I had heard a lot of bad stories about cycling in the highlands either side of the Guatemalan/Mexican border. These mainly revolved around armed muggings on deserted roads leaving the cyclists without that vital piece of equipment to continue their journey but some were truly nasty, and sent a tingle down my spine. To reassure myself I contacted the British consul in Guatemala, they surely would have a sensible perspective and would cut through the rumors I'd heard. After several emails and a 20 minute conversation I couldn't have been more worried: my contact was shocked that I intended to cycle alone without support and even went as far as to recommend an armed guard through the region. So it was not without apprehension that I climbed out of San Cristobal, descended stunning switchbacks and spun along beautiful valley roads towards the border and the Western Guatemalan Highlands. Along the way I met three Americans, two brothers from California and an Alaskan they'd met on their way, who had come to join them for a few months. These were the first cyclists, heading the same way as me, that I'd seen for nearly two months, and it was great to spend the afternoon cycling with Chris and chat to the brother's later on. The down side of this meeting was even more violent stories concerning cyclists on the roads we were pedaling towards, my apprehension was mounting. The next day I crossed the border into Guatemala and finally after 4 months in the saddle reached my fourth country of my trip. All did not go smoothly at the border: I had cycled past the migration office and 8 km's uphill in the sweltering midday heat to the actual border only to be told I couldn't cross unless I returned to the bottom. I couldn't face having to do that climb a second time in the mounting heat with sweat and grime already pouring off me, also the worry that had been building in me led to what must be one of the more comical hissy-fits of all time: trying to convince the guard in my broken Spanish, while trying to put across my indignation at having my energy and time wasted. A Chiapan standing by listening to my verbal diahorea, offered me a lift back down to the bottom and gave me money for a taxi back up when I was done (I'd spent my last Peso that morning). As I was sitting in the back of the car I started thinking about the generosity that I had been shown throughout my trip and all the bad stories I had been told about the places I was about to enter: in California I was told that I would get my head chopped off in Mexico (admittedly by a pot-head), yet I hadn't met kinder people when I actually arrived there. This made me determined, not forget, but to place the stories I'd heard to the back of my mind and try to be as positive as I could, after all what would happen would happen and in the mean time I didn't want to keep picking fights with border guards just trying to do their job. Lesson learnt, I settled into my saddle to enjoy the spectacular scenery of the Guatemalan highlands. My initial climb was along a steep river valley cut through the mountains with the afternoon sun shafting down to illuminate the Eastern wall and a river flowing to the West of me. I was rapidly beginning to appreciate that while bad things happened in Guatemala, the average man on the street was a bit of a legend: whenever I stopped for a rest someone would wander over to ask what I was doing or to offer me a drink and give me directions. This combined with some of the finest scenery I had yet been treated to made my fears melt away. My third night in the Highlands I stayed with Carl, an American ex-pat who had been living in the area for over thirty years. I couldn't resist staying for an extra night and enjoying more of Carl's excellent home grown food. Carl put further paid to the stories I'd been overloaded with, telling me that all the worst ones occurred either due to Gringo's getting involved with the local drug gangs or on some really remote roads, where not even Guatemalans should travel. Thus reassured I was able to fully enjoy my spin over to and around the world famous lake Atitlan. I have to say that it did not disappoint. Coming over the crest of mountains to look over the lake with its three volcanoes to the South and ring of mountains to North and East covered in storm clouds while the sun poured onto the lake from the South-West was a truly stunning panorama. The descent down to the lake was at an unbelievable gradient, twice I had to stop to let the rims of my wheels cool as the braking friction was so great I feared the tyres would burst. After a stop over at the lake I had to hit the trail hard to meet Susie, my sister, in two weeks. I descended down into the stinking heat of the Guatemalan coast and continued to spin along the coast through El Salvador. This country was a hugely pleasant surprise, my first night I stayed with a bike mechanic who treated me like a son and interested me to the national dish of Pupusus, fiery pockets of cheese, beans and spinach. I also had the best sea food of my trip, in a restaurant perched on a cliff overlooking pearl divers in the sea below, while I sat out the heat of the day. Next port of call was Honduras, which I had intended to spend less than 48 hours in. Fortunately I got side-tracked by Maite, a Belgian NGO worker, who took me up to the capital for a great weekend of music, drinking and fun before providing me with a new aerodynamic haircut. I then pedaled on into Nicaragua and after spending a night camped out at the mirador overlooking Laguna de Apoya, Granada and Lago de Nicaragua (not a bad spot). I had one of my more entertaining run-ins: cycling in places like Central America it is inevitable that sometimes the call of nature becomes an urgent screaming very rapidly. On one such occasion I quickly spied a gap in the fence to my left, propped my bike against a convenient tree and dived into the bushes to do what had to be done. I was happily doing my business when a van pulled up next to my bike, shit...I'm going to get my bike nicked while I'm taking a dump, could it get any worse? I rapidly cleaned myself up and rushed out to the road to deter these bandits only to be met by a smiling Califonian, John, who had spent 11 months cycling in Asia and stopped every time he met a fully loaded bike on the road. He invited me to stay with him on the beach and I spent three happy nights at Playa Gigante, learning to surf.
