Eyes are stinging from the morning hour traffic rush. I squint, directed into the sun, alright! Headed east, in the right direction. GPS could not find me, so hand written directions were to be the next best thing. Not to be. Drive long enough and the desired city destination sign will appear. Puebla is cradled in a nest of mountains and volcanoes. Its active volcano, Popocatepetl gives off a cotton white cloud of steam. Surrounding clouds cannot compete in color and volume. Camera and traffic do not allow me to do justice to this magnificent panoramic view. The city showcases magnificent suspension bridges and overpasses.

Headed southeast, we hit diverse topography. In one mountain pass, it’s all covered in cactus, the next trees so thick, you’d thing that you were in Colorado. Colorful wooden toys for sale line the road. The mountains provide sought after lazy twisties. The riding is the smoothest to date. An early break to shed winter suit and open lunch box. The contents reveal a cooking bag filled with a chicken thigh, chilis (green peppers) in a tomato based chili sauce; it’s chicken cacciatore! Walmart’s deli section back home never served anything this good. Before I can even get the bag opened, a dog appears as if invited for lunch. She has great anticipation in her face. Do you like it? She gobbles down a morsel. She does! We share.

Oaxaca is a big city. Its central district is just as congested as Puebla’s. This time, I have a GPS course and an address. Last night’s scan of hotels has given me a target that can be aimed for. The town layout is one way streets. There is a carnival in town. Vendors line the avenue, their mini trucks unload merchandise that further narrows the lane. Smaller bikes maneuver between. Dapple’s girth limits my ability to follow most of the time. The Aurora Hotel is right in the city center and comes with Wi Fi and parking. An inconspicuous open door signals that we’ve arrived. The price is negotiated for three nights. “Park right here in the lobby between reception and the Christmas display.” Her red color and chrome makes her fit right in.



The last time I checked her brakes pads was two weeks ago. They have all but disappeared since then. The country & I are, hard on tires and brake pads. Fortunately we’ve brought along a spare pair. I can change pads in the dark back home. Am not so sure about in a hotel lobby. Screwdriver and Allen wrench should be all I need. There are two Honda Dealerships in town and both open at 9 on Saturday. I am going to wimp out.

I’m given a nice clean big room with mediocre Wi Fi on the fourth floor. There is an elevator. The streets are narrow filled with people coming and going. There isn’t the ‘my personal space’ barrier one feels at home. The attitude is more neutral bumper cars, let’s get on with it. The market is lined with the usual wares one would find anywhere in Latin American. Don Pepe’s stand is crowded. His squeezed juices and sandwiches appear to be a local favorite. “I’ll have a Cuban sandwich.” Don Pepe asks if I want anything to drink. “Papaya, o.j., and carrot juice, please,” I respond. The wait is worth it. The sandwich is the best that I’ve ever eaten. There is the same pulled pork, ham and cheese, here with avocado and tomato, but it’s the bread! The roll is light, crisp, done to perfection, delicious.

The rest of the day is spent walking around town. I mark my hotel entrance as a GPS waypoint. The streets can be confusing. As a senior, I am given free entrance to the natural history museum. The building’s architecture, marble flooring and some displays are amazing. I get some elevated photos from the second floor. By evening, hunger directs me to a dried fruit stand and later to an outdoor pozole stand. “Three beef tacos with all of the fixings, please; no, hold off on ‘that’ salsa.” Pork pozole with the same relish is added to the soup. Someone sits down at the stand. He appears similar to the other tourists in the area. Shorts, t-shirt, sandals, backpack, and fair complexion, usually sunburned help us to stand out. In limited Spanish, he indicates the pozole. I help in the translation. Justin has recently arrived in Mexico. He is a bike mechanic from Boulder, Colorado. Once an archeology major, he has taken the winter off to explore. He states that hostel stays tend to run from $8-28.00/night depending on the amenities. I ‘m not paying much more than that for a private hotel room. We talk about cultural differences, his plans, and some archeological oddities. We shake and depart our separate ways. It has been a long day.

There was a bit of anticipation, with those front brake limitations. Rechecking this morning, nope they haven’t grown during the night. Dapple also happens to be low on oil. We were running at moderate speeds yesterday, hopefully it’s the stop and go traffic in the heat of day. There are two Honda motorcycle dealerships in town. Passed the first one yesterday. No way am I going back through that mess again. Oil gets topped off in the hotel lobby. No spills. A first for us, on both counts. The second bike shop is a km closer and a straight shot. I approach, just as GT Motos is opening up. Explain the situation and yes, he can get me right in. The young manager talks to one of the mechanics, “the bike will be ready in 20 minutes.” The shop is full of bikes being worked on. Hand over the OEM brake pads. I can wait.

The Honda showroom is loaded with ATVs and motorcycles. I head straight for the white GL150s. That’s the same bike, correct me if I’m wrong, Simon Gandolfi a septuagenarian rode from Mexico to Patagonia and then back north to New York. That’s one He!! of a bike! They run about 2400 pesos and tax. I give the lady my card. She can e mail me the costs involved, bike and licensing. Imagine, fly in, pick up your bike, ride the bejeezus out of it and end up selling it at the end of your tour. Bike comes with a luggage rack and center stand….. kick start. Before our conversation is over, I get the thumbs up. Dapple is ready. I thank the mechanic and slide him a nice tip. The lady behind the counter motions me over to the computer screen. The highlighted cost is 640 pesos!! “What!!!?”No, that’s the cost for brake pads, which happens to be the same price as back home. Would take 2 days for them to arrive from the warehouse, a couple of weeks if not in stock. Good to know. I ask how much for the brake pad replacement. Gratis. No charge. I feign a heart attack with a huge smile. Again, I am overwhelmed by the generosity shown me.

Back to the hotel. Traffic is backing up. I have two full days to play tourist and it isn’t even 10 o’clock. Dapple is put back to her lobby bed, enjoying her new shoes. I’m informed that the principal local attractions are an archeological and two art museums. I will not bore you with my museum visit details, but I will with the highlights. Pictures to follow once I find suitable Wi Fi.

The archeology museum is worth the visit, even if you haven’t read up on the area’s mysteries. The admittance is 90 pesos, half price if you are a national. “No, there is no senior discount,” she replies. “If I were half Mexican, could I get a 25% discount?’ The cashier charges me the discounted price. Read the books, love the place. There is a figurine that looks like a samurai. A statue of a dog whose face appears of Asian origin. I swear I saw a similar figure in a Japanese museum years ago. There is a small diorama of players in a ball court. Losers die. ‘Hello sports fans;’ we’re talking 500 A.D.

Entrance to the museum of contemporary art is a flat fee. I’m cool with that, a dollar gets me in. There are some interesting pieces. Pictures are allowed.
There is a stop at the library. These larger buildings are Spanish influenced. They all have courtyards, two floors of rooms surround. No better way to get out of the noon day sun. I meander through the artisan’s market. A small rabbit figure in local colors catches my eye. The asking price seems high. There is no place to pack it.

Saturday is wedding day with full length gowns and flower girls everywhere; coming out of limo buses, in front of cathedrals, posing for pictures. The bride in one encounter is surrounded by motorcycles. Most of the bikes show a floral bouquet above their headlight. “Is this a biker wedding,” I inquire? No, just the custom, a way to announce the procession, I gather. The bride curtsies. Tipping my cap towards the bride, “felicidades/congratulations,” I reply.

Last stop is the Museum of Graphic Art; it’s free but everyone must check their bag. I take a few pictures and sit down in their library. A book on Picasso catches my eye. Did you know that the artist was stillborn and given up for dead? His uncle intervened at the last moment and blew cigar smoke up his nostrils. ‘Welcome to this world.’ Learn something every day.
It’s probably close to 2 pm, I’m famished heading towards the local market. Don Pepe’s Hawaii Stand is busy and open for business. He recognizes me. Pointing, “I’ll have what she’s drinking and the Pepe’s Special Sandwich.” The drink is a yogurt based, granola, nut, a wide variety of fruits, and jello cubes concoction. Do not recognize half the ingredients listed in the sandwich. I’m on vacation. It’s all good.

I opt to play ultimate tourist for the rest of the day and take the ‘terencito’ tourist tram. For 70 pesos, one gets an hour tour of the northern part of the city. There’s another unexplored part of this city with its own museums, palaces, cathedrals and points of interest. Sit back, take in the sights, play tourist as the evening closes. Need more time here.

Shoe Shine Oaxaca Style


The zocalo or town square is its entertainment center. Saturday, people have gathered to listen to school kids’ choirs, town symphony, see Christmas displays, buy a balloon, hear bands, be entertained by dance groups, talk with family and friends, all while having a snack, people watching or taking pictures. Tourists join in the crowd, we are all part of the fun.

Yes, they look like tourists, but they are not staying at home watching t.v. either

Enjoying this very much.
Ride safe,
Simon.

OMG!! The residents of Oaxaca do not sing Christmas Carols; they shoot off fireworks. It sounded like the Yankees were bombarding Vicksburg, MS. All night, into the morning, and through parts of the day rockets went off every couple of minutes. They’re still going off. A band played till 2am. What lacking part of ‘classic’ Christmas winter snow is made up for in volume.

Sunday, will be my last day of recuperation before tomorrow’s check out. It is a day to investigate the outdoor market in Tlacolula and stop and see the Mitla archeology site. A 45 minute easy ride out of town without traffic gives me an idea of what riding to expect tomorrow. Sunglasses and riding suit will be essential gear. By the looks of the road conditions, only moderate mileage days ahead. Arriving early at the market with a motorcycle make finding a parking space a lot easier. Once Dappled has been corralled, there are blocks and blocks of wares that just seem to keep going and going. This is a walker’s sensory paradise, except for the overhanging chords, roaming small kids, three wheeled produce bicycles, the setting up of overhead tarps and rubber necked shoppers. The eye catches market differences. The squash here is lighter and some have a different shape. Chicken is deep fried in addition to the roasted and charcoal grilled. At one stand the chicken is served with a cabbage slaw. Small dogs walk around in coats. At a leather specialty area, leather backpacks would make great presents for back home. This weekly market is special to the indigenous people. It’s a place to sell produce and meet up with neighbors. These locals do not appreciate their pictures being taken. Camera remains in pocket.

