We Go Slow

It doesn’t get more picturesque than two volcanoes surging out of a tropical lake.

Before we had even crossed into Nicaragua, we knew a visit to the island of Ometepe was a must. From Granada, it’s a five hour ferry ride into the heart of Lake Nicaragua, the largest in Central America.

Upon arriving at the terminal we were instructed that we had to remove all of our panniers from the bikes because they’d be on the lower deck during the crossing. As foreigners we were required to buy the expensive top-deck tickets, while locals rode in the economical lower level. The ferry worker told us that our stuff wouldn’t be safe with his countrymen.

While attempting to figure out a way to carry all four panniers and our camping gear (a nearly impossible task) I spotted another bicycle in the terminal. Not just any campesino bike, but a thoughtfully-equipped, custom-built touring machine. And with it, a spandex-clad man sporting the kind of tan that can only be achieved by riding in the same clothes for weeks on end.

Nate took off from Alaska in May of 2010, making him the only person we’ve met who tours slower than us!

He’d daydreamed of this tour for years while working from his London office. Little by little, he built a bike that would take him everywhere he wanted to go, and enable him to be as self-sufficient as possible (read: ability to carry an insanely heavy load on brutal dirt roads).

When we got to talking on the ferry, we realized that not only did we take the same dirt route through Baja California, the same climb up the Paso de Cortés, but that we happened to read his blog while researching if the Paso was even possible. Suffice to say, we had similar touring styles and decided to ride together after our time on the island.

Emily and I hadn’t ridden with any other tourists for more than a day, and his company was a refreshing treat. His patience and expertise were much appreciated as both Emily and I dealt with the most annoying series of mechanical issues yet.  I won’t go on about our riding together because Nate already did it quite well. Have a look at his account of our riding together around the dusty roads of the Nicoya Peninsula.

-Scott

Having the only hospitality option be an auto hotel.

It was near sunset, and there was nothing else around within 2 miles, no other options, only a strip of auto hotels to choose from. These kinds of hotels, common in Central American Catholic countries, are frequented by teenagers and promiscuous adults. Names of these fine establishments include,  ”Forbidden Love,”  ”A Night to Remember,” and “Endless Passion.” We were on the edge of huge Guatemala City, and this is all that we could find? Seriously? Definitely in the classy part of town! We checked several hotels to see their prices, and each one charged by the hour. Some wouldn’t even rent for the entire night, and for others, the prices were absurd! Finally, we found one with a reasonable overnight fee. They made us wait 3 hours until the “rush hour” was over to be allowed access to a room. After returning to the hotel, we parked our bikes in the highest security they have ever had, their own personal garage. Mysterious entities opened and closed doors for us, spoke from behind intercoms, and moved within hidden hallways. The room was incredibly immaculate, with towels, toiletries, and even room service, if we wanted it. However, the break down of available channels and a room service menu complete with sex toy options felt just plain wrong.

Continuously having stomach issues, for the past 15 months. 

Whether it be giardia, amoebas, parasites, or uncategorical ”travelers diarrhea,” I have felt it all. I long for the day that my digestive system is readjusted to the States and its sterile environment. My digestive tract has gone through it all, and maybe it will evolve super-mega-extra-bacteria, but its still working on it, and not fast enough.

Being stared at, constantly.

Dear Central American residents:

Yes, we are foreigners. Yes, I ride a bicycle, for fun, and carry camping equipment, and do very funny, different, alien things. But I am NOT a zoo exhibit. Are you curious of who I am, where I come from, what I am doing? Then ASK me! I may look like a weirdo in fluorescent clothing with an armored hat, but I am still a human! I may sit on the sidewalk, (yes, on the ground), cut up and eat vegetables, and use shiny pots to store the food cooked from the night before, but that does not invite you to sit or stand within a 2 foot radius and stare.  I want to eat my lunch, without thinking at any moment you may throw a tortilla at me to see how I react.

