Costa Rica

My rapid pace (for me) through Central America had been due, to a large extent, to the fact that my sister, Susie, was coming to join me for 10 days of cycling. So everday for the last 3 weeks I had been pushing out 100 km plus days with only 4 rest days (one of which was spent mountain biking in Guatemala). So, with my typical clarity of judgement, on the eve of our rendevous, and with still 55 km left to cycle by 1 O'clock, I decided to attend a birthday party and not hold back on the rum and beers. This, coupled with a headwind along the shores of lake Nicaragua, made for extremely painful progress. However I still made it to the border crossing (20 km from Susie and the poison finally sweated away), by 11. This should be fine, I said to myself, as I breezed through the Nicaraguan side of the formalities. After all between all the Central American countries I had had no problems (lets not talk about Mexico though), that is untill now. I cheerfully strolled up to the front of a busy looking immigation window and asked to be admitted into Costa Rica, I was told unless I wanted to pay a bribe to get to the back of the queue. "What queue? The one over there" indicating a line of about 20 people "No, that one over there" indicating a line stretching round two sides of the large building and then snaking off into the car park "Oh, shit". An hour later I was again at the front of the line and soon clipped into my pedals and rolling towards my rendevouz. I eventually arrived in the town of La Cruz only 5 minutes late, dripping with sweat and grime and comically I had applied sun screen to only 1 arm (I blame the booze) so while one was a glowing bronze the other resembled that of a patient in a burns ward. Meeting Susie was, surprisingly, a very normal moment. I had been expecting a huge outflow of emotion at seeing my first family member for 5 months but to be honest it felt like I'd been away for only a week. Susie had come equipped with a mountain bike and so of course she wanted to explore the dirt roads, of which there are many, around the Nicoya peninsular. Over the next week we camped on beaches, in national parks among semi-wild horses, and next to a fishing village. We spent days watching monkeys (Susie had studied them in Costa Rica for a year and so was amazing at explaining their behaviour), saw epicly-sized iguanas, fishing eagles and camen. We swam in jungle pools and at stunning bleached-white beaches. And of course we shook our bikes and bodies to pieces along the gravel tracks Costa Ricans pretend are roads, shooting through fords, across narrow suspension bridges and up and down countless jungle shrouded tracks. Eventually we arrived to the perfect half-moon bay of Carrillio. Here Susie would enjoy a couple of days of beach time to relax before heading back to the daily grind in the English winter. While this would be my one proper holiday from my travels: I took ten days to relax completely, get fat and attempt to surf with two of my friends from home, Kate and Andrew. The only low point was Susie leaving and all the emotion that had been missing from our meeting was here in spades. I hadn't realised how close we had been, cycling together for a week, teaching each other from our experiences: Susie teaching me about the monkey world she had been absorbed in for a year, and I teaching Susie my bike life and daily experience over the previous 5 months. And so the fairwell was a teary one and it took a few Imperials to restore my good humour that afternoon.

The Gringo Trail

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.

Rest and Relaxation

After my tussel with the winds I felt it was finally time to do a little sight seeing and take a little time off the saddle. I made a final climb up to, the surprisingly freezing, city of San Cristobal about 150 km's from the Guatemalla border, and on route I took a lovely little boat trip up the Chiapa's answer to the Grand Canyon, with the cliffs towering a km vertically over our heads. In San Cristobal I would leave my bike and kit, taking a bus uip to the bright lights of Mexico city. My first night in the biggest of big smokes saw me drinking and partying with 20 locals I met through Henny, a new friend from Taxco, I seem to remember at one point tequilla shots in Sombrerros. Other highlights included going to a salsa club (fat old men suddenly jumping out of their seats and dancing like they were 20-and not just chucking out the old cooking pot routine in lounge but dancing like pro's), climbing the 3rd largest pyramid in the world, going to watch wrestling and the arrival of Andrew, the first familiar face I had seen in 4 months, who had sweetly timed his arrival to coincide with my birthday. For my birthday Andrew and I were given a guided tour round the city by Alex, a friend of Henny's, who gave up his afternoon to show off his city, stuff us with supeme Mexican cuisine and get us pissed, before driving us back to our hostel, what an absolute legend. After 9 nine days off the bike and with my batteries recharged (although perhaps with a little too much booze), I returned to San Cristobal to fix up my bike with the parts Andrew had brought me from England and to prepare myself for my charge through Central America...

