company of many friends. We'd watch the barracuda floating near the surface like terrible, toothy submarines, and wait for a spotted eagle ray to swim by with its wing tips sticking out of the ocean to touch the cool night air, just like a child dabbling his toes in the water. Sometimes we'd jump in, scaring away all the 'cuda, to revel in the bioluminescence we kicked up, and the massive star-swept black sky above.

7. Then home to bed, exhausted and ready to sleep and get ready for another day.

Of course there was more than that. All the little interactions with friends, the pace of island life (slow), the games of cards on the deck of Casa Iguana,the sounds of reggae and country music pounding out of peoples' houses, saying hi to everyone I passed on the path (there are no motorized vehicles on the island, how cool is that?), the smells of salt and fish and smoke and muggy human reek and freshly washed children, the founding of the Little Corn Disc Conspiracy (LCDC!), the bonfires and the slack-lining, the all-too-frequent goodbyes, the tremendous storms where the rain came down like drowning and lightning cracked down to touch the ocean just off shore, the Crab Soup Festival, the snorkeling adventures in Tarpon Channel, the gossip and the rumors of a small community, Dysfunctional Family Sunday dinners...sigh. I can't believe I left.

But I did. It was time to continue my original journey. A few weeks ago, after having lost heart in my own adventure for awhile, I looked at the map of Costa Rica and Panama, and my desire to finish the drive to Panama was rekindled. But I couldn't have it both ways. In order to drive to Panama, I had to leave the island.

Fortunately for me, I ate triggerfish twice. According to local lore, if you eat triggerfish (the locals call it "oldwife" because the skin is so tough), you can never leave the island for good; you always have to return. And there's no doubt in my mind that I will.

In the meantime, I have something else to look forward to: a ride through Costa Rica and Panama with other motorcyclists. That's right, I've found other riders to tear it up with. But that story, and more, will have to wait for the next time I write, because right now I'm off to explore some jungle canopy.

Until next time,

Sarah

Photos: Month six: Little Corn Island con't

alpiner84 — Sun, 11 Sep 2011 20:12:00 GMT

The end of my two-month stint in Caribbean paradise

Weeks 19 & 20: Little Corn Island part 1

alpiner84 — Thu, 28 Jul 2011 10:26:00 GMT

As I was saying, I had a boat to catch.

Getting to Little Corn Island (LCI from here on out) can either be very simple and a bit pricey, or very complicated and quite cheap. Either you fly from Managua to Big Corn Island, or you go overland and overwater for miles upon miles, until you’re at your wits end. I chose the latter.

It began with a drive from Granada to El Rama, 300 miles east near the Caribbean coast. The drive was easy, and a bit boring, except for the beginning where I got pretty darn lost for awhile. Like many Central American countries, the signage is pretty good until you arrive at a four-way intersection and there are no signs to speak of. Then there are situations like this one:

Even though all the signs directed me down this road, the real road is three blocks to the north, where a reasonable bridge spans the river. They just hadn’t gotten around to moving the signs yet.

Along the way out to El Rama, I noticed for the umpteenth time something that has puzzled and amused me since the very beginning of this trip. Cities, towns, intersections, river crossings, and detours all may go unsigned, but you can bet your last dollar that every single bridge will be named, and it will have signs identifying it…in both directions, no less! This goes for every kind of bridge, including the most common one, which is nothing more than a glorified culvert. Like so:

I don’t get it. And I still can’t tell if I love it or hate it.

After I arrived in El Rama, I secured the bike at a local hotel (covered parking, US$15 for a month) and caught the lancha to Bluefields on the coast. The lancha fits about 20 people, and takes two hours to travel the long, broad muddy river down to the coast. The water is the color of tamarind pulp. Banana plantations and coconut palms line the shores.

Bluefields is truly the armpit of Nicaragua. I hate Bluefields. It’s one of those town where you can't walk one short block without feeling like prey the entire time. Even the locals take taxis to get around at night. It’s that skeezy. Fortunately, I only had to spend one night there, and my room had AC and a TV. I stayed in.

The next morning I caught the ferry from Bluefields out to Big Corn Island. This is a very cheap option, and takes about five hours. And, after suffering through it, I can honestly say that out of all the places I’ve traveled, and all the hellish ways I’ve gotten around, this one ferry ride takes the prize of Worst Trip of My Life. Hands down. What makes it so awful, you ask?

Well, for starters, it’s “organized” like only something in a third world country can be. First, everyone waits in line nearly an hour for a ticket. Then everyone gets on the boat. About half an hour later, when everyone is settled down and has a spot, everyone gets back off the boat. And then they get back on. Why? Because no one collected tickets the first time around. But here’s the kicker: they do it like that every single time. It’s how things are done. And even though tickets were sold, which implies there’s a capacity, the boat it packed to the gills so that everyone inside has seats, half the people outside have a bench to sit on, and the rest are left standing—for a five-hour trip on rough seas.

