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The long Road. Part 6 of 9: Central America

Caribbean Nights It was a bustle of back and forth running men on the dock of the small port. Everything had to be shipped. From sloppy rope-tightened wraps of clothes to sealed boxes packed with chickens. My bicycle had to get across as well, preferably in a state that makes me able to could continue my camino in Central America after the boat trip. With ten tightly glued garbage bags I packed my bike. It was told that it was possible that seawater could splash on the deck. It took some time until all passengers and luggage were all on board. People and all kinds of animals were crawling up and down between the boat and the quay, until at some point everyone and everything suddenly came to rest. Apparently everyone who needed to be on board, was on board and everyone who needed to stat were on the quay. The chaos of the load was only a taste of what we might expect during the crossing. All security guarantees were thrown overboard. With a dizzying speed the boat bounced over the waves of the Caribbean Sea. The boat was launched from time to time and after the sometimes harsh landings gallons of water flew over the luggage and the passengers. The latter was not so bad. The sea water had a comfortable temperature of twenty-five degrees, just fresh enough to have a welcome cooling effect. Over the paradisiacal San Blas Islands we sailed towards Panama. Some islands were inhabited. The tribal Gunas lived in small turf huts. The men and women spent most of the time sitting before their homes. It seemed as if time stood still. The television, the computer, the car and the mobile phone have not made their entry yet. Occasionally someone caught a fish or someone shook a coconut tree. Subsequently it was time for rest. On a chair before the hut or in a hammock. Life cannot be more simple. The uninhabited islands were perhaps even more paradisiacal with nothing but white beaches and coconut trees, surrounded by coral reefs and the Caribbean Sea. The rhythm of my life was similar to that of the islanders. I spent my time sunbathing, playing volleyball, snorkelling, a conversation here, a conversation there, a snack and a drink. Underwater life for me was uncharted territory for me, but the snorkeling was good fun. The coral reefs had bizarre shapes. Between the shafts of the reefs swam a thousand different species, all in equally festive colors. My favorite was the trumpet fish, a fish with a narrow, elongated body, transforming into a long, slender nose in the form of - of course - a trumpet. For me the seahorse could be fine as a saxophone fish and so we only need a good drummer for an underwater jazz combo. On land there was also live music. The young British captain had a guitar. He was musically not exceptionally gifted, but there was also a professional musician in our midst, a rapper who played guitar. A talented musician who was incredibly versatile. He was able to make witty lyrics on the spot. In contrast to the commercial hiphop with themes such as the length of penises, fucking bitches and shooting policemen, his texts were substantial and intelligent. After four days and nights on the idyllic San Blas Islands we arrived in Panama City. An impressive urban landscape of skyscrapers was reaching tens of meters into the sky. It was night and thousands of lights were shining towards us. The new city seemed spotless, especially for Latin American standards. The old center was less clinical. Here the streets looked familiarly messy and so Panama City did not deny her Latin American roots. A Panamese-American man knew a good lodge for me, without hassle. He would also stay at the hotel. After we had settled, we had dinner together. We found a cheap eatery on the street, where the nocturnal Panamanian life passed by. In Panama City there was no taboo on breast augmentation. All men of forty years and older can recall the clip of Sabrina. The movie was set in a pool, where she was trying to get her bikini over her breasts, although she did not succeed before the end of the clip. At the time, the breast size of the Italian semi-diva was thought gigantic, but today she could walk completely unnoticed on the streets of Panama City, even if she would still wear an undersized bikini. While we were eating, a remarkable discussion unfolded: "Do you like the females?" "What do you mean?" "I know a nice place, it's only a block from here." "I have a beautiful girlfriend who can give me everything that I could want and more. For me there is no use in going there." "Yes, but I want to meet someone and I do not have her phone number. I am afraid that we can not meet each other. It's only a short time. I will pay the drinks." "Well, very short then." We entered a nightclub with pole dancers, men in midlife crisis and sexy young waitresses. The music was of the most vulgar kind: excessive macho male vocals and overly feminine panting, supported by a merciless, relentless beat. The American man pulled a waitress onto his lap. Teasingly he slipped his hands under her shirt. While hands of the man were gliding over the breasts of the waitress, her friend came sitting on my lap. This was not the intended goal of the night, so I had to take action. "You can look for other customers, if you like. I do not need attention." "Yes, but I like it on your lap." "Please leave, I