The Cruel North Wind

Ok so it was from the North-East but cruel it certainly was: On my descent from Oaxaca I met a quite frankly, charming German couple (miracles happen), who told me I could expect some pretty fierce head and side winds as I crossed into Chiapas, my final Mexican state. They claimed that these are the strongest winds in the Americas north of Patagonia. Of course immediately my natural cynicism went into action: if these winds were so bad how come I was only hearing about them two days before hitting them? The next night I stayed with a bike mechanic who confirmed that the ride the next day would not be the cake walk that the flatness of my map suggested it might. Re-checking my map I noticed the name of one town, Ventosa (place of wind), and a load of wind farms around it, hhhmmm maybe my cynicism should take a back seat and pragmatism take the wheel. So I psyched myself up for a long day in the saddle but still didn't really buy into the hype. In the morning my casual attitude seemed fair enough, the wind was pretty strong but nothing I hadn't seen before or could handle, little did I know that this was just a prelude to what was awaiting me around the corner... Here we pause for a little geography lesson: Mexico is built very similarly to Jonny Bravo, with huge broad shoulders, pecks to put Arnie to shame but then tappering into a tiny waist more likely to be found on your average 16 year old anorexic. At this point the mountains, which had put me to work for the previous month, fade into flat plans for about 10 miles before climbing again to build into the Chiapan highlands. The effect of this is to create a tunnel of flatland between the Carribean and the Pacific, a tunnel which channels all the wind created by the very different conditions in these two vast bodies of water... Ok, lesson over. The tunnel effect means that you don't feel the full effect of the wind untill you are already in it. So as I approached Ventosa I had no idea that once I climbed the slight hill in front of me, I would be entering the cyclists' idea of the worst corner of hell. As I climbed this rise, swerving all over the road to try and contol my bike, being blown several times off the road, a car pulled up and the occupants shouted at me "do you want a ride?", "Absolutamente no. Gracias." They told me that in a while it would get stronger yet, again I declined, after all there was no room in the car. So I peddaled on and topped the rise, to be blown straight off the road by a savage side swipe. I got back onto my bike and somehow managed to get down the far side, dodgeing the lorries coming from both directions. Now at this point the wind reached its peak and instead of mearly sweeping us off the road, all 55kg of bike and kit and 85kg of prime Herbert steak went airbourne, both wheels off the road at once. I was stunned lying at the bottom of the ditch, I couldn't believe what had just happened. As I pushed my bike back up to the road I turned my face profile to the wind and went to take a breath of air, instead of the accustomed feeling, learned and confirmed by 23 years of experiment, of air filling my lungs, the remaining air was sucked out by the vaccum, the cause of the wind rushing past my open mouth. I tucked my head into my armpit and tried to push my bike along the road, holding it at as low an angle as possible to stop it and me being blown into the marsh waiting to gobble me up below. Unfortunately the wind contrieved to whip in under my bike and cartwheel it over my head. After this I sat in the ditch trying to contemplate my next move: I couldn't go back and I couldn't go forward, without being blown either into the marsh or into the path of a passing truck. I couldn't stay where I was: there was no chance of camping in this wind and I had no food and little water, to put it mildly I was fucked. Then my knight in his white pick up truck rode up to my rescue: "do you want a ride", "absolutamente si. Gracias". I was dumped ten km's up the road, still with (by normal standards) a howling side wind but at least I could ride in it without feeling death tapping his watch at me. This wasn't quite the end of my adventures with the wind. The next day I climbed up through a valley into the Chipan Highlands, the wind building as I approached the top, as I turned round the final bend the wind smashed into my side sending me summersaulting across the black top and into the drainage ditch, a couple of meters from a shear drop off of several hundred feet. So what have I learnt from battling the second strongest winds on the two continents of the Americas? Don't cycle in Patagonia.

The Little Gringo who Could

Oaxacañian children waving and shouting "hola amigo" or, from those with a weight of culture and learnedness behind them, "waz up man" will tell the tale of the little gringo who could when they are silvered and bent with arthritis. They will tell of a gringo who for four days danced up one side of their mountains, only to fall down the other. They will tell how he sweated through the searing mid-day heat of their valleys and battled through the oppresion of the humid, black skied mountains, disappearing into the clouds only to reappear with a sea of sweat and condensation in his beard. They will tell how the gringo put away the comforts of home: sleeping among the chickens and the turkeys, camping in fields of sugar cane, curled between the roots of trees.