Similarly, I want to be treated and feel like a person, not an alien. I want to walk down the street and be approached respectfully, perhaps engage in a conversation. I don’t enjoy having any combination of English words that the particular person knows yelled at me. “Goodbye, where you go, hey baby, thank you, my friend!” Speak to me. And during those periods of time where I am wearing plain “American” street clothing and walking down the street, what are you looking at? I know that you have seen other “gringos” before, and that does not mean I want you to yell “GRINGOOOOOOO!!” at me. This also includes being sneered at, whistled at, yelled at, shouted at. With all due respect, I am in your country, and I enjoy speaking Spanish to locals, with the understanding that they WANT to speak WITH me. Almost daily, I feel out of place, because of the number of eyes that are fixed on me. At least once a week I have an incredibly awkward interaction with a local, and wonder, ‘did that just happen?’

Realizing that I hate nature, well, not all nature, but at least bugs. 

I have lived and camped outside for the majority of the past 6 years. And I have just realized, in the past three months, that I HATE bugs. Yes, HATE is the right word. I don’t use it often, which means that it holds even more weight, strength, and truth. Mosquitoes, why must you bite and irritate me? What have I done to you? I understand that we are inhabiting the same space, but really, your incredible versatile adaptability is not fair, and not appreciated. Maybe, at least, you can work on varying your “taste buds,” and opt for some other blood types and hormones? As for the Little Black Sh*ts, as I so endearingly call you, can you please just develop a sound, so that I know that you are about to attack the hell out of my legs, any maybe have the opportunity to defend myself? Your bites and lasting stings are beyond that of a mosquito, which you may be unaware of, so I praise you for this, but ask for your help. Ants, I don’t even want to go there, and readers, you have already gotten the idea of my disdain for them. I hate ants. I admire them for their strength and abilities, but I do not want to interact with them. I guess its my own fault, since I like camping, and living outside, but I DON’T like the bugs.

Getting bit by a street dog in Mexico.
To make a long story short, here’s the idea: Scott and I were helping out at an off-the-grid homestead. We headed out late one afternoon, up the hill 2 km into town, with an empty wheelbarrow and large grain sacks in hand. We were off to get sawdust, to fuel the stove and to heat the water, in order to shower.  We had both put off bathing for long enough, and sawdust was low, since the Estufa Bruja, our only means of cooking, demanded this fuel. So we made our way up towards town and the carpenter’s shop.

By the time we arrived in town, day had turned to night, and thick black rainy-season clouds hung over our heads. With directions in hand, we made our way through the narrow and unsigned streets. Unaware that we were within only meters of final turnoff, we looked around fiercely for the bakery landmark and payed little attention to the scraggly, skiddish, street dogs lurking around. Peaking into a promising home and establishment, we turned to ask for directions. Ahhhhhh!!!!! I turned rapidly as a little black dog scurried away from my throbbing leg. He disappeared before I could get a good look at him, but the little F-er had just bit me! Luckily, it was through my pants, but he still broke skin. The home on the corner heard my cries and exasperation. They offered alcohol to sanitize the wound, and poured tequila on my calf, repeatedly asking how I was doing. I thanked them for the tequila, asked for directions to the carpenter’s shop, and quickly made our way, biting my lip to hide the pain.

The next block over we found the carpenter, though with each step I paranoidly jerked my head around, searching for vicious dogs hiding in the shadows. With the mission half way through, we made our way back down the hill, still afraid of the looming clouds. Within minutes there were voices calling after us. They came from my rescuers, demanding that we have some tamales, as retribution. We couldn’t say no, as refusing food in Mexico is rude, but that we were in a hurry to escape the downpour. Without a second thought, they packed up a bag of 5 tamales, to go, and sent us off. Only in Mexico!

-Emily

From Xela, Guatemala east through the highlands of Honduras and Nicaragua.

We share with our audience the fantastic – the highlights of our trip, the amazing food, places, and people. But that does not mean that everything is always perfect. It is what it is, but I am not always positive and am not enjoying every second. About 95% of the time, I would not trade my experience, place, or interactions for anything. However, the other 5% of the time, there are situations that are unpleasant, or downright sh*tty.  I am not complaining about the other 95%, or how wonderful and enriching this trip of a lifetime is. But, this post is the place and time that I am ranting about everything else, that which doesn’t get regular recognition. Why? Because, it too, is a part of the truth.

Red ants invading my panniers.

We received a wonderful recommendation from the woman we stayed with in Mazunte, Mexico, of a grocery store that carried imported products. We hadn’t bought, nor eaten, cheddar cheese in 9 months. Delicious, delicious, melt in your mouth, sharp  cheddar cheese! We snacked and savored several ounces the day we bought it, too excited and overwhelmed to indulge too much.