20 minutes east of rough two lane asphalt and up cobblestone streets is Mitla. The sole security guard directs me to closer shaded parking. With the sun, comes a dramatic rise in temperature, I remove my hooded sweatshirt. It’s going to be a hot one in Bohn under body armor. I’m grateful for the spot in the shade. A local lady approaches with a coin in her palm, “a present (for herself),” she indicates. “Watch my motorcycle and I will pay you.” She’s okay with that, responding with a smile.

I follow, a couple of minutes behind a French speaking family. A cathedral stands at the entrance, a tall reminder of its encroachment. What catches your eye here is the intricate lattice of geometrical mosaic patterns adorning the site’s walls. The couple’s little boy is in his element, narrow tombs, labyrinth entrances, dark stairways and low tunnels. What’s a boy not to like? At the end of the visit we all meet up in the parking lot. Dapple is content, the lady is paid a couple of pesos, and reaching into my saddle bag, I remove a ‘Snoopy’ press clothes applique. I’ve brought a few from home. They are small, lite and sure to provide a smile. The parents and I exchange some pleasantries. First in my 3 years of high school French and then more easily in English. They have rented a car, are in the area for another few days and then fly back home. Bon Voyage.



Gonzo's Great Grandfather was at Mitla.................

The morning started the day off innocently enough. Last night’s plotting out today’s route was not as simple as it would seem. Maps gave conflicting views as to the best course. There were three options. Go north to Vera Cruz and then east through Central America, a southerly version, and a third which split the difference. Cross the Sierra Mountains now or later. The last option was the quickest and with GPS set and hand written notes, we had a plan. I knew my way out of town, or at least thought I did. Oops, an illegal right hand turn. No worries, at this early hour, there were only a few pedestrians on their way to Monday morning work. With minimal traffic, the remainder of the ride out of town went smoothly.

Heading east directly into the sun is bothersome. My plan was to follow a vehicle that would allow me to focus on their backside, not so much as into the sun’s glare. The problem with this strategy is that even a pickup than can be seen through the cab, does not give you enough time to react to road hazards. That shadow you see at the last minute can be just that or a pot hole. Dapple’s rim clinked a few times. #$%^&
There are a few things to note about driving in Mexico. First, you have to know what is approaching fast behind you. Frequent rear view checking is tougher than it seems, when trying to focus ahead. This is very important on a two lane road. On a motorcycle, you do not own the whole lane. I would prefer to stay to the left side. That gives more time to react to obstacles like crossing deer and such. There were bear warning signs in northern Mexico. Wander into the left portion of your lane at the wrong moment and a fast passing car may swipe you or at least take you by surprise. Second, when passing, be sure that the driver of the car knows that you’re there. If he doesn’t and just happens to swerve to avoid hitting a pot hole, he may side swipe or scare the #$%^ out of you. Either way makes for unnecessary road thrills.

There were a couple of things I was aware of going into the day. We needed to get on the other side of the Sierras and it would be windy when we did. Two lanes up, over and down repeated many times throughout the morning made for good biking. Short glimpses of panoramic views were spectacular. No scenic turn outs made it near impossible to stop. The only way to get a picture would be to drop into a ditch or fall off a very low or nonexistent shoulder, and then just in the right place at the right time. Not going to happen.

We were moving along well, as only a bike on twisties does. At one point, seeking a safe point to pass a car, a new white Toyota transport van came up suddenly and passed the both of us! I knew that particular driver knew these roads like the back of his hand, but could he see around curves? He was amazing. He not only sliced, but cut, chopped and diced those curves like he was a Vegematic. We followed.

I was warned that it would get windy on the Pacific mountain side with the appearance of windmills. Nothing new, we went through that in southern California. But then, the wind kept increasing. I thought lowering my upper body silhouette might minimize wind resistance and it did, for a while. The wind kept increasing. Now Dapple is a stout girl, but she is low to the ground. Her big sister, Roxy has a much leaner design, but is much ‘dual purpose’ taller. I could not have ridden Roxy today. The wind just kept getting stronger. I knew it was getting worse when I saw school buses parked under overpasses, braced near viaducts. It got windier. I saw two left wheels of a combi-mini truck rise off the road. Holy shite! He slowed down, pulled over; I passed giving extra wide berth. I slowed down, but it made no difference. We were blown from one side of the lane to the other. Stopping would have been useless as it would be impossible to park directed into the wind. So this is what it is like to be a captain at sea in a storm! I knew it was bad when semis ahead braced at underpasses. And then I saw the end of a long line of backed up vehicles. First, I could see one lane off to the shoulder that became two. I maneuvered alongside, again giving extra wide berth. Then three lanes of cars and trucks now taking the oncoming lane. This was backed up bumper to bumper traffic. I split the outer two lanes using the vehicles to my left as a shield. People were getting out of their cars. What was happening? Wind turbines were not moving. Had they not been braked, their blades would have been blown off. We moved along at a crawl, my legs extended out to prevent being swept over. The semi-trailer at my left shoulder rattled. This is nuts. Cars were making U turns, others wanted to continue forward. Two normal lanes tuned into four. Nobody was going anywhere. I imagined there was an overturned semi, perhaps an overturned windmill blocking us all? Finding a place to sleep tonight may become a challenge. No vehicle was coming our way. The curious that got out of their cars and wanted a look see interlocked arms to keep upright. And then the source of the problem became apparent. There was a demonstration of indigenous people blocking the road. The only people going through the protest line were on foot, leaving their taxi on one side and exchanging rides on the other. There were large rocks, cars, trucks and people that prevented any other kind of thoroughfare. We were all braced for the wind. On two wheels, now at the head of the line, I pulled out my camera and asked/demonstrated permission to take a picture. I was given the okay and later gestured that it was alright to pass through. I took my shots and approached the blockade. It was a difficult tight squeeze. A sharp drop down a road shoulder a small pass between two cars. I asked some people to please move aside. Was this an accident waiting to happen? The strikers complied. I dropped and angled through. I wished them good luck.



It was easy going from then on. Traffic became non-existent, the road was all mine. We made good time. We passed over bridges with names like Hondo River, Old Mother, Black Water and my favorite Marilu. Have you ever had one of those moments in a ride where you felt you could just keep on going and going? This was one of those times. By 5:30, the sun was setting and just like being told to go to bed by a wise parent, I took the Huixtla road exit. On the advice of three congregating men at a gas station, I stopped at the closest small hotel. 220 pesos for a single room, my least expensive hotel to date. Small, clean room with air conditioning. I was sweating. Cramped internal garage parking for Dapple. A hat stand for gear. What more could one want? Some extra surface area for gear would be nice, but not essential. I’m not sure if this is a love motel by the color of the bed spread and the hotel owner’s taste in foyer art. It really doesn’t matter. Dinner was the same as the previous three nights. The Chajupa is a bean spreaded, charcoal toasted tortilla the consistency of matzos. Inside there is grilled meat and cheese. “Do you have any veggies,” I asked. “No.” I got a plain, (normally a choice of either mayo or cheese) in the husk ear of corn from a passing bicycle riding vendor and another chajupa to go for tomorrow’s road lunch. A short stop at the convenience store for bottled water and I was good for the night. Another evening without reading 

Photobucket decided to sleep in this morning.

The day started out innocently enough. Yeah, same as yesterday. A new country today. New obstacle course, thought I knew the complicated turns involved. I'm packed and headed out the door.

The first problem is that the most direct route requires going through heavy traffic. At least this is during early morning Jersey/ body armor hot, not cooking hot, as in previous days. This involves going around the city, passing a market and then a supermart which are congested areas. Cabs slip out of their lanes to the side of the road to pick up waving shoppers. Traffic gets held up, fares get in. We are getting better at splitting lanes and making forward progress.

The second issue is that there are multiple Mexico 200 roads. They all lead to the four compass points and none of the signs have compass directions. Too focused on the road to check the sun. Two of the same city route 200 signs going in multiple directions. Confusing. I stopped between two turn offs, not the safest place to be and turned on the GPS. ‘Cannot compute,’ read the screen. Great. I make the correct turn only to find myself heading back to Tapachula. I just came from there! “Back the other way,” the man said. All I have to do is make a short U turn along this expressway turn off and then cross four lanes of cars barreling down. “This is dangerous,” I muttered to myself. With patience, the right moment arrives and Dapple does not disappoint. She has the power and we are back safe heading in the right direction.