After I’d gotten back on board, I found myself squashed up against a railing with a few other gringos, while people without a place to stand filed through the narrow aisle in front of us. Suddenly, a Nicaraguan man stumbled and fell against me, and lodged himself there. No one was pushing on him from the other side. Why was he shoved up against me like that, then? Oh, because his hand was in my pocket. I looked down and watched him fish around in my pocket, grab a fistful of cash, and start to move away. And then I snapped. Not only was he a thief, he was a really bad one. I was absolutely livid. I grabbed his wrist, he dropped the money, and I proceeded to yell at him like I’ve never yelled at anyone in my life. I can’t even remember the crude and insulting things that came out of my mouth, but I’m pretty sure I ended it with, “You’re a filthy, rotten, scumbag thief, and if you don’t get the f&%¿ out of here right now, I will punch you in the f&%$ing face and throw you overboard!” Best of all, the people here speak English, so everyone in hearing distance knew what was going on. He left the boat in a hurry as everyone glared at him.

It took me awhile to stop shaking. I was that pissed off. I have zero tolerance for theft, and this was the first time I’d caught someone robbing me since I was pickpocketed in Africa five years ago. I think it was all the unspent rage from that incident coming out. When I stopped foaming at the mouth, everyone around me congratulated me and told me I’d handled the situation really well. Did I? Well, at least I had all my money.

All that happened before the boat even left the dock. And it only got worse. For the next six hours, we plowed through extremely rough seas. Even the locals were wide-eyed and hanging their heads over the side. The waves were so huge, my ears were popping between the peaks and troughs. It was raining cats and dogs, there was no protection, and waves kept rolling over the bow and drenching everyone with gallons upon gallons of warm saltwater, which then chilled in the stormy breeze. For a few hours in the middle I thought I was going to join the masses and get seasick. I just didn’t feel well at all. But my stomach stayed solid, and a few hours into the trip I felt okay. Well, not okay: I was soaking wet, crammed onto a wedge of bench, and convulsing from full-body shivers. It was utterly miserable. When we finally landed at Big Corn Island, I was wondering why I had to pay for that journey. It seemed like someone ought to have paid me.

And the trip wasn’t even over. I waited around the dock for an hour while the roster for another lancha was filled. While waiting around there, I thwarted a young boy who tried to steal another traveler’s bag off the dock. I was so sick and tired of people trying to take other peoples’ stuff, I about snapped that little kid’s head off. But the bag was saved.

The lancha ride to LCI was short and sweet compared to the previous adventure. Things finally began to look up when I arrived at the dock and was greeted by my friend Matthew, whom I’d met on the Mirador hike back in Guatemala. He’s on the island doing his dive master certification, or at least he would be if he stopped cutting his hands open on sharp objects. If you haven't met Matthew yet, here he is:

Ever since then, life has been awesome. That night, I found a room, showered the grime of travel off me, drank lemon grass tea, and went out to dinner with Matthew, where I began to meet more people on this island. And let me tell you, they’re all amazing. I have been having so much fun here, I can’t even begin to describe it all. There are bonfires and slacklining every Wednesday and Saturday. Friday nights are Pub Quiz night. Every Sunday, the whole island shuts down so the locals and gringos can play the national sport of Nicaragua: baseball. And Sunday night is Dysfunctional Family Dinner night. I spend most of my days either on the beach or SCUBA diving, and every evening I hang out with all my awesome new friends.

Speaking of diving, I know I mentioned this on Facebook, but for the rest of you: I have dived with both bottlenose dolphins and great hammerhead sharks since I’ve been here. It’s wild diving, and so beautiful, and so full of marine life I can’t even being to take it all in when I get down there. I’ve already gone on eleven dives, and I’m nowhere near being done.

So, the big news I suppose is that I’m not leaving LCI for awhile. I have made the decision to stay for at least another month, after having been here two weeks already. This means I will not be home in Spetember as I recently believed. It’s a pretty huge decision for me. What I’ve realized over the past few months, while spending time trapped in my helmet on long stretches of road, is that I have two serious addictions in my life: momentum and hoarding.

Momentum: Once I get going, I find it really hard to stop. I don’t even like to stop to take pictures when I’m on the bike unless I’m really blown away by something, or if I’m in a weird mood. I think the reason I always have momentum is because I always have a goal in mind: I’m going to go to Africa and travel aimlessly for three months, but I must fly out of Nairobi on this date; I’m going to go to South America and travel wherever I want for five months, but I must fly out of Quito on this date; I’m going to drive to Panama and back. Very directional, despite how much it feels like wandering. I’ve always believed that it’s about the journey, not the destination, but the destination has always been there.

