Trip Diary - Photo Diary - Start the trip in the UK - USA - Mexico - Belize - Continue on to Costa Rica
Rapidly decided Honduras was not the place to be and moved into Nicaragua where the smiley faces and waves returned. Most of the country is a gigantic garden of banana trees, fabulously coloured flowers of every description, rolling hills and of course hammocks in abundance. Healthy looking horses are tied to trees as their cowboy hat adorned riders pop in to see their friends on their Sunday off - so chilled and relaxed, wonderfully refreshing. Kids try and trip up the bike with a piece of cotton across the road then try and charge us $1 for taking a piccy of them - enterprising little buggers.
The flea-infested gaff couldn't ruin the corridor of volcanoes that continues from El Salvador through Nicaragua and the calm, friendliness of the Nica's (not knickers). Getting quite accustomed to seeing them now (volcanoes, not knickers), but they're always spectacular no matter how many you see, especially Volcan Masaya that you could walk right up to (so long as your vehicle is reverse parked in case of a quick getaway!) and stick your head in its smoking crater whilst you hear the Magma gurgling away below - where are the Risk Assessors when you actually need them?!
We visit 2 x rival cities on a par with Glasgow and Edinburgh except without the volcanoes and battered pizza respectively. Spectacular markets and colonial architecture and churches, many going to rack and ruin, probably because the government here are one of the most corrupt in C.A. and prefer to spend the sponds on the newest Hi-Lux whilst 70% live below the poverty line. Some of the living conditions are appalling - the poorest of the poor have homes with walls of black bin liners whereas the richest of the poor at least have a roof of corrugated steel. And yet the people appear happy and positive and just get on with things as they are. Shows us up for being a bunch of whingers.
Speaking of whinging, we got Mangoed again: Mango / Mangoed / To Mango = adj; noun; verb : to have traveled the world to such an extent that you can only bore and patronise people with your tales, none of which contain any human interaction as no one can tell you anything you don't already know. Informal = Arrogant twat. See also: CAMRA Festival. Do we attract them or something? The fuse is rapidly burning away - next installment might be written from a Costa Rican jail if any more Mangoeing is to be suffered. A reccy to the seaside calmed the frayed nerves - watched the locals kicking a football around on the beach, watched the hundred fishing boats bobbing around on the Pacific, watched the Scandinavians trying to stand up on their surf boards, watched the low, pink sun set on the horizon and then watched-nothing. Power cut. As tends to happen in Nicaragua. Business as usual.
From: Mark Out of Honduras and down into Nicaragua. Into the first town and the holiday shirts were unpacked. Plenty, plenty whiskey is drunk under the palm trees whilst the boys stay up BSing. We polish off the Black Label bottle, then the Red label bottle, then the barmen tells us all the whiskey has gone and we have to go to bed. The next morning is painful. Fast forward again down pot holed roads, heading towards the coast. In the middle of nowhere we see two kids holding a rope across the road. At best they are bound to want money and at worst there?s some other foul play involved. Helge and Mark get to the rope first, slow down and then split, riding slowly at the kids. The kids drop the rope, drive for cover and the way is free. Once the first two bike have crossed the rope, the kids jump back on the road and pick up the rope ends again barring the way for Matt and I. We both split emulating the other bikes and ride for the kids, who once again drop the rope. Cheeky little feckers.
We ride between smoking Volcanoes and arrive at the Colonial town of Leon. The next day the lads head on, Matt wanting to make time to reach Panama before his flight. We wander through town and bump into a couple of other UK bikers. My alarm bells instantly ring - mangos off the starboard bow (see above). Daisy arranges an early get together, but I make my excuses and arrive 2 hours late, just as they are about to move onto another restaurant, leaving Daisy to wait for me. Her eyes are glazed and bored from being patronized and used as a player in the tedious game Trump the story. We're polite and make our excuses about not being hungry and bid the Mangos farewell. I feel smug with my ability to be able to spot them a mile off and spend the evening teasing Daisy. Next town Granada. Beautiful and cheap - best of both world. We meet the lads again and return to the old routine of large dinners and plenty, plenty beers. Time for a diet. Some sort of local festival is going on, which involves the majority of the town letting fireworks off in the streets at night. The lads leave and then we spend an evening at the Bearded Monkey, a backpackers hostel and bar. Large numbers of early twenties kids pace about, grasping their bibles (Lonely Planet) and rucksacks.
"Phew, that looks heavy" we joke, pointing at the rucksacks. Ah, the snobbery of it all. On the road to Costa Rica now. We head across to San Juan del Sur on Ninni and Erik's recommendation and it turns out to be a gem. A town, by a beach, nestled in a Cornwall styled cove. Lots of Gringos, but still not overly commercial. Ever night the electricity is rationed, so an official power cut runs between about 7pm and 9pm. When the lights go out, most of the shops and restaurants pull out little Honda generators, place them on the street outside and fire them up. For these two hours, the town talks on a completely different vibe. Generators hum in doorways. Candles burn at windows. People with torches wander the laughing and bumping into each other. Conversations are started up on steps of Hostels and Hotels. Fun for a night - probably not quite so much fun if you have to live with it.
The next day we head along the CA1 (Transamerican highway) towards the border with Costa Rica. We pass miles of parked lorries, waiting for their turn to cross the border. Men swing from hammocks, hung from the underbelly of the artic trailers and every looks bored. The border crossing is long, slow, agro free and tedious. Numerous people are visited for stamps, signatures, bike inspections, photocopies and other bits and of bureaucracy. We find out that the Costa Rican vehicle import office (our last hurdle) has just installed some new software and the powers that be have decided that the first staff training session should be in a live environment. Two poor fools sit at PC's, whilst supervisors and trainers stand over them pointing and muttering. All this whilst the irate public stand in a line and slowly lose the will to live. Occasionally somebody finally gets their paperwork completed and a small party erupts within the queue. The lucky detainee is then congratulated by everybody else still waiting in the queue with handshakes and backslaps a plenty. I kid you not, one old man had a little tear of joy running down his cheek as he bid farewell to us. 4 hours, 87 signatures and one lobotomy later, we were across into Costa Rica. Continue on to Costa Rica |
By: Daisy
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| ©2006 Mark Bell |