Where Pavement has no Lease

Day 20 - Thursday, November 21st
Dangriga, Belize to Tikal, Guatemala

We woke up early this morning ready and raring to go to a new country. We were well rested, and the bikes were all clean and shiny. Good-bye's and thank-you's were lavished upon Chris, Jay's friend, who had played excellent host to us for the past two days.

David was in a major funk from the bad news he had received the night before about his friend Ginny's death from cancer. The riders consoled him, and in an uncharacteristically serious moment, we all realized how our zany trek across the Americas really could significantly affect the lives of many people.

The road back towards Belmopan and onward to the border with Guatemala went through its various flavors. First up was Lime Sorbet, the delicious and twisty road locals call the Hummingbird Highway through the lush, green Maya Mountains. Next was Rocky Road, 15 miles of suspension-pounding now-you-see-it-now-you-don't pavement. At Belmopan the road became smooth Milk Chocolate and we breezed through low hills alongside leafy woods and patchwork farmlands to the border.

The one large(ish) city we went through, San Ignacio, still managed to throw us for a loop as we attempted to get through town; at times even the main road looked like an alley, and only by asking about every block where the road had gone did we make it through.

The border appeared suddenly beyond a bend in the road. Different from the borders of Mexico and Belize, a friendly English-speaking money changer helped us through the process. First, we had to get out of Belize, which meant a $7 US exit tax and turning in our vehicle permits. Fortunately, we got through the line just as a bus pulled up and disgorged about 30 people.

Some of us changed money on the Belize side of the border. The rate, the money-changers insisted, was better than in Guatemala, so we took their word for it. These guys, who are just private businessmen with huge wads of cash in three different currencies (US, Belizean, and Guatemalan), even took traveller's cheques!

Money in hand, we triumphantly rode all of fifty yards to the Guatemalan side where a man in a union suit, a surgical mask, and a pressure hose awaited us. Curious and a little apprehensive, we watched him spray down our bikes (tires and engine only) with a chemical pesticide. For four-wheel vehicles, this is not too much of a bother, but when you're on a bike, you can smell and even taste (yech!) that crap for awhile before it dries up or flies off.

We parked the bikes outside the border post, and over the next two and a half hours, were slowly but meticulously processed by a short, poker-faced gentleman in Aduanas (Customs). In the meantime, we sat baking in the hot sun before and after our individual turns inside, chatting with the money-changers, who offered a better rate than the ones back in Belize as it turned out, and getting hit in the head by the small plastic ball some local kids were playing soccer with. (Why there were kids playing soccer at the border we'll never know.) The whole process set us each back $30 US, which by the end we were all but too happy to pay and get going again.

We should not have been so eager. Chris and the others back in Belize had warned us about the conditions of the roads in Guatemala, but their descriptions didn't even come close to the horrific reality. We couldn't have been a quarter mile into the country when the pavement disappeared and in its placed was the most God-awful unpaved, bumpy, pot-holey, torn-up, rutted, washed-out, rocky, uneven road you have ever seen, and this was main street in Melchor de Mencos!

Imagine our relief when we realized we had taken a wrong turn. The proper road onward to Tikal (and our comfy free hotel?) was only a God-awful unpaved, bumpy, pot-holey, washed-out, rocky road. It wasn't really rutted or uneven so to speak.

Jay, who seems to love those God-awful unpaved, bumpy, pot-holey, torn-up, rutted, washed-out, rocky and uneven roads, took off and disappeared around the bend. The rest of us, unsure of the true rough-road capablities of our KLR's, started more slowly, but soon enough we were all zipping along this GAUBPHTHRWORU road.

At about mile 30, we stopped for a breather. This was tough riding. The shocks were heroically working overtime, but we were still being jounced around unmercilessly in our seats, and our cases were rattling worse than the chains of Marley's Ghost. We felt like we'd been a few rounds with in the boxing ring; our hands were vibrating, our arms were sore, and our legs were pooped from standing on our footpegs to lessen the bumps. As we sat there discussing our numerous near-wipeouts from a few unexpectedly sharp curves and the abundant farm animals on the road, we realized who were the true victims of this dastardly road - the bikes themselves!