But this trip is different. Once I realized I didn’t need to be back in the US at any certain time, I’ve felt a bit directionless. It took four months of knowing that, plus two weeks here on the beach to come to grips with the fact that that’s okay. I don’t even know if I’m going to go north or south when I’m done with LCI, or even when I’ll be done with LCI for that matter! And it’s totally, absolutely, 100% okay. I can’t tell you how nice it feels to say that and actually mean it.

Hoarding: The other addiction I have is monetary. You may laugh at this, but for the past three years I worked very hard and saved a lot of money, half of which I put into retirement, and half of which I put into a travel fund…but I’ve been trying not to use the travel fund. What kind of sense does that make? None whatsoever. It’s just another bad habit that needs breaking. And I think, if I play my cards right here on LCI, I will be breaking that habit in a big way. I plan on spending however much money I want to in order to have a good time and make the most of my stay here. I may ever get my dive master certification. Hells yeah.

So that’s where things stand for me right now. I realize this blog was way too long, but I had to make up for the fact that I’m probably not going to write again for awhile. After all, my life will be pretty static for the next month or more. But I’ll be available online for Facebook or email, so please stay in touch! You all know how I’m doing, but how the heck are you? Either email me, or leave a comment, or say hi on FB. I’d love to hear from you.

Until next time,

Sarah

Photos: Weeks 18-23: Nicaragua!

alpiner84 — Wed, 27 Jul 2011 16:25:00 GMT

Mainland and Little Corn Island

Week 18 – Mainland Nicaragua

alpiner84 — Wed, 27 Jul 2011 09:30:00 GMT

I last left you at the border between Honduras and Nicaragua. To say that a lot has happened between now and then is a massive understatement. I had one of the most exciting weeks of riding on my trip, punctuated with meeting heaps of fun and interesting people, and finishing up with a change of plans here on Little Corn Island in the Caribbean (see next blog post, Weeks 19 & 20). It’s been a helluva ride here in Nicaragua.

Northern Nicaragua was a lovely place to ride. Smooth, open paved roads, punctuated with short, muddy detours where workers were installing culverts beneath the road. Volcanoes lined up on the horizon to escort me into the town of Leon. Nothing special happened there, except that I could never seem to orient myself in that town. I think I spent the majority of my time there wondering where in the hell I was.

I continued south to Lago Nicaragua and Isla de Ometepe. Just south of Leon, the road turned to shit. I swear, there were more potholes than there was pavement for the vast majority of that ride. Semis rumbled towards me on any part of the road that made their ride smoother, pushing me off to the margins. As my friend Tom wrote on his blog, as a motorcyclist I’m expected to create space for other vehicles on the road. It is my job, and I do it willingly for the most part, considering the consequences.

It was perhaps five minutes after finishing this slow and rough road that I nearly killed myself [sorry mom]. I was following a bus rather closely looking for a chance to pass. The buses down here are old school buses from the US, repainted in garish colors and covered with decals to look way radder than what I went to school in. But they don’t go fast at all, and, having spent the past decade in a country with no emissions standards, they belch out the most unbelievable clouds of black, acrid exhaust that I’ve ever seen in my life. So passing them is a matter of health. During a passing opportunity, I pulled out from behind the bus and saw an oncoming car in the distance. Thwarted, I swerved gently back behind the bus, right as the bus drove over a massive [cantaloupe-sized and jagged] rock in the road, which passed harmlessly between the bus’s wheels and suddenly emerged twenty feet ahead of me, directly in my path.

I drove straight over it at 50 mph.

There was no other option, and as it went under the front tire, I clearly remember thinking,“This crash is going to be serious and awful.” But I didn’t crash. I drove straight over the rock, front and back wheels, which caused the bike to swerve mightily, carrying me left and right in a massive wobble four, five, six times…and then I stabilized it, got the bike back under control, and promptly pulled to the side of the road. My heart was pounding like I’d just faced the Nevis bungee jump again, and in the side mirror I saw that my eyes were wild. But I was fine. The bike was fine. I was swearing a blue streak: why the hell was a rock like that left in the middle of the road?!? F%#&ing Central America. I swear, sometimes… Granted, this is a section of the world where it’s necessary to post signs on the road explicitly saying, “DON’T LEAVE ROCKS ON THE PAVEMENT.” Seriously. I’ll post a picture sometime.

