Trip Diary - Photo Diary - Start the trip in the UK - USA - Mexico - Belize - Continue on to Nicaragua
After El Salvador, great things were expected of Honduras. All I new about Honduras was what the Lonely Planet had told us. Honduras hadn’t suffered a Civil war for many, many years, unlike all of it’s neighbours. It also told us the US had a strong influence in the country, with the majority of banana production (a main export) being owned by US companies. It also told us that their neighbours viewed the Hondurans as dim witted and slow. Oh and the other piece of information was the picture on the front of our Honduras road map - a young man, astride a donkey, starring inanely at the camera and holding a cockerel. Later we would agree that this image was indeed very apt. We crossed through a remarkably quiet border crossing, aided by smiles and greetings from the Police. Once over the border we began to climb again on the dirt road. Up and up we rode into a pea soup fog. Thus started a catalogue of problems, errors and mishaps.
First we found our maps didn’t accurately portrait the dirt road network that was on the ground, meaning we soon found ourselves lost and unsure where the main road to the nearest town was. This was compounded by the lack of visibility, non existence of road signs and the differing instructions from locals we asked along the way. Next, Mark R took a tumble on a bad patch of track and was thrown over the handle bars. Daisy and I heard the sickening sound of crunching plastics and metal, stopped the bike and ran back up the hill. We were greeted by the image of Mark lying on is back, starring into space with Helge waving fingers in front of his visor and Matt struggling to kill the bikes engine. Jobs were allocated (bike repair, medical administration, hot tea preparation) and after about an hour we were back on the road again, Mark thankfully getting away with heavy shoulder bruising.
Finally back on the correct road, we passed through our first police road block. It was relatively easy, with just a flash of our passports and then we were into town. We parked in the main square, and I tinkered with my bike, whilst the others went in search of an ATM. I looked up from my bike and two young scamps were by my side, poking at the seat and asking me questions. I spoke in my best broken Spanish to them and returned to the problem in hand. When I looked up again I was surrounded by a group of 20 men, which was steadily growing in size. The group was starring in a mute, dumb manner that though not at all intimidating, was still rather unnerving. The questions began; where, what, how, when, how much, how big, why, what for. As more questions came out, the crowd cooed and oohed at every one of my broken and illegible answers. As this progressed, people carried on drifting out from nooks and crannies everywhere around town and were slowly adding to the size of the group. The others returned to the mass of people, Matt commenting that it felt like the we had just stumbled into the Hitchcock film the Birds. With no success in finding an ATM, we decided that it is time to leave. All through town people stopped and stared at our progress. Not the occasional glance we had been accustomed to throughout the other countries, but proper, jar dropping, dead eyed, silent staring. Weird. On the road, the plan is to head to the Capital. Only 100 miles, piece of cake. 10 miles up the way we had risen into the cloud base again and progress was slowed to about 20mph. We crawled through the pea soup, avoiding the cavernous pot holes and straining to see where the only visible marker (the yellow centre line) wound it’s merry way. Plans are changed and we head for the second biggest town. Another checkpoint, this time with unorganized police, who bundle reading our documents and at keeping the band of school children surrounding us under control. Buses pass with all eyes staring at us. I pull out the camera and the children whoop with joy. They dance on the roadside and on the bank, bouncing off each other, giving thumbs up and peace signs. As they pass, the trucks honk their horns in salute and the Police dart this way and that trying to look busy. In the middle of all this we stand, confused. How did we stumble into being the main attraction at this simpletons tea party? What is wrong with these people?
The plan is made, screw Honduras. Only bad, annoying and weird things have happened here. Lets get out of the country and start a fresh. The country, though not hostile or bad has obviously got it in for us. We leave the next day and Helge looses his oil filter. Litres of oil cover his bike and the road and we stop whilst he fits another filter. Damn this place, it’s got it in for us.
Finally we roll up to the border at 3.30pm and so the now familiar game kicks off. As we roll to a stop, we scythe through the pack of money changers and ‘helpers’ that run out around us. This put them on a back foot and we get the upper hand over them from the start. [GOAL!!!!! Biker united 1 Border Weasels 0] We ignore the helpers and head straight for the Police, who point us in the direction of the Customs office. [GOAL!!!!! Biker united 2 Border Weasels 0] Outside of the border office, helpers point at a Spanish sign, offering translation services. We read the English sign that is pinned up underneath. [GOAL!!!!! Biker united 3 Border Weasels 0] Inside the Border Office, only the most daring and persistent (or stupid) of helpers follow. We hold the door open for them and say, “Muchos Gracious, Adios”. They get the hint. [GOAL!!!!! Biker united 4 Border Weasels 0] Things are looking good and we’re pleased with our progress. Next up is the Battle Axe of a woman who looks at our passports and asks us why we don’t have vehicle import papers or a Honduras stamp. We shake our heads and tell her that the Guatemala stamp serves for Guatemala, El Salvador, Honduras and Nicaragua. We also tell here the customs on the border where we arrived only recorded our vehicle details and told us we didn’t need anything else. She strops and shouts and we just shrug our shoulders. Up she stands and heads out looking for her boss. Oh dear. [GOAL!!!!! Biker united 4 Border Weasels 1] Her boss, who is sat in his car listening to the radio, takes one look at us, one look at our passports and shrugs his shoulders. He smiles and much to the distress of his employee, waves us on saying everything is fine. [GOAL disallowed!!!!! Biker united 4 Border Weasels 0] Dear God, we’re on fire. Passports are stamped, import tax is paid and vehicle details and input into a computer by a VERY efficient girl, all in double quick time. [GOAL!!!!! Biker united 5 Border Weasels 0] The insurance salesman who has been following Helge all this time gets 12 dollars out of him for a suspect insurance document taking up the entire side of a A5 piece of paper. Now, I’m no expert, but it doesn’t have ANY small print and it looks as if it’s signed by a Mr. M Mouse of Disney Enterprises, so the rest of us tell him no thanks get ready to cross into Honduras. We ride about 5 metres, when a Nicaraguan Policeman steps out from the shadows and flags us in for a documentation check. All documents please. We oblige and he waves us on. But wait, another Policeman steps out from the vicinity of the Insurance Salesman’s presence and tells us we need Insurance. OK, it’s only 12 dollars, it’ll make a good memento. [GOAL!!!!! Biker united 5 Border Weasels 1] Mark and Matt purchase their insurance, but when I arrive the Insurance man is already packing up. No more insurance receipts? Apparently not, happy to have sold his quota, he strolls off, saying “ah don’t worry about it“!!! [GOAL!!!!! Biker united 6 Border Weasels 1] Out of Honduras and into Nicaragua. By: Daisy Bell With Honduras calling us, we eventually find the nasty little road to take us there. After driving into a ditch, we see a "Welcome to Honduras" sign and immediately fly into a panic that we've illegally entered a country with no documents or stamps. A few miles up the road a big, smiley immigration man drags himself away from his Honduran Soap Opera and shakes our hands. He barely looks at our passports and gets his colleague to take down the details of the bikes, which takes him a bit longer than it would us as he's clearly illiterate - the way to deal with this is be absolutely patient and not make "Durrrrrrrr" sounds in his ear - this wouldn't go down well - everyone still carries a gun here, as they do in most of CA.
Our positive introduction to Honduras flies out the window in the 48 hours ensuing the border crossing. Why? 1. "Cloud Forests" - ha! Like it's an ethereal landscape, but it just means you can see bugger all for 40miles (except cloud/thick fog) and it's cold and damp.
We all get the fear and head straight to the Nicaraguan border. Continue on to Nicaragua |
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| ©2006 Mark Bell |