MOOOOve Over!

It started innocently enough when some bolts seemed loose - down by the footpegs and on the skid-plates. Then some rear-plate mounting bolts turned up missing. Next was a frame bolt or two (on Gary's and Alex's bikes). And where were three of the four small screws that hold on Gary's front fender? Out came the tool kits. We raided our spare bolts collection until we'd used all we could, then debated the merits of either going without a few still-missing bolts or removing less vital bolts and transplanting them where needed. We took a moment to notice how lovely the landscape was that we'd been riding through for the last hour. Up till now, we'd been unable to look anywhere but straight down in front of the tires.

All of this happened under the silence and curious scrutiny of about a dozen locals who materialized out of nowhere, which is exactly where we were - in the middle of nowhere. We wondered jokingly if these were the banditos who supposedly patrol this stretch of highway, but since most of the onlookers were either under the age of 10 or over the age of 60, we decided we’d be okay.

Finally, we felt re-bolted enough to get going again but resolved to hit a hardware store as soon as possible to replenish our supply of spares and fill in some still empty holes. Miraculously the bad road ended only about 10 miles further. Gary was the first to happen upon the asphalt, and although the last ten miles had claimed his other lower sub-frame bolt, he couldn't have been happier. Before the others arrived, he dismounted and kissed the hot black ribbon of smooth pavement. By the time the others pulled up, he'd learned they were only a few miles from the Westin Hotel and that the asphalt was indeed not a mirage, that it in fact was truly there and even continued all over the immediate vicinity.

When the five of us, dusty and worn-out and creaking, pulled up oustide the austere Westin Camino Real Tikal Resort Hotel, the security guard in the parking lot didn't know what to do with us. Unintimidated by his silence, we parked the bikes directly in the round driveway and marched inside, letter in hand, to claim our complimentary rooms. As expected, the front desk was taken aback, but with incredible speed and composure, they figured out what we were babbling on about and checked us in. The security guard let us keep the bikes where they were, and an oversized golf-cart resplendent in leopard skin, whisked us and our gear away, winding down through the landscaped grounds of the hotel to our two rooms overlooking grim Lago Peten Itza.

The calmness and comfort was a shock to our already shocked systems and we spent the whole evening at the hotel. Hot showers were a priority. David went in fully clothed - Darien suit, silk underwear and boots; it seemed the only way to really wash away the 40 miles of hell. We enjoyed a delicious dinner al fresco complete with milkshakes. (The Guatemalans seem to love them.)

Jim skunked Gary who in turn skunked Jay in some blistering sets of ping-pong in the rec room. Alex dominated in foosball, and Jay took his revenge at the dart board and the pool table. Gary unwillingly turned in early, passing out in front of the television while David stayed up late writing on the computer.

Miles - 134

Day 21 - Friday, November 22
Tikal to San Luis

Today was yet another day of contrasts from bizarre to down-right awful.

We began early, at 7:00 am, with a little archaeological expedition to the splendid ruins of Tikal. This Mayan site covers over 40 acres and contains several pyramids which tower above the tree tops. Having already seen one ruin (at Palenque if you'll remember), we decided to turn this one into a recreational as well as educational visit.

At one grassy field between pyramids, we whipped out the frisbee for some fun and exercise. Jim continued his series of photos in interesting places with Jay Leno's biography (Jay had given us a complimentary copy when we almost got on the Tonight Show before the trip). Other visitors to the pyramids cast a somewhat disapproving eye on all of this. When our antics reached the critical level ("I cannot work with this Mayan!" exclaimed Gary during a hilarious improvisation about Mayan construction techniques), we returned to the hotel, packed up, and left.