In my mirror, I saw two Nicaraguan guys who had watched me nearly crash move the rock out of the road. I waved a thank you at them, checked the wheels again, and drove off, swearing to forever follow other vehicles behind their wheels only, never between, even for three seconds. As I cruised along on high alert, I couldn’t help but wonder if I would have been able to keep the bike upright in a similar situation a few months ago, when I first began riding. Is it possible that I’m getting better at this, or am I just extremely lucky?

Not half an hour later I hit more trouble. For the second time in two days of riding, I was pulled over by the cops for straight-up blatantly breaking the law. The first time had been in Honduras. I blew straight through a police checkpoint without a backwards glance, even though they were gesturing for me to stop. It must have been the twentieth time on the trip I’d done that…but this time, for the first time, they chased me down. The second time was on my way to the Lago. I passed a slow moving truck on a solid yellow line (very safely, and no, that's not an oxymoron), only to pop out in front and be confronted by two bored policemen. Whoopsadaisy. But here’s the miraculous thing: with a combination of stubbornness and friendliness, I managed to get out of both situations without paying a single centavo.

Days like that one, where I nearly crashed (but didn't) and had a run-in with cops (without paying), can either make me more cautious, or, if I'm not careful, more cocky. I’m aiming for the former.

Later that afternoon, I loaded up my bike onto the ferry to Isla de Ometepe. The lake water was brown and turbid, with waves crashing on the beach like in the ocean. Off in the distance, the twin volcanoes of the Isla rose darkly out of the water. I wasn’t convinced that this place was going to be as pretty as I’d been told. Fortunately, as the boat approached the verdant shores of the island, I found myself confronted with a green and tropical paradise in the middle of an endless lake. Driving around to my hotel, Little Morgan’s, was immensely enjoyable. There were more bicycles than motorized vehicles on the road. Everything was green and healthy looking, growing out of obsidian-black volcanic soil. The two volcanoes towered above me whenever I looked up, and the larger of the two often had a white cap of cloud and smoke around its summit. It looked for all the world like it had been picked up, dipped in cloud frosting, then put back down on the island.

Little Morgan’s was an awesome spot at the end of a rough section of road. I was able to hang my hammock in a treehouse for three dollars a night, with beach access and a delicious restaurant/bar onsite. Heaven. I stayed three nights there, spending the evening hours swapping tales with other travelers, and the days exploring the cold springs and butterfly gardens of the island. Isla de Ometepe is exactly as magical as people make it out to be.

When I left the island, I enjoyed a quick and straightforward drive north to the colonial town of Granada. I found lodging at the Oasis Hostel, which had an interior parking lot for the bike. In the market outside, I bought a new liter of oil, and set about working on the bike a bit. I changed the oil, cleaned and lubed the chain, and replaced the spark plug (I’ve been having starter and acceleration problems that could be attributed to an old spark plug, but unfortunately the new spark plug did not fix these problems).

A few hours later, hot and sweaty and ready for a break, I went back to the dorm room and met a new friend, Greg. We spent the afternoon wandering around Granada, making mischief with the local vendors, and drinking Cadillac margaritas at a local bar. It was quite an entertaining evening. Sadly, I could not stay and enjoy the town longer, even though it seemed worthy of exploration. I had a boat to catch.

And that’s where my story will pick up in the next installment. Thanks for reading!

Until next time,

Sarah

Photos: Week X: El Salvador and Honduras

alpiner84 — Thu, 7 Jul 2011 09:47:00 GMT

Week X: El Salvador, Honduras and Dengue Fever

alpiner84 — Wed, 6 Jul 2011 16:59:00 GMT

Something is wrong with the way I'm numbering my weeks, but without my journal in front of me I am unable to fix it, so we shall call this Week X. Suffice to say, I left Guatemala over a week ago, and have had a slew of adventures since.

First off, after making my escape from the temptations of Xela, I enjoyed a long, scenic drive to the southern border with El Salvador. The crossing was very straight forward, with zero hassle and, better yet, zero money paid! Gotta love a free entry. The reason behind this, I suspect, is that El Salvador is trying really hard to ramp up its tourism industry. It was apparent everywhere I went, with the tourism offices, cutely named scenic drives, and the overall willingness of locals to bend over backwards for an extranjera. First step to increasing tourism? Make it easy to get in to the country. Check.

I immediately drove up to the Ruta de Flores, and the town of Juayùa, a town that is about halfway into the country, from south to north. In El Salvador, that meant a whopping 80 km away. I arrived just as all hell broke loose from the clouds above, and settled in to a lovely hostel in the mountains, which I called home for a couple of days. The surrounding area was gorgeous and green, full of waterfalls and kindly, softspoken people. Very nice neck of the woods. Myself and the other two travelers at the hostel cooked up homemade meals that had us dreaming of our moms' kitchens, and watched movies in the evening while the heavens made a solid attempt at unleashing the next apocolypse.