have a dear girlfriend whom I love very much." "But that does not matter..." With a sultry, sexy look she gazed at me. She sat a little closer to me and began kissing my cheek. Softly she began to rock her ass on my lap. The message did not appear to be getting through. I focused to the man and said in English: "I do not know what you're going to do, but I am going back to the hotel." "Yes, yes, yes, I'll go with you." It was obvious what the old man was looking for in Central America. That was confirmed when we were standing on the street. Within no time, there were five hookers around the man. Apparently they knew exactly who they should go to. The man continued his course through muddy waters. "You go with me" He pointed to one of the girls, but immediately he corrected himself: "No you, you come with me." The girl was probably no more than sixteen years old and maybe even younger. She had an extremely grumpy appearance, especially for such a young girl. Under the sounds of mocks and curses of the other hookers I flagged down a taxi. The three of us were dropped off at the hotel. After the payment I walked to the hotel. The old man and his girl walked ahead of me. Next to each other, but a meter away from each other, their gazes focused forward into the distance. The loneliness was palpable in the Panamanian night. In the hills of Costa Rica With the night in Panama City the Blue Lagoon feeling of the San Blas Islands was washed away definitively. It was time to get my bike ready for the road. The bicycle appeared to have survived the boat trip without problems. I could continue my cycling trip seamlessly in Central America. The Panama Canal is very practical for shipping, but for me it was a meaningless obstacle. The bridge over the canal was off limits to cyclists. I decided to go there whatsoever, as there is no alternative. In the distance I saw the police post looming. I made speed to pass by the police post with great velocity. Before the police would have overtaken me, I'd already be well on my way on the climb over the bridge. The police would hopefully see that it makes no sense to let me return halfway. With forty kilometers per hour I raced by. The police officers apparaentlu had not even seen me. On my ease I climbed up over the bridge up and reached the other side of the Canal. In four days I cycled to the border with Costa Rica. A hundred meter long line of people was waiting for the Panamanian border. All those people wanted to leave the country. There was only one officer at work and the procedure lasted five minutes per person. This could take a lot of time this way... After three hours of waiting in the heat of the day it was almost my turn. There were only a few people in front of me. At that moment a bus with rich Japanese tourists came along. The tour guide chatted with officials and they promptly allowed the Japanese to go first. Not that they were grateful. They were impatient and complained why it took such a long time. After another half an hour it was finally my turn. Five minutes later, my passport was finally given the necessary exit stamp. Now the formalities on the Costa Rican side. I held my breath. After some searching I found the Costa Rican customs. I asked the official where the row was. "That is here." "But I do not see any row." "That's right, you're the only one in line. I will help you immediately." A minute later the process was finishedand I was officially in Costa Rica. Immediately after the border I cycled along steep mountain slopes with lush tropical vegetation. Numerous tropical birds were chirping happuly. I saw the First toucans and cockatoos fly by and the capuchin monkeys wered doing an acrobatic show up in the trees. In Panama there was not one single noticeable highlight and in the first kilometer of Costa Rica I found myself right away in a tropical paradise. Traveling is a continuous series of encounters with the unknown. After ten months on the road I still encountered new experiences every day. So now I entered another new world of the tropical hills of Costa Rica. I thought it was important to keep enjoying the journey after so many months, to continue to see every day as a miracle. Otherwise, I would pass by a procession of people without actual exchange of thoughts and feelings and the landscapes would flow by without actually being part of it. My first day in Costa Rica was completed in style with an tropical downpour that is unparalleled. With the hotel owner I took a closer look at the weather conditions of our mother countries. The hotel owner was curious about the climate in the Netherlands: "How long is the winter in your country?" "For us, the winter is three months," I replied politely. "O. In Costa Rica the winter lasts eight months..." My partner looked at me with a look of defiance, 'Well, now you again...' "Is it at the moment it is winter or summer?" "It is clearly summer now." "What is the difference between summer and winter in your world?" "In the summer it is hot and winter is cold. Give me the summer." My partner looked at me in surprise. How could I be so stupid? Everyone knew that the summer was hot and the winter was cold! I still did not know yet, how exactly hot is hot and how exacly cold cold. "How cold is it your winter?" "Thirty degrees Celsius, thirty-five at most." "Is that cold ?" "It rains a lot in the winter." "Well, that downpour we had an