We stopped in the town down the road to search for bolts, but the hardware stores were pathetically under-stocked and we came away disappointed, hot, and angry with ourselves for having let it get so late without having gone anywhere yet. The only good thing to have come out of this wasted pitstop was a warning from a local about the roads ahead.

Take the mental picture of the roads from the previous day and mutiply it by a factor of four. Two because the roads were twice as bad, and two because it was twice as long. Oh, and another two because by the end of the day, it had begun to rain.

Actually, it didn't seem so bad. We were now such “experts” on this road that we pulled out all the stops. Our eyes were more keen to the bumps and ruts, and the faster we went, the less we felt the rocks and potholes since the bikes just soared over them. The smoothest line was usually the edges, so with our tires inches from the rough and our side cases brushing the foliage, we ignored the beautiful rugged landscape and rode like the men that we are.

Now We're Cooking with Fire

Lunch was eaten in a dingy roadside restaurant. The specialty of the house seemed to be a plate of wild pig, recommended highly by the proprietor, a small wrinkled Guatemalan woman, and her staff, three young children and numerous live chickens (the chickens recommended the pig also of course). During our pleasant discussion with the woman, we learned she was Jewish! I guess they don’t know too much about keeping Kosher in Guatemala.

After lunch, our self-styled expert riding took a shattering blow from reality. Jay, David, and Gary, who were sticking with each other all day, left the restaurant for round two of the assault on the roads. Immediately, the road which had been primarily straight and flat began to curve and climb. A bus had left the town just before us and slowly wound its way up the hill. Jay, confident as ever, passed on the inside. Gary followed suit but never completed the pass.

The road was covered in large loose stones, and the combination of poor traction and slow speed going uphill in low gear convinced Gary's bike that maybe it was better to just give up. Gary tried to regain control, but while fighting to keep the bike upright, he strayed too close to the edge of the road and fell over sideways down the hill. The thick brush caught both him and the bike just a few feet below the road. He wound up head pointing down, on his back, with one leg under the bike, and the other pushing on it to keep it from sliding further on top of him. To Jay and David, all that was visible were Gary's two tires and a muddy AC Racing skid plate.

From this interesting position, Gary could hear shouting in Spanish and realized that everyone had poured out of the bus to render aid. David and Jay hardly had time to pull out their cameras before a rope was tied around the bike and it was hauled back up to the road. Strong hands retrieved Gary next, completely unharmed but shaken. The bike was also unharmed, as were the cases which had taken the brunt of the fall. (Thank you, Bob and Mark of Elco Welding in Venice, who did such a brilliant job of making Gary and Alex's racks.)

David, who had witnessed the whole accident, was relieved to see Gary so well and strangely in such good spirits. In all his years of riding a motorcycle, this was Gary's worst (and really only) accident and the absurdity of it just overwhelmed him. We thanked everyone on the bus and rested for a while before continuing on, a little more cautious but no worse for the wear.

A few miles ahead, the five of us joined up at a gas station as the first drops fell from the sky. None of us were looking forward to riding a road like this in the rain, but we knew we'd better hop to it before it started to pool up and get muddy. Besides, the next town with a hotel was still one mountain pass away.

Similar to our foggy ride on Day 13 (the Day from Hell), we rode slowly up and over the curvy mountain road amidst the buses and trucks in the rain and now in the dark as well. The lights of San Luis, a tiny pueblo without distinction, looked like the lights of Paris. And the Pensione San Andres was the Hotel George V. Actually it was a complete pit. The rooms were exactly the size to accommodate the beds (saggy and rickety), the bathroom was an underlit, half-exposed cement cell, and the other guests were a sketchy lot of intransigents and truck drivers. But it was home.

We had a lively dinner at the restaurant next door, swapping horror stories about the day and past rides. This raised our spirits, and we retired well-fed and dreaming of killer buses, muddy and wet roads from hell, and the stretch of smooth asphalt at the end of the rainbow.

Miles - 145