I also spent one day down on the famous El Salvadorean coast, getting my first glimpse of the ocean since Sayulita, back when I hurt my shoulder! To have traveled this far in such a skinny land mass and not have seen the ocean in months...it had me checking the maps. I only spent one night at Playa el Tunco, and spent most of it exchanging stories and tips with a fellow motorcyclist, Damon from Australia via London. He was the first motorcyclist I'd seen since saying farewell to my friends in Flores, northern Guatemala. Again, skinny landmass, lots of motorcyclists...why aren't things adding up here? At any rate, it was a fun evening, and I left for the El Salvador/Honduras border crossing the next morning.

Upon arriving in La Palma, northern El Salvador, I discovered I had a raging fever. Instead of my normal 97.3 degree F temp, I was running at a hot 101.1 degrees. No bueno. My eyeballs hurt, I had vertigo when I walked, and I was suddenly remembering how sore my back had been the past few days...hm. Of all places, I did not want to be in La Palma. My hotel room smelled, the town was dull (though kind of pretty), and none of the restaurants seemed to carry the food on their menus. So instead of papusas, I had a hamburger, called it a day, and enjoyed fever-dreams all night long. The next morning I was still pretty feverish, but the vertigo was gone so I made haste for the border.

The crossing into Honduras is notorious for being slow, expensive, complicated and corrupt. I witnessed only one of those (slow) and it was for a reason that's [almost] comical looking back on it. It ends up the paperwork for importing a foreign-owned vehicle into Honduras was safely stored in the jefa's office. The jefa had gone to a doctors appointment, and not left her keys with anyone. Yes, yes, she would surely be back by ten or eleven o'clock. Surely. Noon rolled around, and I was sick and tired (literally) of waiting. At which point they decided to break into the jefa's office via the window, retrieve the papers, and get me on my way. After that, the process took a mere twenty minutes!

Northwestern Honduras blew me away with its beauty. Why had no one ever mentioned what a gem Honduras is? Sure, it's lacking in local culture, being a victim of US 'aid and intervention' for decades and decades, but the people are very sweet, the landscape is stunning, and the pavement (between the potholes) is in excellent shape! I was thrilled. The vistas made me smile at every corner. Towering cloud-shrouded hills, deep valleys and canyons, dozens of raging muddy rivers, acres and acres of dripping pine forests, cowboys on horses (or bicycles) swinging machetes, and droves of children. For the first couple of hours, I thought Honduras was populated by children exclusively.

I spent a night in the colonial town of Gracias, where I made quite a scandal by paying for a 20-Lempira ice cream cone with a 100-Lempira note. I don't think I'm welcome in that shop anymore. I spent most of the night in my hotel room, staring at a wall...which made me think to check my temperature again. Crap, pushing 100 degrees again.

The next day's drive was just as spectacular as the first. The road to La Esperanza from Gracias was paved for most of the way, fun dirt for the remainder, and nearly deserted, a nice change from the congested, exhaust-filled highways of El Salvador (along with being the tiniest country, it's the most densely populated). I ate breakfast in a roadside comedor run by a astoundingly ugly man with surprisingly good English. It constantly amazes me along this trip how many people I meet who have worked lousy jobs in the US (truck drivers and kitchen staff mostly), often for 15+ years, and have since returned home to raise a family.

I stayed the past four days at the D&D Brewery at Lago Yajoa, where my fever returned, then plummetted to a mere 96 degrees for a day and a half, then spiked some more...until I was utterly sick of taking my temperature. Ends up the rollercoaster temperature, the sore eyeballs, the back aches and skin tenderness from El Salvador, and the vertigo, are all signs of Dengue Fever! Hooray, add another tropical illness to the list. The cure was to chill out for a few days and let the virus run its course, which I did with much help from the D&D staff, who plied me with hot limeade, Faith Drops, and a free bed for a one torrentially rainy night. Most memorable moment of my days there: riding home on my motorcycle after being evangelized by scary Baptists, with two four-week-old kittens crawling around inside my shirt, and a guy on another motorcycle following me with a guitar and a bouquet of sunflowers. It was a beautiful day!

I'm now in Danlì, a nondescript city in Southern Honduras poised nicely near the border with Nicaragua so I can make an early crossing tomorrow morning. My fever is gone entirely, the bike is running perfectly (achieved a whopping 89 mpg on my last tank of gas!), and I'm excited for the next couple of weeks in Nicaragua, where I plan to tour the Pacific coast, then play castaway on Little Corn Island for a week or so.