We are moving along, backtracking when there is an overloaded mini truck with a slow moving car behind. No one can pass. I do easily, but #$%^&^&* , hit another pot hole! I cringe at the sound. And then something in the steering just does not feel right. I slow down. The vehicles I have just passed, are now passing me. Oh no, another flat tire. Guatemala evaporates. You can imagine what’s going through my mind. We’re on an expressway/carratera with moderate traffic. There are four lanes of fast (moving at different speeds) cars and trucks with a lane divider. There is no shoulder but an elevated sidewalk. I find a dip in the sidewalk and pull over. On her center stand, inspection of the front tire, looks good at 35 psi. Huh? The rear tire rim however has a huge pucker. Where the last incident was a first kiss, this one is a full tongue down your throat French. !@#$%^&*()_+@#$%^&*()_ !! In body armor and sports jersey, I am smoldering. Full sun and humid heat feels like being in an oven. Cars pass by. I spy ahead an overhang walk bridge. At least, there is a source of shade. Carefully we back off of the sidewalk and return onto the road. Slowly we progress forward. I stop to ask two women if there is a tire repair shop or a motorcycle mechanic anywhere in the area. They consider the matter and one lady recalls a moto repair just ahead on the opposite side of the expressway. All I have to do is continue on ahead, cross two lanes of traffic, make a U turn, cross another two lanes and then go a short way up against traffic. @#$%^& that. I continue along as directed gauging my limitations. I ask again for confirmation and a moto trike driver states that it’s just cross the median. Two lanes, grassy knoll and then two more lanes. Easy. “The repair shop is just on the other side.” Not a much better option with that flat tire, I think. Eying the staging area, I recall the overhead cross way bridge. That just might be doable. It is handicapped accessible. No stairs, I’m catching a break! There are a few right angles that will take some doing. But it’s safe. Against the law, get a ticket, I can care less. It’s my best option, if it can be done. I angle again onto the sidewalk, gun her to get us going and up and up we go. Hard right, another right and up and up. A hard left and we’re elevated facing a walkway. No pedestrians. The two of us probably make for quite a sight for vehicles passing underneath. Then down, “easy girl,” I say. Another left a hard right and I see the place for the first time. The shop has a few bikes and scooters under a front yard overhang. I angle down into the shop. There is nobody here, but a lady is sweeping at the house behind, a dog barks. I explain the situation. She will wake her husband.

During the wait, I immediately shed helmet and upper armor. Gloves are stowed away, all I have to do is wait. Tools are neatly arranged on a shop table. I introduce myself, explain the situation, he recognizes the problem and has that wheel off in record time. He cautions that this may break the rim. “Go for it,” I say. This is a get on with it situation. I caution against using metal against metal. Any pieces of wood available are not dense enough to do the job. I find some discarded inner tube, fold it, angled and with my foot holding the tire, he begins hitting the infraction. Hell, this is a felony. You tire out quickly in this heat. He takes a break, we talk, and then begins the process over again. The rim is slowly, very slowly coming back into shape. This isn’t working very well as expected. He knows someone at a tire repair shop with a bigger hammer. He grabs his car and we’re off.
We kill ten minutes of drive time to the tire shop in conversation. Three men sit outside under an overhang. Tires are stacked all over the place. We are in luck, they aren’t busy. The owner of the shop is immediately apparent, a neighbor and a young thin apprentice join him. The tire is brought out of the trunk. With supervision, the apprentice wails upon the inner tube protected rim. I joke that the apprentice is hardly any bigger than the hammer. The rim gradually improves in appearance. The jefe hardly moves from his chair. They ask the usual questions, make the usual comments. As they became more familiar with me, I can feel that I am the brunt of some male joking around. In limited Spanish, I hold my own. “Wasn’t born yesterday” To get a better bang with the hammer, the wheel is removed from the rim. Mind you, the boss has hardly moved from his chair. He comments, jokes and laughs at the apprentice when any mistake is made. Talk about on the job training, the hard way. This is getting nowhere fast so the boss moves his chair and angles a piece of wood against the rim and is holding the tire. The hammering away continues. Looks okay, the tire is replaced and checked for leaks. The lip of the tire will not seat. Some flammable liquid is poured, lit and I know enough to back away. Have seen this done on You Tube, have even tried it myself on stubborn new tires. The lip does not seat. More flammable liquid is poured into a bigger bottle. I caution against this as a poor solution to the problem. Again off with the tire and a black thick sealer is applied to the sore spot. She seats but continues to leak. Off with the tire again. More sealer and the addition of a black flexible sticky strip is cut to fit the affected area. This is not the way it’s done at Honda dealerships and then again it will not cost the same as a new wheel rim. With the added strip and sealer, the tire is set and she holds air without an apparent leak. I am dubious when hearing that “she will hold, but if I hit another pot hole, the whole tire may give.” “How can one not hit a pot hole here,” I ask “If your father turned crazy in his old age, decided to travel to a foreign country by motorcycle and this happened to him, what would you recommend?” Off came the tire. It was cleaned up by you know who and placed back into the car to drive into town to find a specialist.


I like the use of vise grips here.
These specialists use heat and hydraulic pressure to return the rim to shape. Pot hole problems are not limited to Dapple. Her frequency of this occurring causes a bit of hesitation. Must slow down. We continue our conversation. Christian, the bike mechanic shows real interest and concern. “Stay in the car,” he says, “they will charge you more if they see a foreigner.” This place uses a hydraulic press to mold the rim into place. He goes inside and quickly returns. They are too busy and will not be able to get it back until tomorrow. “There is another place I know of,” he says. We drive another 15 minutes in traffic, repeating the scenario. During the wait, I cannot but review my options. Limit my trip, to the perceived ‘safety’ of Mexico? Continue on? Call it a day? This time the rim is left. They can do it. “We need to go back and pick up the tire where we left it,” he says. Dang, he had not picked up his phone. His wife is angry. “Do not spend all day playing around with the Gringo,” she leaves in a voice mail. We laugh. I suggest that we pick up some flowers. Women like flowers. Driving back, as I wait in the car thinking that flowers here is a stupid idea. They’d melt in your hand in this hot air. We did pass some potted poinsettias a few blocks back. “Does she like plants,” I ask? I get a non-committed answer. “How about chocolates” Great, we will go to Walmart and pick some up. The tire and rim are reunited as a means to insure a secure fit. “First, we will go to my home and have lunch,” he says. The Latin Way of showing hospitality to us travelers is amazing. What a nice guy. What could be more natural a question, when two friends get together? We talk about life, wives and kids. We pick up the chocolates and along the aisle, I add some chips and ice cream bars. Things kids will like, wives appreciate. I am warned that where there are pot holes in Mexico, there are pits that engulf you and the bike south of here. Great, at least that may leave the rim intact. I am introduced to his wife who I met briefly earlier, his six year old son and twelve year old daughter. She wants to become a veterinarian. I scarf down my first meal of the day, a nice lunch of two sandwiches washed down with pineapple juice.

We drive back through traffic, the rim needs to be mounted a block down. I get out of the car to shelter and wait in the shade of an awning; it is hot. Time elapses and Christian returns with a smile on his face. Not only does the tire hold but the rim has been reinforced. And it did not cost nearly as much as he had anticipated. We agree that adding an inner tube would be a good idea. ‘If this should happen again.’ He hands me an inner tube. He charges me only for his costs. No charge for his labor and driving. I know better and leave a generous sum in the hands of his wife. Oops, instead of the intended 500 it is only a 50 peso note. The mistake is quickly cleared up with a laugh at my mistake. Looks like it will be off to Guatemala tomorrow.
I am offered a place in his home for the night. I know wives and reply that I must get an early start in the morning. She does not need to be urged. I am guided to a couple of hotels. We make our farewells. If it wasn’t for the luck of that pot hole, I would not have had the chance to meet you and your wonderful family. Thank-you Christian for being such a nice guy, a good friend.

How good are first impressions? My first day in a new country, and I was frankly disappointed. Yes, there is rugged scenery with a predominance of agriculture. So close to Mexico and yet so far. In comparison, I would describe Guatemala as the wild, rural, chip on her shoulder, pock marked sister.

Getting a reasonable morning start, I head to Ciudad Hidalgo to make the Guatemala border crossing. On the way, come in contact with a heavy set biker on a red Yamaha FZ named Carlos. He says that he worked at the border and would be able to direct me. We take a few short cuts around construction blocks, thanks to our bikes, we avoid a bypass. He happens to mention in passing that it costs $250 to arrange insurance in Central America. Red Flag! We park in the designated area and we go directly to the immigration office. He flashes his id card. The person behind the window directs us elsewhere. Outside I’m told there is a missing receipt. “Impossible,” I say, ‘everything I receive, goes into that folder.” No, we would have to wait until 9am when her boss arrives, to get the okay. At the bikes, Carlos mentions that for 300 pesos, we could bypass the jefe. Red Flag, “No,” I reply. Will not have this wonderful experience of Mexico marred by a stinkin’ bribe. Would rather ride back 30 minutes to the northern border of Tuxtla, than support corrupt officials here. Pack my documents and head out towards the gates. There, a guard asks for papers. Show him all of my documents, explain my reasoning and that I had not left the country at all. He nodded, but it was apparent he would do nothing about it. During his inspection, I see a receipt slip attached to the bike security document. Will try again, it is almost 9. Relieved not to see Carlos there, but this time there’s a long line of people waiting what to see another agent. Must have been a shift change at 9. This woman too, shakes her head. You will need this receipt at the Banjercito. Xlutch my handful of documents and head out the door for another line. Thank goodness there was air conditioning inside. It was ‘fry an egg on the pavement’ hot. Upper protective gear has been shed. When it’s finally my turn, I learn that one has to pay a 305 pesos departure tax, in cash. Wish I had known that earlier and saved myself some grief. Again returning to a short line, hand over the documents. With a quick review, a couple of stamps and signatures, I’m officially signed out of Mexico. The customs agent tells me that there was the option to keep the motorcycle document active. Leave the country with the bike, but return with the bike within six months from arrival to ‘officially’ leave out of Mexico. I have heard of other riders doing this, but too many things can go wrong to chance it. Mess this up once, will never be able to ride here again. Opt to go 100% legit and check out. She snaps a few photos of the serial number and of the bike. I have to pose with Dapple to elicit a grin. Official business going on here. Out of Mexico. Papers back in my folder, head for Guatemalan immigration.