hour ago, I will not forget so easy. So it rains a lot in the summer too..." "Yes, but in the winter it rains all day." "As hard as today's shower?" "Or even harder." "Well, I think it's not cold though, thirty to thirty-five degrees." "What temperature do you have in the summer in the Netherlands?" "On average, twenty to twenty-five degrees." "These are minimum temperatures?" "No, these are maximum temperatures." "Brrrrr, how cold is it in the winter?" "Two degrees, maybe five. When the wind comes from the east, it usually freezes." "Well, then I hope that those are minimum temperatures!" "These are maximum temperatures. In the night it usually freezes in winter." "Wow, what an extreme climate!! Can the people survive in such extreme conditions???" After this enlightening conversation I cycled in two days through the sweltering lowlands. The heat of the Costa Rican summer lived up to its new reputation. It was high time to get back to mountainous areas to do some climbing and to be in a cooler climate for a while. Luckily there was a nice climb waiting for me. The climb to the Cerro de la Muerte, or Mmountain of Death, starts at 250 meters altitude and climbs 3,335 meters altitude. According to the locals, I had to be careful: "It is freezing cold up there." In a long day I climbed under heavy rains to the pass. A complete day program, which ended above the tree line. I did not encounter icy cold temperatures though. Despite the continuous torrential rain, it was all the way up still fifteen degrees Celsius. I asked myself where the icy cold temperatures could be. It was Semana Santa or lterally Easter week. Semana Santa begins a few days before our Easter. I found out that all shops, all hotels and all restaurants were closed. After the monster climb, there was no hotel room for the Lonely Cyclist and not even a river to wash myself. And there was not a nice meal. It was camping and I lived on my emergency supplies. The next morning I woke up by the early morning sun on my tent. Through the tent opening I looked over the emerald hills and valleys below me. I was far above the surrounding landscape, one of the highest mountain ranges of Central America. Far below misty clouds were drifting against the mountainside. The tens of kilometers long descent on the side walls of the ridge was wonderful. Occasionally I was in the clouds, alternately I had free views. After several hours descent I reached a broad valley.In the descent through the valley I passed San José. I heard little enthusiastic stories about the capital of Costa Rica, so it seemed nicer to stay in a provincial town. In Alajuela I pulled the brakes. It turned out the pleasant povincial town, that I was hoping for. Everywhere were cafes with locals and occasionally I saw a tourist. In the north of Costa Rica is the Arenal Volcano, with a perfect cone shape and a large crater, surrounded by paradisiacal rainforests that buzzed with tropical birds. The region around the Arenal Volcano was perhaps the most attractive part of my route through Costa Rica. The area was surrounded by mountain ranges and volcanoes, and then there was the blue-green Lake Arenal, a large lake, flanked by a steep ridge and dominated by the bare cone of the Arenal Volcano. North of the Arenal Volcano the landscape changed dramatically. The northwest of Costa Rica was drier and even hotter than the rest of the country. At daytime it was forty degrees and at night thirty degrees. Clearly summer. The terrain was flat and there was a stiff breeze. I had backwind and I flew with great speed over the asphalt. Before I knew, I was blown across the border and I found myself in yet another Central American country, Nicaragua. Jesus lives in Nicaragua In the afternoon I cycled over a cobbled road into the colonial city of Granada. I had the feeling that I entered a medieval city. The colonial houses seemed really ancient. There were small cracks in the walls and the paint was virtually completely worn off the walls. The traffic largely consisted of horsecarriages. I followed the stream of horses and chariots. A man in a hammock greeted me warmly. Granada was even livelier and more messy than other Latin American cities. There was an unusual quantity of people on the streets. After five minutes I reached the the main square. The supply of the market seemed to consist of decades old stuff. Both the local population as a single group of tourists wandered around the stalls, looking for dresses, figurines, jewelry and other knick knacks. I explored the surrounding streets and found a hostel with a beautiful, flower-filled courtyard. After a sweltering night I cycled the next morning through the hills to the Managua. Unlike colonial Granada the capital Managua turned to be a modern Central American city. The afternoon heat hung like a damp blanket over the urban sprawl. As a result of the exhaust gas, the blanket not only felt clammy, but also dirty. At a major intersection, I stopped to cool off and to eat something in a restaurant. After a few minutes a young, white woman entered the establishment. It proved to be the American Rachel. She did volunteer work in a village nearby. She told about her impressions and experiences: "The people have a different religious experience here than in America. One way or another the people here seem to be much closer to God." "But in the United States almost everyone sees himself as