Until next time,

Sarah

Week 15: Xela

alpiner84 — Tue, 28 Jun 2011 02:35:00 GMT

After debating whether or not to go to Xela, I drove here last week from San Pedro on a beautiful, clear, sunny morning. The skies were blue, the volcanoes green, and the pavement black. Not a bad combination. The road leading up out of San Pedro was almost as much of an adventure as it was going down. The corners are so tight, steep and hairpinned that I had to downshift into first gear for some of them, and repeat my mantra, "The bike wants to stay upright, the bike wants to stay upright!"

Xela surprised me right away. Being the second largest city in Guatemala, I expected awful traffic, dirty streets, tall buildings, and endless confusion trying to find my way around. But in reality it was small, with cobbled streets, light traffic, and, miracle of miracles, clear street signs! I found my way to Casa Argentina with no frustration to speak of, and met up again with my friend Rebeka. She in turn introduced me to everyone living at the hostel, and so the fun began.

I hit the ground running. That very night, after a mere three hours of sleep, I woke up at midnight, packed a backpack, bundled up, and crawled into a collectivo with all my new friends. There were three Argentines, a Spainard, a French guy, the Quebeccer, two Guatemalans, and me. Quite a crew! We drove half an hour to the end of a road, got out, and began our moonlight ascent of Volcan Santa Maria.

The hike was steep and difficult. My world was reduced to the circle of my headlamp beam, with occassional glimpses of white and purple flowers I looked forward to seeing in the daylight. Every so often we reached a switchback with views down over the city. From our great height, I could see the spread of the city, and realized it was much larger than I first gave it credit for. Islands of twinkling lights shone through gaps in the pearly-white moonlit clouds, and tall, dark, monolithic volcanoes rose out of the gleaming sea like watchful sentinals.

Hours later, we summitted, and I was rewarded with the most lovely and mesmerizing sunrise of my life. There were so many beautiful things to look at at once, in so many directions, that it was impossible to take it all in. Firstly, there was the eastern horizon itself, splitting thinly open, like light coming in under a door, all orange and yellow and crimson. Then, below us on the other side of the mountain, barely visible in the morning gloom, was Volcan Santiaguito, very much active and billowing hot plumes of smoke and ash, with lightning flickering within. And inside the cone of the volcano, clearly visible for a mere two minutes, was the glowing red of actual lava, crusted over with black, and gleaming ocassionally with clear, white light.

When the coals of Santiaguito were no longer visible, I looked up to have my world rocked yet again. The misty clouds around us had all taken on a profuse and delicate lavender and rose hue. Everywhere I looked, up, down, and around, I was surrounded by a fairytale landscape, full of light, color, lupines, glistening dew-laden trees, and a horizon of stately volcanoes. Heaven on earth.

So that was my introduction to Xela. The next few days were less adventurous, but no less fun and thrilling. The group of people I've been hanging out with mostly live here in the city. Some have been on the road for years, others for months, some are locals, and all are settled into this lovely city for some period of time. They have jobs and responsibilities, but also nightlives and parties and more friends. Every night we've gone out and done something new, usually focused around live music.

It is a constant truth that friendships and relationships on the road progress quickly and recklessly, with no time to waste in the typical dance of sizing each other up. People open up quickly, bare it all and risk it all, right off the bat. If you want to know someone, there's no time to lose, because odds are one of you is getting on a bus (or a bike) the next day. The relationships I have formed in this town are no different. I leave tomorrow for El Salvador. If only I had the same amount of room on my bike as I seem to have in my heart these days.

Until next time,

Sarah

Photos: Week 15: Xela

alpiner84 — Mon, 27 Jun 2011 10:15:00 GMT

Xela (Quetzaltenango)

Week 14-ish: Mirador, Semuc Champey and San Pedro

alpiner84 — Tue, 21 Jun 2011 15:35:00 GMT

First of all, I have officially been on the road for longer than 100 days! Wow! And I have just over 6,000 miles of travel behind me. Recently I've been overwhelmed with how lovely and beautiful this trip has been. I'm absolutely in love with riding the bike, I've been meeting the most wonderful and fun people along the way, and I'm excited that there's more ahead of me on the road south. There are trying moments, as there always are during long-term travel, but the juice is worth the squeeze.

As for what I've been up to, I simply can't cover it all. This is my fault for not updating this blog thingy more often, but what can I say, I've had compelling reasons to not be spending my time in internet cafes these days. So I'll summarize week 13, which consisted of a five-day, 65km jungle trek to the remote Mayan ruins of El Mirador in a mere five points and a picture:

1. Awesome group of six people who clicked perfectly and kept each other laughing endlessly for the whole trip.

2. Crazy Mayan jungle guide Alex kept us on our toes with his sarcasm, fittness, playfulness and his strong desire (and ability!) to find all sorts of jungle creatures.