A man comes to assist. “This is necessary fumigation to entry the country,” he says. The cost is minimal in Quetzales at the official rate of 7.5/7.05 at the border exchangers. I change $20. I ask, “be careful of my sheep skin seat cover and stretch chord bound hanging armor shirt.” He never touches the wand. Wasn’t born yesterday. I recognize my new shadow for what he is. How much do you want to charge me for your assistance? He quotes me 400 Q. ‘I’m and old man who has worked very hard all of his life.” 100 Q. he replies. How long will it take us,” I ask? About half of an hour. ‘You mean you want to make $24.00/hr. off of me?? “I’ll offer you $5.00.” Okay. Good thing I have plenty of singles in my throw away wallet to cover his fee.
Leave my bike and gear in the safety of the next checkpoint. It is melting hot. Documents in the folder, we head for the first line. Seems there are more people anxious to get into Mexico than the other way around. We hand over the papers and passport. We need a copy of my passport with the application form. My man, Auggie heads to a photocopy shop. “Oh no,” I say. “I’ll pick the shop and meet you back here.” A Pentecostal ministry has set up a speaker and mike at the adjacent corner. A little kid blasts hymns. His mouth is too close to the mike. He is off key. My ears bleed. The necessary copy runs 1Q and probably not 7. “My passport back please,” she had left it in the copier. Back in line to the original counter. The only cool air is what wafts from the barrier openings from the other side of the counter. Papers are reviewed. Sweat is pouring down my face. The agent is annoyed at my fixer. No one appreciates being cut in line. Allow the man in front of us to go ahead. My papers are handed over to the next agent. She asks for my Mexican motorcycle receipt. The one I chose to go legit with. She will need copies of my title (not registration), both sides of my international driver’s license, passport and some other documents, can’t even remember. We go to the copy shop, they are out of ink. The second shop is out of paper. Perhaps the two shops should combine? He knows of a third. A woman goes through the fist full of papers. I ask Auggie where I can purchase motorcycle insurance for Dapple. “The capitol,” he replies. School is out, the daughter makes at least 3 copies of each of the documents made, 24 in all. 12 Q. We head back towards the line. Choir Boy has been replaced by a shouting preacher. Ears are still ringing. Papers are reviewed. There’s a lot of standing around. The agents are actually working but there is a lot of old school bureaucracy and they are grossly understaffed. The customs portion for the bike is finished, now I have to pay the 160 Q. visa fee. Back to the money changers for another $20. The fixer moves to the counter. There are at least six people in line inside and more waiting outside. We were here before, I recall. The only air circulation is a floor fan which is angled towards a shotgun toting guard. Realign the fan towards the people waiting in line. There is a sigh of relief. I’m an old foreigner, what do I care of rules?

The money is paid, a stamped receipt and we return to the last counter. Inhale cold air from the face high aperture. A sticker needs to be applied to the motorcycle. Dapple gets a look over and is checked for VIN and license plate. The sticker is attached to her tank. She does not seem to mind. I am handed two sets of papers. One for the guard to allow my exit and another two to hold onto. I’m going to need some small change for the bathroom. Auggie goes with a 20 Q note and is gone for a long time. I’ve got to pee. Auggie returns with a handful of coins and is paid the negotiated 5. He has earned his money as far as I’m concerned. The security guard unlocks the padlock on the bathroom door. Wonder how one can urinate given all of the fluids lost from sweating. Out the door to prepare my exit. Show papers to the guard, he raises the barrier. The preacher is still at it. I don’t care, with ear plugs and helmet, all is good. Auggie directed me to an ATM bank. Go one block down and a few more left to find Bankural. We pass a Honda dealer and a couple of other bike shops. The ATM rejects my card; I ask for help, that does no good. I go inside the bank. Am prepared to exchange dollars. The cashier cannot do that. “This is a bank, isn’t it?” I walk back to the border area. I will get 7.15 for my $70. I need insurance for Dapple. I walk to a bike shop to find out about insurance. They direct me to the Bankural. My second visit is the same waste of time. It’s noon.
Border towns suck. There is no two ways around it. Overcrowded and hectic does not do it for me. Ayulla is like from the Wild West. Everything looks compact and ready to explode. We cannot wait to get out of here. The one way out of town will take us in the east, S.E. direction that we desire. We cross a river, we are in Guatemala, a new country to explore. The roads deteriorate. They are really bad. But we have learned our lesson, we slowdown in places to 15 mph. You have to. The problems arise in areas where you are able to get up to any speed, say 25 mph and are in the shade or are too close to the vehicle ahead of you to react. You do not see some holes until you’ve already felt them.

Here big trucks are the Transformers of the road. They own it and take up the entire portion of the left side of their lane. No quarter is given. To get around, you either have to pass or find a way around the shoulder. This is an agricultural country. There is firewood for sale, coconut husks are being removed with machetes and bananas fill open trucks. The exhaust from some of these vehicles is atrocious. The black soot stings the eyes and nose. We make slow forward progress. Towns are the worst, here road deterioration presides. The only benefit are the town topes and bordas. They give motorcycles a chance to pass truck after truck by riding on the shoulder. It is a narrow margin between trucks and drop offs littered with broken asphalt, canal holes, people waiting for a bus and overgrown shoulders. Pedestrian traffic adds an additional obstacle. Somehow we continue.

The most advance we make in one instance is where our lane has been stopped. Is that construction or an accident? Ambulance sirens sound in the distance. I follow the lead of moto scooters. K after kilometer, we pass cars and trucks. “They,” as in the opposition have no option but to wait. We move to the head of the backup. This part of the country uses an asphalt filled dump truck and crew to make cold patch repairs. The fruit of their labor is wasted.

I see some familiar signs. Gasoline pumps are not government privatized. There are Shell, Texaco and some foreign brands. I’m told that the gas comes from Venezuela. It’s all good to me and Dapple says that she hates ethanol tainted gas. There are some other familiar logos and reminders of home: KFC and the new Star Wars movie is playing in 3D. Within an hour of the capitol, the roads gradually improve. There are indications that a road grader actually exists in this country. In places we’re able to get up to 55 mph.! With that, speed and congestion increases. A 7Q toll gets us six lanes of road bliss. In the backroad huge mountain peaks jettison into the clouds. A mighty panoramic view. We continue to rise in elevation. It is getting colder. People are wearing sweaters and jackets. I stop to ask directions. “All of the hotels are straight ahead.” I drive through the downtown area; congested traffic is to be expected, why no hotels. Bikes must split lanes or contribute to the traffic mess. I follow their lead. Block after block is maneuvered through the gridlock. No wonder bikes here are sold by the truckloads.

I’m getting nervous. The sun is falling fast and there is a light drizzle starting to come down. It seems I have been all over this city with concentration set to full on. Stay the line, keep forward, not too fast/slow, adjust for narrows and impending vehicle turns, keep eyes peeled for a motel. End up going back along the same road previously came in on. Stop at a Shell station being low on fuel and to just settle. Legs and butt are fatigued. The first helpful response comes from the attendant. “Just straight ahead, you’ll see it on the other side.” Hand him my debit card and it works! Take that Bankural. Head back into traffic and nothing. Stop to ask just as office workers are getting out. “Can you please help me, I’m very tired and I’m just looking for a place for the night?” The urgent request actually gets a response. Go back along the sidewalk as I think he directed and get some weird looks. What can you expect from motorcycle riders?” Catch up to the group and they say that the hotels are on the other side of the medium. Is this Deja vous from yesterday? Turn back into traffic, cross four lanes until a return sign appears. There are no traffic signals for miles/kilometers along this stretch. Who needs traffic signals when you have the rear brake lights of the car in front of you? Thanks, city planners. A woman in a yellow vest and a whistle throws herself out in traffic to stop the oncoming hordes. She makes that sacrifice so we can make a U turn. With eyes peeled I come across the first sign off the main drag for a Luv Motel. I don’t care. By this time I’ll settle for some straw in a manger. Maybe Dapple wouldn't mind either.

Up a steep incline, I gun her to get up the hill. A sharp right gets me into an open gated lot. In the courtyard, there are garage doors open or closed. No check in is necessary here. We drive right to an open bay. It is dark as hell inside. Open the door to find yet another closed door with a slot. What is this, a maze? I explain my need for a place to stay. “Yes, all night; No, I will be out at first light.” 180 Q saves the day. No, they do not take credit cards, only cash. Dig into my wallet to find the required sum. Phew. The garage door closes and it’s totally dark. “Can I get a room with a garage light?” Seems not, they all have broken bulbs. Privacy I would assume. She opens the garage door to allow enough light for me to unload Dapple. She’s really tired. My room is dark wood paneling. The floor is imitation wood parquet linoleum. There is a shower, sink and toilet. No blanket, only a cover sheet. Lighting is limited. Okay, take the long johns out. We’ve got a place for the night.

Having not eaten, I ask to be let out of my love nest. When you’re in, you’re in Luv Birds. I phone reception, “I’ll be back in about an hour.” The garage door opens. A quick change of clothes and out in search of water and a meal. People in this city just seem wary to answer the most basic of questions. Stops for information are almost futile. Spot a cross-over bridge. A homeless lady sits on the stairs. Perhaps there are some leads on the other side. Ask two young guys and they look at me, like I’m looking for a handout. Follow my nose and there is a fast food chicken joint. Okay. Continue to the corner and there is an elderly woman/husband team surrounded by people ordering food. Looks good to me. “Is it spicy?” No. Okay, “I’ll have three.” They are small hand-made tortillas topped with meat, tomato and onion. My first real veggies in days! They are great. Scarf them down. Ask if there is any kind of mini mart in the area. No, they are all closed at this time. “???” A few doors down is a small store. Just what I’ve been looking for. “Do you have any large bottles of water?” No, this is the biggest we carry. “I’ll take two.” Eye what looks like a case of mini pound cakes. “And, I’ll have one of those too, please.” Back in the direction of the chicken joint, a dinner kicker. The lady smiles as she takes my order of two pieces and I’ll have an extra salad (translation: mini container of cole slaw). The lady passes me my meal from behind metal bars. I eat as my map is reviewed. There is no internet at the nest. I rely on paper. Ask the owner in the back if he can direct me out of this city. He’s worked in Philadelphia and uses his English. I’m grateful for his help. My cake dessert finishes off the meal. The homeless woman is wrapped up in a blanket. Hand her some coins, a lady behind me does the same. A few blocks further my garage door opens without even having to say, ‘Open Sesame.’

