Managua Nights

Day 24 - Monday, November 25
Tamara to Tegucigalpa to Danli

Honduran Cliff Art

The ride into Tegucigalpa the next morning was short and smoggy. It started off clear, but before the city was even in sight, the air quality took a serious turn for the worse. We had a few errands to run in the city, the largest since Mexico City, so we couldn't just hold our breaths and pass on through. We had to just grin and bear it as we merged into morning rush hour traffic and found our way to el centro.

On the list of things to do, Jay needed to acquire a visa from the Nicaraguan embassy before he would be allowed to enter the next country. We had the address from the guide book, but as we have learned, an address doesn't mean much in these cities. Nor does asking directions, as we've already mentioned ad nauseum. Jim's innate urban sensibilities and his ability to decipher the directions we get from locals got us, if not directly to the embassy, to somewhere close-by and infinitely welcomed - the Wendy's restaurant.

Pancakes, sausage and egg biscuit sandwiches, yum. Did we say Honduras was cheap? Not at Wendy's, but we gladly paid the exhorbitant prices and devoured our fast-food American style breakfast like bears waking from their winter hibernation. We've seen many McDonalds and Burger Kings, but try to avoid them, preferring the exotic local fare. But 24 days of wondering what we've been eating got the best of us. We even came back for lunch!

The embassy was right around the corner. Jay filled out his visa application and was told to come back at 2:00 pm. This gave us the time to take care of our other errands. Jay and Gary went to change money and get some passport photos. Well, Jay went and Gary got stuck in traffic. Alone and without the benefit of the escort they had met who was leading them to some blackmarket exchange, Gary went off on a blind search for Jay in the confusing morass of streets in the general downtown area.

After several random rights and lefts, Gary decided to give up and just go back to the Wendy's. Turning right one last time, there sat Jay's bike parked next to the escort's car. When Jay walked out a few minutes later, he couldn't have been more stunned. Laughing and convinced some force was definitely watching over them, they took care of the passport photos quickly and went to hook up with the others.

Everyone else was at the Kawasaki dealership down the road from the Wendy's. David bought a new headlamp assembly and spare bolts. Jim tweaked a few things here and there and also bought some bolts. Gary bought some bolts and finished up his Meier Hand Guard installation. Sadly, there were no stickers for Jay.

Alex's bike needed some work in the shop. His upper sub-frame bolts had not fallen off, they had cracked in half! The chief mechanic, who has prepped many bikes for top competition racing, expertly removed the headless bolts and retapped the threads. Total cost to Alex was $10. Cheaper than lunch at Wendy's!

David and Jim hunted down the university to upload some journals, write some more entries, and check e-mail. But time ran out before they could get anything done.

Two o'clock was at hand, so we went to pick up Jay's visa, which was handed to him through a small hole in the door by a faceless embassy employee. It was too late to attempt the border crossing, which was still an hour and a half drive away, so we looked at the map and picked our night's destination.

The smog had since cleared from TegucigalpaÕs skies, and from all our knees-bent, running around, we'd actually grown to like this small capital. The surrounding hills were green and freckled with residences. The people were friendly and cosmopolitan. The way out of town was even the old familiar "where the hell did the road go" fiasco.

Back outside the city, the road once again dove into the wooded mountains. We drove through the dappled sunlight, sidestepping fallas after fallas, and reached the small town of Danli. Laid out like a perfect grid, for once, we cruised slowly all the way through town, turned around, and cruised back like a pack of wild dogs marking its territory. Shutters and doors banged shut as we drove by and the streets cleared. A lonely tumbleweed rolled across the main street in front of the saloon.

No, of course not. The streets were alive with people walking every which way. We did turn some heads, but we felt comfortable and welcome, and although the town wasn't the most attractive we'd seen, it had a certain charm to it. Danli is known for its cigar factories, which we opted not to see. Smoking bad, cancer bad, Cancer Society good, giving money good. (We like things that are good.)

We shacked up at the Hotel La Esperanza, sleeping once again five to a room, each with our own bed this time. The sun had yet to set, so we headed out for some fun and relaxation. Jim had his hair cut in a local barber shop. (Good thing we wear our helmets most of the time.) David found a small computer center and hooked the laptop to one of their monitors, getting around the annoying need to reduce everything to 1/4 size. After walking around with Alex and Jay looking for stickers, Gary joined David for some work on the journals.

We finished up with a dinner of very greasy fried chicken and even greasier homemade potato chips. Overall, it was a very fattening day.

Miles - 94

Day 25 - Tuesday, November 26
Danli, Honduras to Managua, Nicaragua

Nicaragua was certainly the most bizarre border crossing to date. We awoke early for the short drive to the border in order to get it over with as quickly as possible. We were allotting up to three hours, which would allow us to easily make Managua by day's end. The combination of their outrageous fees and our tight budget turned the whole crossing into a circus.

It all happened like this. At the Honduran side, we parked the bikes up by the gate in front of the dozen or so buses and semis also waiting to cross. A young and honest looking tramitador took care of us. Getting out of Honduras took about 45 minutes. Nicaragua was right beyond, so we rode the 100 yards to the administrative building and parked right in front. We always try to get as close to the building as possible so we can keep an eye on things, even though at least one of us is always chained to the bikes.