3. Sunsets on top of ancient temples every night, and one sunset/lightning storm that thrilled us all.

4. Taking a long, chilly, joyous shower in a jungle rainstorm at the end of 30 km of hot and sweaty jungle trekking.

5. Playing a game of Chaboo where we got to yell horrible and hilarious things at each other at the tops of our lungs.

And, the picture:

Okay, moving on! After the trek I lazed around the island of Flores for another day, spending most of my time either in a hammock or in the perfectly cool water of the lake. The next morning I left for central Guatemala, with the goal of arriving in Lanquin by mid-afternoon. I was successful, but the ride was more complicated and exhilerating than usual. This was caused by a) getting mildly lost twice (and I'd thought Mexican road signs were bad!), b) crossing a river on a ferry, c) tackling 40 km of rough dirt roads to get to Lanquin, and d) getting held up by road construction for one and a half hours (admittedly, it was a scenic place with good Guatemalan company!). But I made it through. The rough dirt roads were particularly rewarding. It was the first time I'd really ridden dirt since my crash back in the Sierra Madre, and I suprised myself with how well I did. Of course, had I been traveling with other motorcyclists, they would have dusted me right away considering how slowly I was going! Sure was pretty, though:

The hostel at Lanquin, a sweet spot called the Zephyr Lodge, was packed with my friends when I arrived. In addition to friends, it had cheap and comfy acommodation, amazing views, and, best of all, kittens! Ah, kittens...

The next day, the Mirador crew (minus Sam but plus another Pete) went on this really sweet tour organized by the hostel. It starts out with a candlelight tour through some really spiffy caves. Now, by candlelight tour, I don't mean walking thru a cave lit with candles...I mean swimming through a cave system, climbing up and over rocks, climbing waterfalls, descending ladders, and dropping thru holes all while holding a candle. Ha. Pretty cool. Pics to come soon.

The next stop was the gorgeous paradise of Semuc Champey, which according to one guy meant "Where did it go?" in the local lingo, which is an apt name considering a small river disappears beneath the ground through a hole too small to really see where it goes... What's left on the surface is a limestone bridge formed by a) large boulders that have fallen from the surrounding cliffs (according to the informational signs at the sight) or b) by the errosive actions of massive amounts of water flowing through the ground, forming the tunnel where the water disappears(according to science and logic). Hm. On top of the limestone bridge are a series of pools of brilliant depth, color and coolness, all perfectly poised for people like me to jump into and swim around in. It's heaven on earth. I could have spent the rest of my life swimming in those pools.

After a couple nights at Lanquin, I continued onward to Antigua, but the ride sucked and so did Antigua, so I left the next morning for the town of San Pedro la Laguna on the shores of Lago Atitlan. The ride was the first of the trip that was consistently rainy and cold, not to mention steep and potholed. But I ended up at Lago Atitlan right before all hell broke loose, and found my friends (yet again) at a prearranged hostel. And guess who else was there? Tom and Alex. They seemed to be doing well, although the town of San Pedro is full of parties and alcohol, and by the time they left town, it looked like they were feeling the side effects!

My first day in San Pedro was spent climbing the local Volcan San Pedro. We chose a lousy day for a view, but the exercise felt great! Nothing like getting on a stairmaster for five hours...

Day two was spent swimming with new friends, including a local Guatemalan, at the town of San Marcos on the opposite shore. The water was unbelievably clear and beautiful, and the perfect temperature to feel refreshed. We jumped and splashed around for some time, before hitting the tiny town center for food and fresh kombucha!

Today I negotiated a trade with a guy at the hostel: he's a masseuse, and I have a motorcycle. He can ride my motorcycle around if I get a massage. Lovely. I also sunbathed for a few hours on the rooftop of a hostel, surrounded by the magnificent view of the lake without clouds and rain. It's truly a beautiful place here, and it will be sad to leave, although the party scene and the amount of tourists can be a little overwhelming at times.

Tomorrow I make tracks for the highland town of Xela (Quetzaltenango) for some more hiking of volcanoes. Then it will be south along to coast to El Salvador for a short while before heading into Honduras for diving and more. Fun times ahead! I'll try to be better about keeping this thing updated!