Guatemala City shoots off fireworks, too.

Got up early, a couple of hours before the sun. It got cold during the night. At first, the down sweater was pulled out. Out comes the winter suit. Too warm, take off sweater, ahhhh. Goldilocks, ‘Just Right.

Want to finish the previous day’s post and make the content discernable. What happened? Somehow through a touch of my left palm the previous text just got erased. Damn! Being a techno weanie, do not want to lose any more text, so I save. What a mistake; what’s saved isn’t that much. Hell with it. Got to get out of this place. By now it does not take long to get packed. With a sigh of relief, Dapple’s tire pressure is stable. She is a bit low on oil and the remainder of the Saltillo Mobil 1 is killed. The nest’s garbage can has an empty oil container to join the water bottles. Probably, the cleaning lady has not seen that one before.

We are ready to go; phone reception, no answer. Knock on the magic door, no response. Use headlamp to isolate garage door opener. Make that two things in here that do not work. Turn her on and honk the horn. Guy must have been up late with all of the pyrotechnics going on. Fireworks inside/outside going on, wherever your mind takes you. A button is pressed somewhere in Neverland and the garage opens. The courtyard gate is locked. We are prisoners. We want to get an early start. The sun is showing his face. You would expect a nasty giant or ogre to come out and demand his due. Fee, fi, foe, fum …. Dapple thinks it’s funny. The sleepy guard makes his apologies and we’re set free.

Getting out of G. City is not as easy as it would seem. Just go straight does not do it. Early morning traffic is still just that, but not as insane as last night. The sun puts an additional wrinkle. Get lost again. Stop at a Shell station where some bikes are parked. They discuss the options, long and direct or short and difficult. ‘Can you cut that in half, fellas, leave me the best of both? From here, because of the divider it is either right or left. “Go right to the retorno and then go straight. “Yeah, heard that one before.” There is money in G., looking at the leathers, shiny new Beemers and sport bikes. Pick up some bike specific motor oil while at the station $7.25/L. Ask how the roads are ahead. “There are patches.” Do as they say. Get to the same T intersection. . Stop in front of two guys and each points to a different direction. They are more helpful. Perhaps it is the bike. Dapple has that effect on folks. Follow their consensus. At a stop, ask a group of bikers off to work, how to get the hell out of here. One says he will lead me out. A couple of ‘glorietas/turn abouts later and he puts me on the right path. “Just go straight,” he says. We shake on it. Believe him; best act of kindness experienced in G.

The ride out of town is curvy through the mountains surrounding G.C. Congestion gradually evaporates. The road surface is good. Hoodie and sweater are just right, but only for a while as we make our way down the mountain. Dapple is in her element and shows it. When we stop for gas, just over 60 mpg! Never gets much over 50 in ideal riding conditions back home. Lack of ethanol in her diet?

Headed for El Salvador, we see pineapples, papayas, oranges and squash available by roadside vendors. The road surface does have its ‘patches’ but they are rough asphalt, not the pits experienced earlier. We brace ourselves. Leaving a country is normally first customs then immigration. Not here. We are swarmed by money changers. I have no intention of changing money as we plan to return. E.S. uses dollars as their currency. Some frowning going on. There is a short line moving fast. Informed that security is not an issue, cameras are everywhere. Do not need any help, thank-you. Checking out is the easy part. Immigration check. Customs check. Off we go.

The bridge into E.S. is under construction. At the border, one look at us and we’re directed to park off to the side. This has got to be easier than before. It isn’t. Officials are much more helpful, open, friendlier. Still hot and humid. The same copies, stamps, signatures, verifications, typing of forms and processes must be made. There are no entrance fees. 3Q to use the bathroom, better than paying 35 cents. !@#$%^&* the electricity just went out in this pricy ($50/night) hotel. No worries. A check on Dapple. She’s fine on her center-stand. Headlamp comes out of its case. Where were we, oh yes…… roads stay good. We are moving. Directions are not asked for. Garmin GPS makes a first time real contribution in questionable glorietas and turns. Afternoon is a quick stop for lunch. The mart offers real food. A customer informs the girl behind the counter that there’s a customer waiting. “What have you got with some veggies in it?” She mentions some kind of stew, but her voice tells me the ribs with a side of mixed veggies and rice are the best choice. I order. A smile indicates the right choice. A couple of bites later confirms it. There is a side room. Get the usual casual stares as I eat standing up. Better to check the surroundings and keep an eye on Dapple. Not that she needs it. There have been no issues with sticky fingers. Leave my helmet on the mirror same as back home.

The easterly ride is casual. There are still trucks and cars that should not be on the road. We all make do with what we have. The sun stands high in the sky. By 4pm, the day’s ride effects kick in. Any attempt at first time crossing a country in one day is nixed in favor of comfort, rest and safety. Enter San Miguel. “Is there a hotel in the area,” I ask the cab driver next to me. He thinks, and points towards the other side of town. Just up ahead is a large hospital. There has got to be a hotel around here. Sure enough, Hotel Villa will be our stop. Twice the price of last night’s nest, but a lot brighter, with a/c and a blanket. “Is there good internet here?” Yes, very strong. Two bars, a Photobucket does not make.

The shower is big and clean. There are plastic bags in the small garbage containers again. Somehow lacking in ‘any’ of the baskets at the nest. Ugh! My introduction to taking an electric shower is interesting. The shower neck is plugged into an electrical wall outlet. One touch of the shower head confirms this. Set your pace makers to ‘stun.’

A short walk takes me to a Lorena chain of bakery and cafeteria style eats. The loss of meals over the last couple of days has caught up with me. Dinner, it would appear by the man ordering in front of me is the light meal of the day. “The beans and rice look good. Got any veggies, huh I will also have the cold scrambled eggs with peppers and ham, and a plantain. Toss on also a helping of that chicken stew. And I’ll have two of those small sandwiches to go.” The eyes of the girl that takes my order, open wide. It all goes down so well.

Honduras awaits. That is the big Mother Crossing of them all. We’ll see how that goes.

Managed to ride through a country in one day. Bragging rights. Honduras is shaped like a V. Dip through the trough and mission accomplished. No big deal. The goal for today, is to be in Nicaragua. The sun rises earlier, the closer to the equator. Morning temp is 70 F., breakfast is included the hotel . Cannot refuse a nice selection of buffet free food. Guatemalans apparently eat big breakfasts. There is an assortment of juices, in one pitcher the juice is the color of papaya with a foam consistency. I try to pour, but it goes all over and around my glass. Tastes like papaya, will move on. There is a scrambled egg fixture that joins my rice and beans and plantain. A nice pastry assortment, I’ll take some for later, though that’s not allowed. A water bottle is refilled from the dispenser and a napkin covers my prize. Packing is becoming second nature. Dapple is a little low on morning measured oil. Her chain is lubed, tire pressure holding. We’re off.
Mapquest, map, GPS and a wax pencil will be my guides today. It is not a straight route to the border, so directions have been ridden on her tank, when in need of confirmation. CA 1 till right before Chuleta then take CA3 which in Honduras turns to 24 and so on. My clip on arm compass reassures me. Don’t want additional contributions from the sun. Its glare is sufficient. The roads are okay. Truck traffic is down, comfortable riding so long as we’re moving; towns come up sporadically, we’re making the kilometers pass.

A short line of backed up trucks appear. This can’t be the border. As we stop, we are surrounded by fixers. Dapple does not like having her rear, plate examined by strangers. A twist of the throttle and we are out of there. Must be a state border, I’m thinking. A ways down the road is a Texaco station, we tank up. Gas is $2.70/ gallon. El Salvador uses our familiar units of measurement. I can give accurate reporting. A tuk tuk appears with the same three fellas. “If you cross over the bridge without the inspection, there will be a fine.” We have reached the border. The apparent jefe is Lonny and his English speaking half-brother/partner is from Houston, Ronny. We have to return to the outpost, to get the first inspection and signature stamp.
This phase of the trip has been given some thought. I’ve come prepared? Honduras is known as having the worst border bureaucracy of all its Central American cousins. Worse than Guatemala; how could that be? Copies and stamps, then copies of stamped copies, then God only knows what? The temperature is in the mid 80s F.. Would have to hope that in a room built for 35 people, cramped with over a 150, standing in lines of lines is only a holiday exception. I justify the use of a ‘coyote’ in the name of safety. Do not want to be riding after dark! That’s what I keep telling myself.
“I will use your services when we first can agree on a price. For that, I want someone to watch my bike, handle the paperwork, you pay for all of the copies.” We haggle on $18.00, from $35; it goes a little too easily. Red Flag. We arrive at the Salvador immigration side. No security issues, there are cameras. I hand over Lonny my passport, international driver’s license, registration and title; he has the outpost paperwork. They are secure, nobody wants the police involved. A passerby makes me take note that one of my saddle bags in unzipped. Thanks, but only a bulky bike cover is inside. Dapple neighs. I buy 3 plastic bags of fruit drink at 25cents/bag for each of us. Tuk tuk driver has returned to the outpost. It has ice mixed with fruit inside. “Where is the straw?” You just bite it. It’s refreshing in this heat, though a little too sweet for me. I pass out this morning’s pastry. A money changer pesters me to buy Honduran Lempiras. “Speak to my representative.” A check of the XE app confirms it’s a good price, 440 Lempira for $20.00. “Okay.” Follow the guys over the border bridge. The sooner we get done, the sooner we can get out of here. Hand over my passport to an official. The usual where are you from, ‘Chicago” where are you going, “Panama” is the reply. Picture is taken and I’m electronically fingerprinted. A gift from the U.S. Government? Lonny takes over from there. Dapple is parked in the shade and Ronny and I pass the time talking. He has an ex-wife and daughter that live in Houston, got tired of the rat race and a good day is 3 customers. $18.00 X 3= enough to warrant these guys’ time? Red Flag. There’s been a call, a couple of bikers coming a few hours behind. There is a network or web, same thing I guess. I say that I’m a writer. You’d believe me wouldn’t you? If you guys are legit, I will say so, it will be good advertising. I ask permission to take their picture. Ronny does not want to have his taken, Red Flag, Lonny submits? A quarter to use the bathroom. Wait, a long, dark dirty corridor leads to a sack curtained bathroom. Thank goodness that part of my morning routine has been regular. I’m gratefully out of there as fast as an old man’s bladder can be.
The damage comes out to $58.00. $40.00 for the Honduran motorcycle fee and his $18.00. Lonny shows me the receipt paid for in Lempiras. A quick math calculation and that is about right. Should I need to check? Examine the receipt, it has my name on it, is stamped and looks official. Back to waiting for the last of the stamps and we can be on our way. Dapple shows little concern. Lonny returns with a request for an additional $28.50 to be paid. “For what?” This is for the exit tax from Honduras. I’m hesitant to cough up any more money. “I’ll pay that when I leave the country,” I argue. Glad to be on our way, I ask the last inspection border guard. He tends to agree on the fees?? Suppose that just like in Mexico they get you in and out. The roads are okay. Hell for the amount of money paid; then start to deteriorate.