Since Gary, Alex and Jay took care of the last border, it was Jim and David's turn. Jim took on the job with relish, chose the tramitador and began the song and dance. David let Jim do the talking and wandered off to take photos, even chasing a couple of cows up the facing hill for a picture of them with the "Welcome to Nicaragua" sign. But when the officials wanted $20 per bike, David came running back down the hill with a new plan of attack. Let's try to get through for free using the booklet and the letters we got from the Mexican authorities as incentive for the Nicaraguans to do the same. Very, very iffy, but why the heck not.

And besides, the Nicaraguan embassy in Tegucigalpa the previous day had informed us that there should be no fees at the border. Then again, the guide book mentioned that $20 in fees may be required. All in all, it was a confusing situation. Regardless, we'd been pushed around in Latin America enough. We drew the line and dared them to cross it.

More slowly than slow, minutes became hours as phone calls were made, faxes sent, explanations offered, and more phone calls were made. Our tramitador hung with us like a champ. The main problem, our Nicaraguan amigos told us, even if they wanted to let us in for free, how could they prepare the paperwork and give us a receipt if we paid nothing? Without the proper form, we could be arrested for driving illegally and would have big problems getting out on the other side.

By some unbelievable lark, our request passed. We had called the embassy back in Honduras to verify what they had said, and even asked them to send a fax to the border stating it in writing, but the fax never came. Nevertheless, Alex contends that the letter from the Mexican police confused them and they thought it was the fax from Tegucigalpa, even though it said nothing about crossing borders for free.

Whoever said Latin America is unreasonable and chaotic should travel with us for a while. It probably helps to be as crazy as they seem to be, but it really is just a combination of respect, the thrill of competition, and a lot of patience. This morning, all of that won out, and after four hours, we received our papers and our "receipts" and were free to go.

During all of this, Jim went to use the restroom behind the building and learned a little something about Nicaragua in the process, besides the bathrooms are horrible at the border. A worker at the duty-free shop came walking back with a pile of broken glass and through it into the woods. When Jim asked him why he didn't just throw it in the trashcan out front, the man replied that someone could cut their hands on it. Back here, no one goes into the woods because of the land mines. Needless to say, Jim got out of there fast.

The whole days ride was almost a throwback to Guatemala but with a different flavor. First, the bad roads appeared slowly. A pothole here and there and some ripped up pavement. Then more potholes in a group. Eventually, a rapid series of potholes connected by thin patches of pavement. Jim hit one pot hole so big it dented his rim, though miraculously didn't pop his tire. Other bumps and shocks knocked loose Gary's speedometer cable, which sheared off in his spokes. Bereft of not only his speed indicator but the precious log of miles from his odometer, Gary began wondering, what with all of the loose bolts and the bad pump seal, if he had gotten the Friday Afternoon Special, that his bike rolled onto the assembly line at the Kawasaki plant late on a Friday when everyone just wanted to get home, so they put it together too rapidly and a bit carelessly.

The people on the side of the road were a hazard too. Disaster almost struck early when crossing through the first town. A woman called her small child from across the road who wandered out directly in front of Alex's bike. He avoided her, although barely; the incident left him shaking. Gary watched in disbelief from behind as the woman just took the child's hand and kept walking, no whack on the ass, no stern words, nothing.

Then there were the young boys who stand on the side of the road with shovels and scream at you to give them money for filling in the potholes. Sure enough, one or two of the dozen potholes in the immediate vicinity contain a fresh load of earth, but overall it is nothing but a cute if pathetic attempt to make a little dough. It gets a little more scary when the kids get bolder and try to force you to stop and give them money. As you approach, they pull some sort of rope or string up across the road. The option to driving through it and risk ripping off a little hand or arm is to stop, inch forward to show them you mean business, then floor it once they've put it down. W wondered if we'd get whacked in the head with a shovel for good measure.

Finally, there are the cars themselves. The guide book warns about driving at night since many cars have no headlights due to a national shortage of spare parts. Well, the guide book should add that if you drive a motorcycle and have to suck down the air that is given to you as you drive, wear a gas mask. The shortage of spare parts coupled with bad gas gives every car the worst case of toxic exhaust we've ever seen. The buses are atrocious, but even the new model cars - Land Cruisers and Mercedes, Hondas and Toyotas - belch out the foulest, blackest smoke from their mufflers. Some of them must be burning coal instead of gas. The only part which works perfectly is the horn, which the Nicaraguan drivers use sans cesse. It's like a dog barking; sounds the same to us, but each beep and honk has a unique meaning. It could be "Get out my way, asshole" or "I'm so happy to be sharing the road with you, sorry about the smoke."

Somewhere in between all of this, we managed to appreciate the Nicaraguan landscape. Unlike Honduras, the trees are sparse and the vegetation more tropical, but the rural sections have a prehistoric roughness to them. The hills sweep radically along the land, swooping and diving, climbing and cresting like a bird in a strong wind. Too bad you can't walk through them unguided; the risk of being blown up by a mine is too great.