religious too, isn't it? Or have all those people missed the point?" "If you look at the life of Jesus Christ, you see that he had chosen a path of poverty over a life in wealth. That he traveled around without any possessions. That he put his life in service of the needy. In the US, almost everyone is a Christian, but almost nobody lives like Jesus Christ. The church seems to mainly protect the people with property. She has become an advocate of the rich, while they should be there for the poor and infirm. Here in Nicaragua, most people have little possessions, but on they give and share them much easier than the Americans." "The more possession, the more fear to lose it?" "It seems so. Many Americans believe that you get the life that you deserve. Most wealthy Americans also feel that they have worked hard enough to be so rich. And that they do not need to help other people, but that these people can and should help themselves. For me this view is the denial that we have received the worldly goods and pleasures from God." I said goodbye to Rachel and cycled in the direction of León. There were two roads that led to the county town. I decided to gamble on the western one. The road became worse and soon I had found out that I should have taken the eastern road. I found myself on a dirt road with sandy passages and large stones. It was hot and the bad road drained a lot of strength. I had not counted on unpaved roads and certainly not on such a bad one. It would be difficult to reach León today. There were no other villages or towns on the route, so I had to reach the town today, especially since I had no food and little water supplies with me. I asked myself how I could be so poorly organized. With difficulty I was able to concentrate again on the red dirt road, which I saw meandering kilometers before me through the hills. I was busy with the road for many hours until I reached the pavement around five o'clock. I felt that my tire was not full. With only an hour of daylight and thirty kilometers to go, this was a new setback. I quickly took the luggage from my bike and replaced the tube. I could not find a stone or thorn in the tire though. I decided that it was a "mysterious" leak, which apparently arose without cause. After replacing the tube, I could continue. I would replace the tube in the evening. With great speed I flew over the smooth asphalt. It was completely dark when I rode into the colonial city. I found a hotel and brought my bike inside the hotel room. To be sure, I checked whether the replacement tube was still good. It turned out to be half empty. So apparently there was something wrong with the tire. I immediately began to investigate what was wrong. After several investigations I still did not see or feel a thorn or piece of glass. I kept searching. Only after an hour I felt a tiny piece of ultrathin wire. I managed to remove the microscopic piece out of the tire. Now I had undone the source of the mischief, I had still two punctured inner tubes to repair. A new problem popped up. There was a crack in the tube of glue, which had caused the glue to dry. I could not stick the tires with the glue and I could not buy new glue today anymore. The next morning I had found a bicycle repair guy who sold tubes of glue. I repaired the tubes and decided to take a rest day. From a cafe on the main square I saw everyday city life slowly passing by. The houses and churches and even the cathedral were in a state of decay. The city braved the decline gracefully: the majestic red calvary church, the colorful markets, the timeless melancholy in the silent streets. And then there were the friendly, thoughtful people. There was little to divide, but nobody seemed to be hungry. People took care of each other and against all odds they managed to survive. I could not help thinking of my conversation with Rachel. Jesus does not live in the Promised Land and neither in the Roman Empire, nor in the land of unlimited possibilities. Jesus lives in Nicaragua. Black Clouds over Honduras Honduras was another level poorer than Nicaragua. Poverty lied on the street, but the people were friendly. Despite its bad reputation I felt safe. The negatives were the standard Central American ingredients: the ever-present traffic and the stifling heat. Especially on the climbs, under a temperature of about forty degrees, I used to be soaking with sweat, but I was not the only one who struggled. If a truck or a bus was moaning and groaning its way up the slope, they could bluntly and suddenly release a black cloud of exhaust gases, mostly right at the time and place where a vehicle passed me by. The black farts made quite an impact. They caused a temporary choking breathing. Moreover, the temperature within a black fart could rise to up to seventy degrees Celsius. The soot mixed with the sweat of my skin and my cycling gear. Depending on the traffic and the climbs per day I got to endure twenty to hundred of these black farts. Further, Honduras proved a great country to be in. Everyone had time for a chat and the atmosphere was relaxed. I decided on a next bike trip in the region, I would take more time to explore Honduras; I would especially take time to visit the hillside regions. But we do not live in the future but in the present. In twenty-four hours I had crossed Honduras and I stood before the Salvadoran border. Concrete Jungle There are two main roads that