The road through Honduras is uneventful. The one occasion I stop at a gas station to confirm directions, a family in the back of a pickup truck gladly responds. They are the first people I’ve seen to genuinely smile. The man confirms the direction, “Good day” I say to the lady “and a Merry Christmas” and to the little ones, “I’m Santa Claus coming on a motorcycle.” Dapple flexes her muscles at the twist of the throttle. On Dapple, On……
We approach our final border of the day. The last hour of travel has been the same minefield. Along the road youth with shovels request compensation for red dirt filled pot holes. The few cars on this road, drive by. Early afternoon heat and humidity are oppressive. Check out of country X, move onto Y. We know the routine. Pedro jumps up at the site of us. Has he been informed? At first, I decline. Am directed to a line of 60 people. In the heat and sun, this is nuts. Maybe five hours of daylight left. Negotiate down to $8.00. I want a picture. It is a lot easier to leave a country (my experience in Mexico being the exception) than to enter one. The amount is to cover both sides, Nicaragua is easier. I stand in line, at least in the shade. We are hardly moving. Dapple is in the sun, my helmet locked to one of the rear view mirrors. Twenty minutes of standing is not an issue when you have been riding all morning. How do the older folks here do it? “Is taking so long because of the holiday,” I ask? No, this is the same. The people behind the air conditioned glass windows are slow and inefficient is the general reply. Up to the window, I’m asked the same questions, give the same replies. Pictured and printed out on the immigration side, a single window for customs. Documents are reviewed. Pedro get his $20.00 to pay the official for handling my paperwork and the agreed upon $8. Obviously there is no receipt. “No $28.50 exit fee?” “Ahh, that Lonny is a thief, Pedro says.“We have a selfie taken. I am handed over to Jose on the Nicaraguan side. Another bridge, another hurdle to cross.

In hindsight, if I had asked an official where to stand in line, it would have been the same shorter line I stood in anyways. Pedro waited for me inside, where there was more of a breeze. Smart.

Nicaragua has been getting some good press lately. They have got their politics in order, corruption is under control. One day this might turn into a second Costa Rica, a tourist’s dream destination. Dapple is indignant at being fumigated. An employee asks about the bike as I hold onto my sheep skin. The wand aims mostly at the tires, it stinks all the same. The process ends up being the same. The immigration side lady has a stack of passports, one of them is American. Someone traveling by bus? She pockets the $12.00. Bull shite bureaucracy in Nicaragua as witnessed anywhere else, only with shorter lines and they do their own photocopying. Reams of paper wasted where a scanner would save thousands of trees. Tree Huggers of the World take aim! One man slowly types on a keyboard, makes copies while others with similar stations, joke and sit around. Haven’t seen this since Poland in socialist times. An unnecessary line grows behind me. “The American and his paperwork,” I hear from behind. A glance at the empty available stations; no comment is needed.

Jose has finished his part of the deal and comes with paperwork. He wants $70.00. Let me see the receipts. There is one for 12 and 9. There is some real concern. Then I remember the rest of the world uses the shape of a 7 to look like a 1. The number 7 has a bar through it. He also wants to be paid. Pedro has lied. Big surprise. We argue for costs and services rendered. My trump card is a threat to go to the police. Let them straighten it out. Fed up by this point. I am low on small bills, so Lempira come to the rescue. Out of there for $25.00.

The roads of Nicaragua are what we’re used to, the traffic is moderate. A couple of roundabouts later, a couple of stops later and we’re off the GPS map. The sun is behind me, that’s good. Compass confirms. We have the road to ourselves. Cane fields on either side, we’re lost. Garmin says that we are on Road. Yeah, knew that. Nobody in sight. Two maybe three hours left of daylight, a 100 miles give or take of fuel. Even lost, we should end up somewhere in the right direction by red line. We pass a truck ahead, a biker wave follows, a roundabout presents itself, no Garmin help. I turn around and wave to the truck. ”Managua, which way,” I ask. He indicates that he will lead the way. Take the next roundabout and then turn left. I gladly follow my guide. We approach the roundabout, I take the first left. He honks, return as he has stopped to make sure the Gringo gets it right. Ahhh the second left. “Merry Christmas,” I say and “thank-you.” More confident now despite the GPS having no idea of where we are at, we putting on kilometers. A sign for Managua appears. Entrance to Managua is similar to other big cities. Split lanes to follow another biker to a stop light. “Can you direct me to a hotel zone?” He complies and leads me through the northern part of the city. This is it. I’m home for the next three days. $40/night is steep for this room with poor internet. I want to be safely off of the road this weekend. How to put a price on that?

A new receptionist comes over to help with my Wi Fi connection issue. She sits right next to me. I’m the only guest; we almost have the whole place to ourselves. The Romanian students have left in search of cheaper accommodations. The weak signal comes and goes, I show her a picture of my wife. A cool breeze forms an invisible barrier.

The Roman Catholic Church has its hands full. Scandal has not helped its image. Money flows towards fervor. By the looks of the huge advertising and gigantic churches erected, Evangelicals are reaping in the benefits. The church comes back with a museum dedicated to the late John Paul II.

The mall looks abandoned this morning. There are still some available food options. I aim for the healthiest. Walk down nativity lined San Bolivar Boulevard to an ATM. The machine does not cooperate and refuses to release my debit card. Miraculously, the correct sequence of buttons are pressed. The card is released. Head back to my hotel. Minagua shows its heroic figures in huge billboard silhouettes.. A small plaza and billboard are dedicated to Hugo Chavez. His face adorns a traffic circle lined with lighted plastic Christmas trees. There is a full figure silhouette of a cowboy hat wearing Tom Mix-like figure. I’m later told that is Sandino. Will investigate as soon as Wi Fi is up to it. The old faithful quick mart ATM spits out $40 worth of Cordobas. Alright.

While trying to Wi Fi connect at the hotel lobby, there is a new guest. He is a grey haired, stocky, knees braced, white haired, black man that looks like Forrest Whitaker in one particular science fiction movie. I wish him a Merry Christmas in Spanish and get the finger and the English words to follow as he slams the door behind him. The cleaning lady reaches for my shoulder and apologizes. That is just the way he is. Alone on Christmas will put the Grinch in some people.

Early morning rise and out the door. Oil level is holding and there’s been only an insignificant loss of tire pressure 0.5 lbs overnight. A new frontier to deal with today. At this hour of the morning, Managua is taking an extra day off or start later in the day. It is an easy ride with descent roads and few cars to the Costa Rican border. From there on, fo’ge’abou’it. A coyote helper offers his services; I wave him off. Asking multiple people standing in multiple lines where to begin. As before there are multiple lines of different lengths. Some lines exaggerating long. First you need to park over here, not over there. Find am official to check your bag. The uniformed lady is surrounded by men carrying papers. When it is my turn up to bat, “Open the bag” she points to. “What’s inside? “A tire inner tube,” I reply. She pokes a pen through the bag. Satisfied, I’m handed a signed slip of paper. From there, I will need a police officer to check my documents. Before that can be done, go to the yellow building to have your documents copied. I ask for a second set. Premonition? Return to the same policemen ,he takes the copies, staples them and signs a form. Go to the other side of that building to be processed out. The really long line side. There are probably a 100 people waiting in that line. Where is a good coyote when you need one? Seven windows would be available, only three are operational. The line moves at a snail’s pace. More people seem to cut in line than come back processed the other way. Entering or leaving Nicaragua, it does not matter, we are all processed through this same neck of the funnel. Fifteen minutes into the line, a $1.00 is requested, municipal tax. So much for maintaining a budget. Almost two hours of standing divides you into one of three other lines. Eyes are peeled for the shortest wait, it does no good as one person will be holding a place for 5 others. Don’t ask me how I know. My turn comes. Where are you from? Where are you going? What is your occupation? “What the !@#$%^ do your care, I’m leaving your country!” I get stamped out. Hours in the saddle makes standing a no issue. Little ones play among the aisles or are held in mothers’ arms. Don’t know how the old folks do it.