Upon the dawning of the fifth day the little gringo had 140 km to reach his goal, a bed in Oaxaca. "This is not so very far " said the gringo to himself. Then the gringo felt the wind in his face, "ah that will make it tricky". Then the gringo saw that there were only 10 hours of daylight in which to make his way "this will make it hard". Then the gringo consulted his map and saw the mass of brown and gray through which his mountain road would run "this cannot be done". But then the little gringo thought "if you were of this country, would you be a Mexican or a Mexican't?", he was not sure but he knew that he would have the answer by the end of the day. And so the little gringo clipped into his pedals and headed on his way. All morning he turned his cranks, fighting the hills, bouncing to start with, punching the pedals when he grew tired. The road wound so much that as often as the wind was in his face it was at his back and after four hours he had covered half his distance, he would make it! Just as he started to believe this his back wheel dragged, all the air having been leaked from a puncture. Then a bolt on his front rack sheared. However the little gringo did not lose faith: he changed his tyre, he secured his rack with twists of wire and he climbed bck into his saddle. He had lost an hour and still needed to stop for food. However among the mountains there was no food: the Tienda's were baire, having been stripped over christmas. And as the little gringo lost energy so his pace slowed. But as despare was beginning to dawn on him he encountered a little Tienda that had bannanas for sale, "perfect" thought the little gringo. He reached into his pocket but all he had was a $500 note and the owner of the tienda said to the little gringo "no hay, cambio". The little gringo was crest fallen and seeing this the owner of the tienda, a kindly old woman, took pity on the little gringo and gave the bannanas to him. Re-energised the little gringo peddaled harder than ever and with an hour till the sun set he had merely ten km's to cycle. After half this time, the little gringo stood on a rise looking down into the city of Oaxaca, he had made it, he was the little gringo who could! However the little gringo who could, could not, the next day, walk. That is ok, he made good friends with his bed and the sofa.

Maincourse Mexico

After the h'orderve that had been Baja California and my break on beach and boat I was keen to sink my teeth into the delicious looking main course of mainland Mexico. As much as I had enjoyed Baja it had felt like an American annex, not so Mexico's Pacific coast. This was full on, my tentaive Spanish received looks of puzzelment, whereas before they would have ellicited a conversation in Spanglish; the roads where bursting at the seems with every type of vehicle from truck to donkey pulled cart and the humid intensity of the heat meant a drink stop every ten km for a refreso or ice cold coconut milk. All this I was expecting and loving; the liveliness and colours made a welcome change to Baja's montone desert. What I had not expected was the generosity of the Mexican people: my first night I camped on a beach in front of a bar, no sooner had I asked if it was ok for me to stay there then a beer was thrust into my hand "para ti amigo, gratis", "muchos gracias". This generosity has been echoed ever since: fruit is regularly added to my load, breakfasts are bought for me, bike mechanics refuse payement. I have twice been given free hotel rooms, although once I had to turn it down because the road was beckoning and the other time I spent half the night listening to the couple next door getting aquainted with admirable persistance. I quickly climbed away from the coast into the state of Jalisco, home to the town of Tequila, and into fields of agarve and huge mountain valleys. Unfortunately I had to follow the main road from the coast to Mexico's heartland and as a result I was twice introduced to the state's ditches by passing lorries. After this I hit Michocan and a whole load of cyclists, they were everywhere in the towns and even a few with flash road bikes on the rural roads. This made for much more pleasant cycling as the lorries no longer held such sway over the tarmac. My first major city I stayed in was Morelia, I had meant to stay for a lunch time and ended up staying two nights. This was partly due to the beauty and life of the city, looking its best on the weekend before christmas and partly due to the people I meet there, which entailed me sweating out an aching hangover heading onto the most beautiful road I have traveled in Mexico. This road wound from Morelia up through a nearly vertical, pine coated valley, into the heights of central Mexico, where the country's two major mountain ranges collide. The heighest I reached was a pass of 3500 m on boxing day, having seen in christmas day in a cantina, which would be flattered by a description of grot hole, but had the fine destinction of a roaring fire, and spent the day visiting the winter home of the Monarch butterfly. These creatures travel from Canada and Northern USA (essentially I've been cycling as fast as a butterfly, hhmmm) and amass in these mountains in such numbers that they can break the branches of trees with their weight. After this awesome display I headed south to Taxco a stunning city perched on a bowl of a cliff. It is fair to say that I had been getting a little lonely over the christmas period, despite the generosity and kindness of the people I met, the scarcity of a flowing conversation (my Spanish is still about the level of a toddlers) and a feeling of going nowhere had me questioning the whole point of this trip. So I decided it was time to get back to the basics of this journey: spend all day, everyday, cycling, camping wherever I met dusk and if this meant spending New Years in a field with an arrogant turkey then so be it. Thus was born the tale of The Little Gringo who Could...

