Guatemala

MARK:

We rode on through the southern Mexican states, Guerrero, Chiapas, Oaxaca, and eventually the end of this giant country was in sight. We rode with Mike and Jen for over a week, easily enough time to identify each others quirks and foibles and to become comfortable enough to point them out. Greg and I landed a few bargain hotel rooms with our well-honed 'good cop, bad cop' routine (1 pound pppn!) and Mike and Jen introduced us to a culinary world away from plain refried beans and tostadas. Despite our shared passion for huevos al gusto (eggs how you like) at breakfast with stacks of handmade tortillas, which wasn't conducive to an early start, we made good time, though not without incident. I am deeply suspicious of every roadside dog, so when one particularly evil-looking pooch charged after my juicy calves, teeth exposed, I pedalled away faster than you can say 'rabies vaccination'. Unfortunately so did Mike, and in the resulting collision I tasted tarmac. Luckily unhurt, and spared by the evil dog, we rode on, so it wasn't until we stopped for a drink 20 minutes later that I realised my bike was looking distinctly lopsided - my rear pannier was missing. Everyone except me found this very amusing, and assumed the bag would still be lying by the road where I had fallen. No such luck. The logical guess would be that the bag was taken by an opportunistic truck driver, but I still believe it was taken by the dog as the final part of his cunning masterplan. I hope he's comfy in our tent.

2 days later, Greg and I livened up an afternoon ride by seizing the perfect moment to implement 'Operation Lilywhite', a scheme which Greg had been plotting for some time. On a quiet road, we pedalled ahead of Mike and Jen, building up a healthy lead. Round a secluded bend we stopped and stripped naked. We remounted the bikes, leather saddles smooth against our buttocks, and rode slowly. When Mike and Jen caught up they were treated to 2 of the whitest arses ever to grace a Mexican highway, although they were less interested than the taxi driver who followed Greg a little too closely for half a mile before overtaking.

As we had been warned, at the border we were harassed by would-be thieves masquerading as immigration officials and sporting home-made ID badges, pestering us as we rode. A steep climb from the border was an omen of what to expect from the Guatemalan terrain, but the long, smooth descent that followedallowed us to gaze at our new surroundings. Distant volcanoes, ancient turrets marking endless tectonic battles, pierced through and rose above the white shawl of cloud. People smiled and waved a cheery 'buenos tardes' as if pleasantly surprised to see an old friend.

GREG:

Our first experience of Guatemala and its people came from Julio on our very first day in the country. Julio kindly invited us into his home, insisting that we be fed and watered, and offering us a bed for the night. Politely accepting this hospitable gesture, we quickly settled into the Central American way of life, which consists largely of sitting on the sidewalk, casually observing the steady stream of passers by, exchanging friendly greetings and the ocasional relaxed conversation. Children played in the cobbled street, their excited chatter periodically drowned out by the sound of a horn, or the echoing bellows of a megaphone advertising, well, something or other. The villagers flitted from house to house, making it impossible to determine who lived where, not least Julio's place, whose kitchen seemed to double up as a tortilleria with his Grandmother very much at the forefront of the operation. As for Julio himself, we deduced that he was some sort of Delboy-esque trader. At first Mark and I assumed that the plastic Christmas tree which emerged from his pickup was being erected for decorative purposes, but it soon became apparent that San Rafael's very own Mr Trotter had an agenda, luring in passing observers with the spectacle of early festivity.'Alright Ju-boy, nice lookin' tree you got there.''Nice? This aint just nice, this is the exact replica of the christmas tree present at the birth of christ. Now these usually retail at 100 quetzals a piece but for you, 50, and I'll throw in a box of lights, can't say fairer than that.'Despite his best efforts, Julio failed to shift the plastic pine and brought it - along with a broken fridge and 2 car doors - to the bigger town of San Marcos the next day. We wished him luck and set off for Xela (Quetzaltenango), as I thought about the slightly glum prospect of not spending Christmas with my family for the first time.

MARK:

As we made cycled almost vertically out of San Marcos, searching in vain for a lorry moving slowly enough to 'surf', we were passed by 2 men on a moped, filming our struggle up the hill with a large video camera. The men turned out to be reporters for local Guatemalan news, so, in Spanish, I gave an interview about the trip. We may not have made Look North or London Toight, but I was the sweaty, mumbling star of Quetzaltenango that night!

I enjoyed our brief stay in Xela - the feeling of being nestled in the narrow streets in the heart of the city, the chill in the air which reminded us of our altitude and manifested itself in the resolute nature of the locals. People huddled round tiny tables, sweet coffee, eggs, rice and tortillas providing an internal warmth until the sun could infuse through the city. We were pleasantly ignored and accepted, with a simple nod of silent acknowledgement reminiscent of a lone Englishman, ale in hand, sheltering from the weather on the bar of a rural pub.

GREG:

The 2 days that followed brought some of the most gruelling, yet spectacular riding of the trip, culminating in the breathtaking view of Lake Atitlan, a natural wonder produced 850,000 years ago by a volcanic eruption that formed a 300m chasm in the landscape and shaped the several new volcanoes that now surround the lake. Never have I been so awestruck by such a vast expanse of open space. The air between us and the lake seemed infinite, as if the water below was merely an illusion. We would soon find out as we began the 20 switchback descent, thinking of the countless cycling enthusiasts that would be green with envy if they could see us at that moment. Mark whooped with joy as he flew down the straights and tackled each switchback with a proficiency not reflecting the gross imbalance of a bicycle missing its left pannier. Meanwhile, I was hot on his tail, elation only matched by a genuine fear for my life as my brakes had decided to call it a day, forcing me to resort to jolting my bodyweight back and forth to try and curb the bikes ferverous momentum. We slept that night in hammocks by the edge of the lake, and at such a high altitude, my arctic sleeping bag finally came into it's own. For once I wasn't jealous of Mark's less thermic 'Snugpak', as I looked across the next morning to see a pair of oversized lips peeking out from a shivering cocoon.

We couldn't leave without hiking at least one of the volcanoes and so left early doors on Saturday morning to scale Volcan San Pedro. Unfortunately the view from the summit at 3000m wasn't as spectacular as it could have been, due to the complete cloud coverage, but at least our legs constantly screamed in pain for the next 4 days. Totally worth it.