Costa Rica is supposed to be an organized border crossing. I get on the bike and am directed to the other side of the border. Pointed as where to park. Seeing Illinois plates gets me some English responses to my questions. Park among the other bikes. Honey, how did you spend your day? “Don’t ask.” Pick up an application form. There are only 80 people standing outside in this line. It might just rain. God only knows how many more inside. A policeman keeps order. There are 3 Chech Republic students behind me. Some non Latin backpackers are visible in line. The Chechs don’t speak any Spanish or English and apparently no Polish. This line is organized and moving. Slowly, but moving. The application is processed after a check of passport, bike title, registration, and driver’s license. Off to customs. You need copies. Next kiosk over for copies. The application and copies are stapled together. Back on the bike, down the road a piece, off to the right, there you pay for insurance. I meet up with a Beemer Alberta rider. His real tire looks like it came off of a half track. I’m a bit jealous. You stand in line to get a seat so that you can play musical chairs. My turn up at bat, it’s $61.00 for two months of Costa Rican motorcycle insurance. Done, I’m told. I check tire pressure, the rear tire is low. Out comes the pump, The last security check point; seems one more slip of paper is needed. Back to yet another set of musical chairs. Apparently ‘Done’ means finished at this station. Just happen to luck out and get stuck with the anal retentive dude that started his shift. He has to check my passport three times to assert the bike documentation is correct. Registration, do you have a copy for it? “Bet I do @#$R%T^Y&U”. Out the door again and headed for Liberia, a moderate sized town. Am not disappointed. Ask a motorcyclist and he takes me right to the door. Perfect. The maid takes pity on me and convinces the young receptionist to give me a room on the main floor. $40/night, no Wi Fi that I can pick up. A walk into town, find an ATM with local currency, a market for water and something to finally eat for the day. Have to watch purchase prices here. Some things are very expensive, even from a grocery store. 550 colones to a dollar does not make for easy calculations. Then again, I’ve never held a twenty thousand bill note.

Dinner does not disappoint. $9 with a nice tip. Tender chicken cutlet well-seasoned, salad and a veggie mix. Goes well with the papaya smoothie had earlier.

Dapple was raped during the middle of the night.

The start of the day began innocently enough, an early rise some prep work and a walk around the neighborhood to stretch the legs. A plain yogurt drink helps soothe the stomach. Back to Dapple for the usual oil, chain and tires checks. The air pressure is down again, but this time to 26! Damn!!! The pump brings her back to specs. This is worrisome because she is losing air at a much faster rate now. A nice tip for the lady that helped me with my room and our southeasterly direction continues. The roads are much nicer, nowhere near what we’re used to, but nice. A stop for gas a couple of hours into the ride and the rear tire has lost half of what was put in earlier. Air is free here in Latin America. This is worrisome and must be dealt with.
A short drive down the road from the station in Canas is a Suzuki motorcycle repair shop. I stop in and explain the situation. Take out the inner tube that Christian gave me in Mexico. They check the tire dimensions and it is too small. “You can have it as a present; I have no use for it.” They have the necessary 17” tube in stock. The mechanic gets on his bike and indicates for me to follow to the llantero/tire repair/ penchazo=Guatemala. The plan is explained. “How much do I owe you for the tube?” No charge it will be an even exchange. Wow, such generosity. I thank him profusely.
Dapple is in the hands of tire specialists Gabriel and Jose. They have the tire off in record time. It appears that the silicon-like substance has given up. On the machine, the bead is broken and the tire off in record time. One pucker is hammered, the valve cut out, tube is placed, the tire inflated, pop pop, and the bead is set. Check the pressure, it’s right on. We hit the road again for San Jose, with more assurance and the muscles in my back not tensing at the mildest road infraction.

San Jose is another big city, but this time I have a particular goal in mind. Four years ago, a friend and I rented Suzuki DR 650s from Wild Riders out of San Jose. With some e mailing, the plan was to leave Dapple here for a few weeks, return, and continue this loop tour. I remembered the downtown location, just had to find it. Asking for directions gave me got me back on course, but with the added information that there is an annual parade and festival featured right in the middle of the downtown area. Yesterday, it was horses that were featured. Today it is floats, marching bands, and Latin Hip Hop. The street is entirely blocked off and the one way streets do not help our situation. Back and forth along the streets trying to find a way across, we come across a hostel. “Why not? It will be different to be spend the night in a communal setting and it won’t hurt the budget to bring the last couple of $40/night averages down to $30.

The hostel is located on a corner and has a waist high locked fence. Certainly we can park. I get a tour of the hostel. There is a communal lounging area with computers and Wi Fi, an eating area and upstairs dorm sleeping. I am given a locker that has a private electric outlet. Cellphones don’t get lost that way. Dapple is unpacked and covered.
I should have known better but I was just so tired. Up until this point I’ve taken my waterproof bag with winter riding suit and hoodie together with my bag. This time, because of the locker size restrictions, I did not. I did lock her brake disc. I did cover Dapple with her heavy rain proof cover and I should have locked it at the bottom of the cover, again, no excuses, I did not. Laziness, complacency, the list goes on.

The stay was pleasant. It was nice to catch up with guys my age, retired, enjoying the warmer weather. Stay in Costa Rica for five years and become a dual citizen. It was indicated that there is a camera aimed at the bike 24 hrs. I later made my connection with Wild Riders Bike Rental but because of the festivities, it would be better to return the next day. Some light dinner, a bottle of water and headed back for the hostel. Did some reading, but could not help myself from nodding off. The guys spend their time drinking on the veranda watching for any action at the busy intersection. “There’s usually a thump and the entertainment begins,” I’m told. Elsewhere there are digital cable channels in English to watch. I find myself barely able to finish a chapter.

It’s weird reaching for the key attached to the string on the front of my scrubs during the middle of the night. A first from all of the previous night. “Have you checked on your bike, the cover is off?!” A quick exam reveals that everything that was not locked has been removed. The bike cover, my waterproof bag with hoodie and winter riding suit, my tire gauges, dental cleaning kit, extra set of Roc Straps, rain gear, hell even the Clymer’s bike manual. The tank, rear and saddle bags remain on only because they have been locked on. Zip ties cut, locks apparently not.
The hostel owner is shaken and will take me with the film footage this morning to the police station. Apparently it took three guys five minutes to commit the deed. At first light, I will do a thorough inspection of Dapple. Evaluate and decide from there.

I need a day to recover from the theft. Everything that is not bike essential has been removed and placed in lockers. I’m taking up twice the allotted backpacker space. Helmet, fender and saddle bags that seamlessly fit the bike, seem bulky, out of place shoved into a closed shelf. What was a twostep process of unpacking helmet, gloves, cap and room key in a new hotel room on first inspection, then main travel bag is now multiple trips up and down stairs, a stuff and lock process. News of the incident quickly spreads among its residents. John, an American retiree shares his recent credit card theft horror story. He was placed on hold for over an hour by Wells Fargo Bank. Fear of financial loss, frustration, then anger at this bank’s inefficiency had to be vented. The dent in the hostel wall bears witness from where he threw his phone. Twenty days of living out of pocket, until the matter straightened out. “Remember Jordie from Spain, who left his I Pad charging and came back to find it stolen?” The hostel camera captured the thief’s image, perpetrator just so happened to check out early. Seems the police know this guy. Theft and security are on everyone’s mind here.

As John was talking, I casually check my document stash. Good, I can feel my passport. But where in the hell is my debit card? Oh hell no! The card can only be in that pocket. I empty the entire wallet, keep searching. Where did I use it last? Liberia, yeah. That is where I made an ATM withdrawal. On the phone to the bank. It is midday, and the sequence of phone buttons get me to the bank department’s Hold. Patience man, this wall does not need any complements. I explain the situation, get immediately sent to the right department. The operator will hold to make sure the line does not drop. “Yes, it’s me.” Hate giving personal information over the phone in a public place. Move over to a more secluded area. Answer the series of questions correctly. Get an A. No, my card has not been abused. Phew. Must have left it in the ATM. Strike Two. Man upstairs trying to tell me something? No matter, Panama uses dollars, there is enough back up cash.
Mind races, cannot think straight. Gut keeps interfering with thought processes. Original plan was to take a road appropriate bike through Central America, fly home, pay taxes and homage to my Goddess de la Casa, return and continue south. “Hey, God of Adventure Biking, bastard that you are, stop laughing already!” It’s only a material loss, items can be replaced, keep repeating that to myself. There were a series of bad decisions made. Going over and over accomplishes nothing. Lessons learned.

Riding and walking help clear my mind. Defer to walking in big city traffic. A walk to the central market should do me some good. I find myself leaving a recent purchase at a juice stand. Normally I’m organized, this never happens to me. Am I tired or emotionally spent?
So how did your day go? “Doing civic duty making out a police report.” The thieves’ grainy images will not be featured on the evening news, stolen items will not be returned. The !@#$%s will get less, since most everything has my name marked on them. The time spent waiting to be called will amount to nothing more than a statistic. The modern police station is a 15 minute taxi ride from the hostel. The hostel owner/manager is good enough to join me and has the USB footage. There was the waiting to be called, writing up of theft details and final detective interviews. Civic duties fulfilled, it leaves me time to put things into perspective.

There was a list of things that I wanted to see on this trip. In my perceived ‘need to get there’ I rode through countries as if they were states. True, states with complicated frontiers and long lines. With Dapple’s limitations, plans have been modified to reach Panama, fly home from Costa Rica and then be able to spend more time on a circle tour home. Now I’m not so sure.

With our remaining days, our trip can go as planned. Thorsten out of Wild Riders will safely store Dapple for $100/month. I get him down to $60. She could be shipped home or she could be sold here, spending her days in Costa Rica. I find myself initially shocked at the notion, but the more and more I think about it, the idea just makes sense. “You can ride any bike anywhere,” the saying goes. But would you really want to? I wouldn’t take a classic Chevy through a corn field. “Dave Barr went around the world on a Harley,” a good friend retorts. We can talk about Harleys all you want, but save that for another time. Inquiries are made. Not so simple. Thorsten is not interested as this is not a dual purpose bike that could be rented out or used for parts. He states that a buyer would have to pay about two thousand dollars in import taxes, then legal fees and licensing. Would he be interested in putting the bike up for consignment? “No.” He knows of a Honda mechanic that may be interested in the bike. The word is put out in the hostel. Greg from Canada has been a bike rider for most of his life and would love to have a ride down here. “How much do you want for it?”
“What something is worth is what someone will pay you for it,” goes the rule. Greg goes online to find out about the import fees for a 2003 Honda Nighthawk CB750. I grab a calculator to confirm the exchange rate. Taxes amount to more than I paid for the bike last year and that is not including $248 lawyer fees and licensing. Greg’s enthusiasm falters. It seems that I have a white elephant on my hands. I’m convinced that riding her back through Central America will ruin her, leave us possibly stranded in the same predicament or worse. If there is no alternative, that may be what I have to do. Dapple will not be left abandoned in some San Jose parking lot. Thorsten says that she’s just pieces of metal. “Those pieces of metal got us here safely and got me out of trouble when asked,” I reply.