lead to Guatemala. I cycled over the northern road to the capital, San Salvador. The road itself was good, but the shoulders were a hell of holes, thresholds, pieces of glass and large stones. Even for the car drivers it was a matter of survival, so there was no other option for me but to remain on the shoulder. Another peculiarity were the deep concrete wells in the shoulders. These were a meter wide, three meter long and up to ten meter deep. Just big enough for a bicycle and its rider. So you can hurt pretty bad, if you do not pay attention. In spite of the many accidents of these open pits, nothing was done, and apparently everyone accepted that once in a while unwary walkers, cyclists or motorcyclists disappear in the deep pits. Even more than neighboring Honduras, El Salvador is struggling with a poor safety reputation. There were many weapons in circulation and they were not only used for defense. There were many gangs in the cities of El Salvador. The number of drug-related murders was higher than in the surrounding countries. In the capital, San Salvador I rode into a war zone. Several times I was almost dragged off my bike and I had to free myself with force. It was important not to stop and to keep on cycling. San Salvador was a gray city. There were no trees and shrubs. I walked through the desolate streets of the concrete jungle of San Salvador, seeking a meal. The grocery stores were protected with iron railings. Transactions took place between the narrow bars. There was barely room between the bars, so that it was not possible to look the seller in the eyes. The big fast food chains were even more protected. The Burger King and Pizza Hut were guarded by men with loaded machine guns. From San Salvador I cycled up to Nueva San Salvador or New San Salvador. Here the small middle class of El Salvador was living.And it was also here that a car stopped next to me. A man got out. He said that he wanted to give something. I looked at him suspiciously, but he looked friendly. The man appeared to fabricate cycling wear. In the small workshop I was given a brand new Salvadoran cycling outfit. Moreover, I also got a swimsuit, and my bike got a facelift in the best bike shop of El Salvador, which was run by his friends. My bike had not looked so fresh since the first five kilometers in South America. Land of the Mayans Guatemala was the poorest country on my journey through the Americas. I was regularly flagged down desperately for food or money. The confrontation with deep poverty was one of the difficult aspects of the trip. While I was living my dream on the bike, I was surrounded by people who had to struggle every day to survive the nightmare. At his record Nebraska Bruce Springsteen sings that: "At the end of every hard-earned day people find some reason to Believe." Against all reason people find the ultimate hope that keep them going on. In our Western societies, we sometimes have to search for hope in the deepest bottoms of our spirit, but where do these people find hope? Guatemala was a country of abject poverty, but it was also an interesting country. Antigua was the most beautiful city in Central America with a variety of churches in various styles and colors and brightly-painted houses. Horse-drawn carriage combinations crept Squeaking and creaking over the cobbled streets. The colonial city was lying under the shade of a huge volcano, overgrown with intense green, tropical forests. From Antigua I cycled in the forested highlands of Guatemala, the area of the Mayans. A hallucinatory beautiful place is the Lago de Atitlán, a large, deep blue lake that is surrounded by lush cloud forests and three large volcanoes. The base is Panajachel with numerous hotels and restaurants. The lake acts as a magnet for hippies and New Age adherents because of the "Special forces." In addition to the hippie communes there were the atmospheric Mayan Villages on the shores of the lake. The villages were steeply set against the surrounding tropical hills. The Mayans were found wonderful people, exotic and mysterious, with a slender physique and fine facial expressions. The women wore beautiful dark blue and purple traditional clothing. Everywhere were people and yet there was a serene silence in the streets. The villages and towns of the Highlands nearly all had beautiful churches or cathedrals in colonial style. The most atmospheric city was Chichicastenango or "Chichi" with the largest market in Central America. The early morning sun shone on the market and the white cathedral. Early in the morning there was already a low-key activity and rapidly the market stalls were set up and filled with fruit, vegetables and clothing. On the steps of the white cathedral Indian women were selling the characteristic bouquets of flowers. There was an enchanting atmosphere in the streets of Chichicastenango. Everywhere the intense fragrant clouds of incense were hanging in the streets and the atmosphere vibrated of shamanic activity. The roads in the mountains were recently paved. That did not mean that the going was easy. I climbed to passes of up to 2,700 meters altitude and the gradients were pretty impressive. Especially between Chichicastenango (Chichi) and Huehuetenango (Wah-Wah) were endless climbs with gradients around twenty percent. After Wah-Wah I did not hace to climb anymore. A long descent brought me to the Mexican border. Map of Central America