Until next time,

Sarah

Photos: Week 14 (?): Semuc Champey and Lago Atitlan

alpiner84 — Tue, 21 Jun 2011 13:04:00 GMT

Weeks 12 : Welcome to Guatemala!

alpiner84 — Wed, 15 Jun 2011 07:32:00 GMT

Oh, I'm so far behind on writing! This is going to be a [not-so] quick and [very] dirty summary of the past two weeks of adventure! I last left you in San Cristobal, having reunited with some traveling friends. After San Cristobal, we cruised on over to Palenque, a Mayan ruin noted for its carvings and jungly setting. The town isn't much to look at, but the ruins are a saving grace. We hit them up early the next morning with another Australian named Des whom we kept saying goodbye to throughout southern Mexico, but who kept cropping up! Des and I set off on our own to explore the carvings and maze-like hallways and doorways of Palenque, climbing to the tops of many of them to admire the views and architecture. It was amazing to me to see how well preserved so much of the site was! I learned later that much of it has been reconstructed, but still, it was damn impressive.

When we got back to the hotel, I had made up my mind about something I'd been pondering for the previous day. Since Charlie and Patrick were crossing the border into Guatemala that afternoon, maybe I should tag along with them, thereby getting myself an escort across a remote border crossing between two countries with some serious rivalries and issues going on at the moment...it made sense. I would have to abandon my plans for the Yucatan until my ride back north, but it seemes like a fair trade for a safe border crossing. So I went with them. Unfortunately, a few things went wrong before we left town, and we ended up having to race for the border before it closed for the night--especially since we wouldn't be able to export our bikes from Mexico the next day since the import/export office was closed on Mondays.

Oh, funny/awkward story: So we're leaving the Mexico side of the border, and I'm the first one at the aduana office, where they check your passport for the Mexico stamp and sign you out. I managed to remove my credit card, tourist card and a wad of pesos from my passport before handing it over...but somehow missed the $60 in twenties stuck in the middle. Just like you do if you want to bribe someone. Crappola. The aduana, a big, stern man with zero sense of humor and exuding a aura of corruption, finds the twenties and gives me a look, like, "What are you getting at?" I could see the greed gleam in his eyes, but he didn't know yet why I was bribing him, so he kept looking. He must have gone through my passport four times, looking for something fishy, some reason to take my money and, better yet, ask for more, stopping at the twenties each time and giving me that same look...before he finally gave up and gave it back to me. I had apologized right off the bat and explained that I keep a small stash of backup cash in my passport and had forgotten to take it out, but he sooo did not believe me. I was mortified and scared at the same time.

Anyways, the Guatemalan side of the border was a new world right off the bat. The oddest thing was the need to take a tuk-tuk into town for photocopies before I was legally allowed into Guatemala. Not stamped in yet? That's fine, welcome to Guatemala, let me photocopy all your documents excessively! But the difference in attitudes was palpable, even at the aduana. The men helping us cross the border helped us cross the border. Everything was smiles and graciouisness. It was lovely.

We made it to the town of El Naranjo that night, a small town about forty minutes into Guatemala. Along the way I almost ran over every animal in the petting zoo. This is a country where dogs sleep on speedbumps, and pigs run willy-nilly across highways. As a result, the driving speeds are much more tranquilo, and I love it. El Naranjo was a bit of a dump. It was raining as we hit town, looking for a hotel. Almost immediately a red sports car full of rowdy guys started following me, cat-calling and whistling. At first it was a typical annoyance, but then they cut me off, slowed down, and jockeyed lanes so I couldn't pass and catch up to my friends. I don't think so. At the first chance, I sped by them and caught up with the guys. As we idled motors and discussed which hotel to try, the guys in the red sports car idled right behind us, watching our every move. We pulled away, and so did they. At an intersection, I called over to Charlie that we were being followed. Shortly after that we pulled into a hotel and never saw the car again. Not the best way to be welcomed to a town.

As it happens, we had good reason to mistrust the town. The hotel owner, a lovely man named who'd worked for years in LA as a chef in a French kitchen, welcomed us in with open arms, then promptly forbid us to go out again. We wanted beers? He would send out for them, no problem, but we were not to leave the hotel. Just a few weeks earlier, between 20 and 40 people (depending on who you ask) were decapitated (or chainsawed, depending on who you asked) just 40 km (or twenty) from town. The drugs issues in Mexico are pushing ever south as Mexico cracks down on its problems. And the cartels are not excercizing restraint with their southerly neighbors.

This is me at the hotel room, grateful to be warm and dry and somewhere safe after (yet another) evening border crossing.

It occured to me, actually, that of the five border crossings I've ever done on motorcycle, between Africa and here, I've done three at evening/night, when borders are closing. Not a record I should pursue.

The next day we drove the rest of the way to Flores, a beautiful and tiny town on an island in Lago Peten, northern Guatemala. And that's where the story will pick up another time.

Until next time,

Sarah