A night to sleep on it, we are heading for Panama today. An early morning rise gives us the time needed to put her all back together again. There is a flight home on the 6th. With the holiday week-end approaching, there aren’t many riding days left to get to the Darien and make it back. The morning starts out with a chill. Hoodie would cut the wind. The sun warms up to perfect riding weather. San Jose is located in the mountains. To head south, you have to go back north. Traffic begins to build as there is an early outflow of people leaving the city. We aim for road shoulders. We are coming back the same way we entered the country. Damn, did I miss an exit? Another way through the mountains appears on the map. How appropriate to get off the highway at Columbus City. This exit takes us to the best riding we’ve ever experienced. Mountain twisties in scenic Costa Rica, doesn’t get much better. We maneuver around a slow moving car, this road is all ours. Glance at my left arm compass. In mountain curves heading in the right direction is deceiving. I just go with it. We are in the middle of nowhere. Gas miles accumulate, she’s getting thirsty. More twisties and finally a gas station. We fill up and ask other bikers for directions. They too are taking advantage of this great riding. Want to aim for Santiago. Biker riders have a puzzled look on their faces. I point to the map, where are we? South of San Jose, the starting point but in the mountains we haven’t made much forward progress. Don’t care. We’re riding on this wonderful day. The twisties continue. We are the only ones on this road. Road surface is declining. There is nothing here. Pot holes! At least here, I can take it at my own speed, make my own angles through the obstacle course. Road continues to decline, hard packed dirt. Not so hard as to prevent connect-the-potholes. What have I done? Go far and long enough, you’ll end up somewhere. We continue angling and picking the lesser of evils. She is not liking this track, but provides the power around and through when needed. There is a sign….. straight ahead to Columbus City. Okay, I get it. We’ll call it a day. It is another hour of rough riding to get us anywhere near the newly built expressway. It has been marvelous riding. Have all the previous days led to this? We head back to San Jose and stop in at Wild Riders. The Honda mechanic is not interested, but three of his friends may be. Eduardo, an associate is interested in the bike. I leave him my contact information and make him an offer he cannot refuse. We’ll see.

Got hit by a car this afternoon. Nothing serious, but it must have been quite a sight from the onlookers’ responses. Her car just clipped my left elbow on her right turn and spun me around. Took all there was not to fall back onto the sidewalk. The driver was concerned and inquired about my well-being. “Nothing serious, all good,” I replied to her and the other pedestrians standing by. Tough Gringo.

What the hell am I still doing in San Jose, when I should have already arrived home? Last night I was able to catch an Uber ride with three fellow hostel Pakistani exchange students to the airport. How we, my 75 lbs. of gear divided into two large bags and their backpacks fit into that small sedan, I have no idea. They are all friends returning from a visit to a younger brother. The older friends are studying in American universities and the younger brother visited is a Costa Rican high school student. What a great cultural exchange!

We had in common the idea to save some major bucks by taking the Spirit Airlines 2am red eye. Land in Ft. Lauderdale. Me home, they onto universities in Ohio and Tennessee for the upcoming semester. What a great bunch of guys. We immediately hit it off. They were even generous enough to cover my portion of the Uber ride.

What awaited us upon airport arrival three hours before departure was a nightmare. One long line, barely moving. It was the border and customs crap all over again. We managed to move 20 feet in an hour. The line behind us continued to grow. First posted notice was that the flight would be delayed for two hours. Volcanic ash was the culprit. How at this rate were they going to get us all on that plane? Conversations were struck up with the people around us. Returning back to school and work after this holiday break were reoccurring themes. Then the big bang, the flight had been cancelled. Panic struck. Most everyone had relinquished their Costa Rican Colones and/or were on financial fumes. Spirit Airlines could return our money in a few days or put us on the next scheduled flight. That would be a week later the 13th, a Friday. Were other airlines also cancelling their flights? Back to the city, accommodations at this hour of the morning, upcoming Monday classes, work schedules- all out the door. What about our paid $29 exit airport tax? We came up with a solution. Take a local bus tomorrow to Liberia, the second Costa Rican city with an international airport and out of volcano range. That was preferable to Managua and Panama City and their frontier borders. From Liberia, American Airlines flies to Charlotte, from there catch a plane or bus to our ultimate destinations.

It was a straightforward plan. Get up early, arrange an Uber ride to the bus station. Pack the four of us into a compact car. Four hour ride to Liberia, during which we try to sleep. That gives just over three hours to eat something, airport and check in for our international flights. The guys chip in to help me carry my heavy bag of gear. At the Liberia bus station, we are swamped with taxi offers to the airport. My replies and banter flow easily. I find us a place to eat based on a passerby recommendation. Rafey has forgotten his Vanderbuilt cap on the bus. We double back to find the bus gone for refueling. While waiting, we meet a senior American who forgot to remove her luggage from the bus hold the other day. Nothing at the lost and found. Rafey’s cap is located and returned. He is overjoyed. We wish the lady luck on the return of her bag and get her on the right bus back to where she is staying. At the restaurant, there is Wi Fi. Hassim checks our flight on his laptop. ‘Our flight to Miami has been cancelled,’ he says. “That’s not funny, “we say. Big Hassim turns his laptop around. Winter storm through the southeast. We gobble lunch down and rush out the door. A passing taxi, the driver will take us to the airport for $20. “You have got to be kidding.” 15. “12.” Okay. We pack up the jalopy of a cab. I think to myself that I’ll offer him a good tip if he can step on it. The rattle of the transmission at any touch of the gas pedal makes me think otherwise.
Cabbie and I agree on a reasonable price in local currency. “Get 3 thousand colones change,” I say rushing out the door. I head for the check in. There is a manageable line and it is moving. At the counter, it seems that we are again stuck in Costa Rica. This time our airlines (American) will put us up for the night and provide us with food and beverage coupons. I return to the cab stand. Cabbie tried to pull a fast one. We’re good fogage an extra two bucks.

The two Hassims and I will stay at the Hilton; Rafey has been put in another hotel for the night. We say our goodbyes and load up for the nearby Hilton. At reception we are informed that the hotel is full. Back to the airport. There is a lot of back and forth in the airport with misdirection. The gear bag seems to be getting heavier. Guys are great maintaining our little fort of walled baggage. I arrange flights and hotel transportation. Motorcycle gear was not designed for stealth. A couple of hours into the search, we are placed on a special bus to Tamarindo. Also stranded is Lara, an American nurse on vacation. We adopt Lara into our wayward hostel group and are off to join Rafey. The trip to this hotel is two hours away; we have the entire bus to ourselves! Our destination is a luxury resort on the Pacific coast with $12 food and free beverage vouchers. The outdoor reception area is made to look like an archeological site facing the numerous pools with the beach behind. The ocean view is awesome. The guys are very impressed. We head for our respective rooms.

For me, it is the quick shedding and sink washing of the clothes to be worn for tomorrow’s flights. Unpack a swimming suit and it’s off to the beach. The sun is just setting as I’m swimming in and jumping Pacific Ocean waves.
We agree to meet in the lobby an hour later to arrange food and tomorrow’s departure. On our budget, recommendations send us out for pizza. By this point, the guys are out of cash and I’ve got a ‘what the hell’ sort of attitude. We order two large pizzas, a salad which everyone gets a bite of, and a bowl of pasta. $60 in vouchers makes a good dent in the bill. After the meal, we stroll down the tourist mecca to a small grocery store. Ice cream, cookies, water, , nuts and Pringles fill out our grocery list. Lara takes the check. Back to our side of the resort, we find a closed pool lounge and have it all to ourselves. The vacated bar has plastic cups and make due with forks for ice cream utensils. Those that drink have got it made. Someone jokingly suggests floats. It’s just that kind of night. Good feelings and conversation take over after what we have all been through. The evening is magical in spite of anticipating a 3am wakeup call. 3:30 for check out & the van, two hours back to the airport, three hours international check in for our 8am flight. After having our fill, we walk to the other side of the resort and find an open resort bar. The beverage vouchers provide us with Miami Vice, Long Island Iced Tea and Tamarindo Sunrises. We walk down the beach, till yawning gets the best of us.

It will take four flights for me to get home tomorrow, Miami, Orlando, Charlotte, and O’Hare. The Orlando flight would end up delayed by an hour, miss my connection and yet will find me the last seat on a more direct flight. Thank you Lady Luck.

Side bit: Now that I'm back in the land of reasonable Wi Fi, I would like to fill in the wordage with pictures. One of the things said to the 'coyote helpers' was that I would post their pictures, if they tried to do me wrong. While wanting to post their pics, part of me hesitates wanting to interfere with a man's way to make a living. For that reason, I will not post their pictures. Hit a border and someone offers his help. I had the right to refuse. Go into a border crossing, meet a coyote, expect to get bit. Best is to avoid the beast or at least minimalize the damage.

On the bus ride, Hassim is reading the book, ‘Pakistan, a Wild Country.’ His house just happens to be on the Silk Road. They speak Urdu in Pakistan. He has friends that could arrange a motorcycle trip. Gets me thinking,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

more pics to follow.