Hats and Dogs

The question of what to wear on your head is one which I know occupies most peoples every waking minute. However for the touring cyclist there is a very practicle aspect to this question. Most cycling magazines will now not allow pictures to be published without the subject fully helmeted, in many countries it is a legal requirement to wear a head case and drivers everywhere will furiously smack themselves on the head if they see a cyclist daring to go bare headed. Despite this some of the most experienced cyclists I have met don't even carry helmets let alone wear one. Why not?! I can hear the nanny state straining at its legislative leash. Well there are a few (sensible) reasons, beyond the superficial one of not wanting to look like a tool: research has turned up the interesting fact that more accidents, involving cyclists, happen to those wearing helmets. The suposed reasoning is that drivers think they won't hurt the cyclist if they hit them; well a helmet doesn't prevent road rash and broken bones. Some cyclists, me included, believe that if you get smashed by a lorry traveling 70 mph, best case scenario from wearing a helmet is ending up in the cabbage patch with the other vegtables. I don't want my headstone reading died aged 40: 22 years with a working noggen, 18 with mush for brains. Much rather have: died 22, living. Or better yet es prohibe hacer agua aqui. Or even better: so long and thanks for all the tequila. The other side of the coin then is if you get hit at 30mph, then a helmet could very well prevent a date with a coma. So I like to take the middle road, I carry my helmet and when I'm getting into urban areas wear it (not very proudly it must be said) but on the open road I take my chances and when neccasary hit the ditch and take a long drink of muddy water for my troubles. The other benefit of being helmetless is allowing me to show off my superb Union Jack bandana. When worn pirate fashion, I like to think that, twined with ample facial hair, it gives off a certain je ne c'est quoi.

The subject of personal safety brings me roundly to the animosity; nay hatred; nay loathing that exists between the cyclist and the snarling satanic pooch . The birth of the dispute is lost in the mists of time but the present situation makes the troubles in the middle east look like two kids falling out over who's turn it is to go in goal. I have been chased more times than I can bear to think of and it is a pleasent suprise to go through any settlement and not receive an hear splitting hollering for pedalling blood. So of course cyclists have their methods to deter the canine from its aim of sinking its teeth into that juicy thigh or calf that has been engorged by months on the road. Many carry a pump strapped to their frame, not to have easy access to firmer tyres but to be able to put metal to snout without the hassle of dismounting. Others like to use projectiles: rocks are a firm favorite but are a pain to carry so you must then stop and hope there are some to hand; one cyclist I met spat in the dogs faces, which he assured me stopped them dead (he reckoned that he was so practised 9 times out of 10 he could hit them right between the eyes). I have been handed a can of pepper spray by an ex-postman. My usaul method is to unclip from the side of attck and take a good swing at them with the reinforced toes of my cycling shoe, this worked fine untill I was beset on by a pack of three dogs, one coming from each side and the third in front stopping my progress. I escaped by edging one of the dogs into oncoming traffic (the fucker dodged the trucks) taking a swing at the one to my right and riding through the third (at this point I'd like to say, for those animal welfare types out there, no dogs have been hurt or killed in the riding of this journey). I also like to mix in my own snarling, hollering growl right back at the dog, accompanied with bared teeth and steely battle eyes a full bloodied charge is often turned into a hurried retreat. Imagine my surprise then when one cyclist told me she just calmly talked to the dogs saying drivel like "it's ok dog I won't hurt you" (with pump clutched firmly in hand behind the back). At the best of times I'm a cynic but this was clearly the worst advice I'd ever come across, I mean peace talks haven't exactly panned out too well in Gaza have they? However I decided I would put these doubts to one side and give it a go: next time I rolled up to a snarling dog, foaming at the mouth with blood lust, hatred blazzing from it's eyes, I turned to face it and buda like uttered the, enourmously stupid, phrase "it's ok perro, calm yourself" the hatred turned to suprise, its rump hit the tarmac in puzzelment and the foam trickled down its jowls in utter confusion, the snarl turning to a perplexed whine. Unbelievable it actually works! Since then I have been a complete convert and talk to the dogs like I'm helping a jumper from his ledge. However I have to admit that after passing through your tenth village of the day and the tenth bombardment of barks it feels ridiculously good to let off your best full blooded battle cry and see the dogs running, tails between the legs. I think I'm starting to see why the peace process in the middle east isn't working so well.