The towns along the way are quite poor. There are very few modern gas stations and even fewer decent looking restaurants. Most of the roads off the main road turn immediately to dirt. Huge crowds are gathered at the bus stops along the highway, and people seem to wander aimlessly back and forth across the road in apparent disregard for the traffic speeding by.

The quasi-urban, dilapidated sight of Managua was strangely a welcome one. The roads improved at least and the gas stations were modern. At the first Shell in town, we debated our usual big-city tasks. Jim knew of a possible internet connection so he went off to use the phone and check it out. Unfortunately, the person was out of the country but he felt confident he could find a connection through a university the next day if we wanted to stay.

Alex brought up Save the Children and made an impassioned plea that we contact the Managua office. We had unwittingly missed the biggest center by bypassing El Salvador entirely, and it slipped our minds in Honduras. (We want to apologize to STC for putting our schedule as our highest priority, but at this point we were seven days behind and the thought of extra days made us cringe.) Alex ran to the phone to call the Managua office but everyone except the receptionist had gone. She suggested calling or coming by in the morning.

None of us wanted to stay two nights in Managua, but the journals were behind and we had to admit we had faltered on our commitment to Save the Children. With Alex spearheading the decision, we pledged to stay until we at least got a chance to see what was going on with STC in Nicaragua.

Sunset was absolutely gorgeous as we rode through Managua on the way to a hotel recommended by the gas station manager. Clouds like braids of soft baguettes spread across the sky and burned an intense red. The Hotel Colon gave us enough of a discount to make our stay affordable and a gated yard next door would keep the bikes safe overnight.

Gary suggested going to see a movie, so we all filed out after unpacking to see "El Professor Chiflado" or "The Nutty Professor." The movie was in English with Spanish subtitles in a two-screen modern movie theatre just up the road from the hotel. They even had popcorn and hotdogs. (For the sake of space, we'll forego the in-depth movie review and just say that it was damn funny!) Afterwards we dined on Subway sandwiches (apologies to the Kouts). It was a very American-style evening altogether.

Jay and Gary went back for some shut eye; the others drove around looking for a bank and promptly got into trouble. They passed a bank with a teller machine on the opposite side of the road. It was obvious by looking at the center median that to backtrack would be time consuming and complicated so the three bikers, taking advantage of their bike's dual sport natures, took the easy way, over the lawn. Two passing Nicaraguan police officers didn't appreciate that very much, but as we had already learned to do, "no entiendo's" and smiles got the boys off scott-free.

On the way back to the hotel, David, who somewhere along the way lost his gloves, got separated from Alex and Jim, which is fortunate for him because they got pulled over again. This time, the cop nailed Alex for not having his vehicle permit with him and escorted him back to the hotel for a little palm-greasing. Gary was vegetating in front of the TV watching some forgettable movie in English when Alex runs in needing 100 cordobas, or about $11. He unsatisfactorily explained his situation, took the money, and ran back out to the waiting cop. Jay was deep in conversation with his parents over the phone and missed the whole thing. (How much was that 1 hour collect call, anyway?)

David, obsessing about his Geier gloves which have served him so well, had gone to retrace every inch of land, be it bank lawn or traffic circle. It was 11pm and during this hunt which lasted well over an hour David saw some things he wished he hadn't.

Thinking he would get lucky, his first attempt at scouting the roadway was made quickly. Out of the corner of his eye, lounging swankily on a dark bus stop bench, he caught sight of two women. He glanced over and they blew him a kiss. Shocked and confused about this unsolicited display of affection he drove on.

He went to the parking lots of a few banks they had tried earlier; he even chanced getting caught again by driving on the lawn leading up to one bank. No luck on the gloves.

Now why are these things so important? There is something about hand protection which overshadows all other gear. We could be driving completely naked but not feel naked as long as we have our gloves on. However, if we are fully suited up and have no gloves on we feel as embarrassed as post-apple Adam and Eve.

So David continued looking for his beloved gloves, more slowly this time, and having to pass by the same bus stop women again, this time making a less subtle attempt at propositioning him. What an awkward situation to be in. Having to drive by them again, looking for your gloves, being propositioned. If they were prostitutes they must have seen this routine a thousand times. A shy man drives by once to check it out, a second time to deliberate his morality, a third to justify his needs until finally he makes a decision one way or the other.

Still no luck on the gloves, David took one more pass by all the spots he had been by earlier. This time the women ran out into the street, blocking his path, and saying things in Spanish that he was better off not knowing. They were getting all worked up and David attempted to explain his reason for passing with some success but he could see that neither of them believed him. Plus he thought they at least deserved an explanation so they would back off.

At the last section of road, just before he was about to give up, there they were, the beloved Geier gloves, driven over numerous times and laying in the gutter amongst similarly colored leaves. He grabbed them and headed back to the hotel. On the way were those women again, and if they didn't believe him before, they would this time.

He rode by the bus stop once more to show them the gloves, and they were satisfied that he was being truthful. Nonetheless they tried once more to accost him. As they neared, he saw that a new one among them must have been a man. See ya!

Miles - 195