We woke the next morning to the GROSSEST site I may have ever seen in my life. Red ants were everywhere, on the tires, the frame, outside and inside by bags. We dumped out the contents of the panniers on the sidewalk, and pushed and threw and shook the items around, ridding them of the ants. What had gotten them so excited? The cheese! I couldn’t even have counted how many there were, if I wanted to. Scott very bravely rescued what he could, but I was sure not going near it. They hadn’t yet eaten the whole 2 pounds, but come on! Cheddar cheese!

Always being disappointed with the quality of bike mechanics. 

What does this mean?

• A hammer should never be taken to a bicycle. I don’t want to be told that there is no problem with the two teeth the mechanic just broke, after he tried to force the cassette off since he didn’t have the correct tools. If you don’t have the tools, don’t do it.
• I am from the train of thought that when I pay to have the bike serviced, I should not have to refine the brakes afterwards to stop them from squealing, or fine tune the gears so they switch well, or realize that the cables that were replaced are frayed.
• I do not want to be told that the gears switch well and fine, when they jump from 4 to 7.
• I don’t want to feel like a picky ass American because I am quite aware of a problem, such as my bottom bracket being spent, and they refuse to admit there is a problem. Are you really telling me that you don’t feel the grinding, which has given me pain for several hundred miles, or are all bicycles that you ride like this?

Getting stung by a scorpion. 

Scorpions can be found in a variety of climates, but not in La Ventosa, at 3,400 meters. You can imagine my surprise then, unpacking my sneakers, when something sharp pierced my skin. I slowly and hesitantly peaked inside with a flashlight, and low and behold, there it was. The scorpion had taken passage in the sneakers from the more habitable Lago Atitlan, from where we had just come. Luckily, it was a dark, nonvenomous variety, and it only hurt for a few hours. Everyone else was amused, as they had never seen a scorpion in La Ventosa before!

Being eaten alive by bed bugs.

This sucked. Bottom line. I woke up one morning, started itching my legs, and looked down to see a row of bites. NO! It can’t be! Yes, I immediately knew what these dreaded red irritations were, and that they most likely weren’t from the slightly sketchy hotel we had just slept in the night before, but the clean-as-a-whistle, top-of-the-line hostel we stayed in two nights ago in Guatemala City. In the rooms there were signs not to put any luggage on the beds because they had bed bug problems in the past. WARNING WARNING WARNING! I was relentlessly itchy for the next five days and nights, but with no new bites. Then mysteriously, the bugs made a resurgence. Walking down the sidewalk, in the middle of the day, I felt a sudden onset of itching on my side. They were still with me! After another paranoid day and restless night, I got another dozen bites. The following day we returned to Xela, and performed the most elaborate and methodical cleaning to rid every nook and cranny from the invaders. We waited a few days to see the results, and yes, we were bed bug free. However, they still hid in the depths of my mind and I continued to be paranoid for the next 2 months. Every new bed and room we stayed in received an extensive inspection. I created some very awkward situations at several hotels and hostels, as there were often larvae or signs of other bugs present (yes, it is Central America). Every night in the tent I search the corners for anything crawling or flying, knowing that I will feel phantom bites, regardless. Finally, I am able to sleep.

Getting into an accident on a chicken bus.

We travel by bicycle, normally, for a whole variety of reasons. My cousin, Meghan, came to visit us in Guatemala, and in that week of adventuring we spent a fair amount on time on public transportation. On the last day of a 9 day trip, Scott and I were on our way back to Xela, our home base, only about an hour into the ride. One lane had just given way to two, and our driver was ready to speed away, annoyed with the slow traffic in front of us. I saw another chicken bus passing us on our left, though our bus was in a rush and may have not seen the other. We swayed and pulsed, and a second later we made contact. Glass sprayed everywhere and I held my breath, waiting and hoping for the bus to stop safely. The woman next to me hugged her child and cried. A very long and dreadful 20 seconds later, we were stopped on the shoulder, though the anxiety in the air was thick. Blood dripped from several faces, and we swept the shattered glass from the seats. Everyone was safe, though we knew we had become a part of the “1 bus accident per week” national statistic. This did not increase my faith in the bus drivers as a passenger, nor as a cyclist sharing the road.

-Emily