The Way to San Jose

GREG:

Mark and I had fallen in love… with Guatemala, and it was with a heavy heart that we pushed on towards El Salvador, the smallest country of the trip. Like much of Central America, it is a state wounded by relentless civil warring and although currently at peace under the government of Antonio Saca, an air of conflict still lingered in the dusty air.

What immediately frustrated us about this new region, was the downturn in comprehension of our Spanish dialogue. Never before have I seen so many blank expressions than when Mark attempted to ask, for the fifth time, how much extra the suspect looking beef would cost with his breakfast. He eventually ended up with a separate plate solely containing meat, and his exasperation, as always, provided me with much amusement.

The gourmet of El Salvador is undisputedly the pupusa – double layered tortillas filled with re-fried beans and melted cheese – and now that we have left the country and this magnificent culinary invention behind, I miss them more than I miss my own family, and only slightly less than Mark misses Guinness.

The surprisingly smooth road took us from the north-west corner of the country, through Santa Ana and down the long, flat coastal road of Costa de Balsamo, where we finally reached sea-level and with it a drastic rise in temperature from the cool mountain air of the north. At this stage our focus was on our destination. We knew what we needed to do: 4 countries in 2 weeks. An average of 100km a day would suffice. No rest days, no slacking and no excuses. If we adhered to these principals, then we would make our destination of San Jose, Costa Rica in time for Mark’s homeward flight on the 21st.

With the sun on our face and the wind on our backs, we were crossing another border into Honduras, and yet another within the next 2 days into Nicaragua. A 20km stretch of dirt road greeted us as we ventured into our fourth Central American country. The dusty heated engulfed us and we struggled across the shifty surface, beginning to wonder whether we were destined to potter down this less than ideal road for the entire 350km stretch to the next border. Eventually though, the surface became more sympathetic towards our racing bikes and we pushed on to the town of Villanueva. Here we asked the proprietor of the only bar in town if we could sleep on his gravel floor for the night. He kindly obliged, giving Mark a grand tour of his humble establishment and showing him the revolver he kept in his belt. A vile, bloated brute who ate with his mouth wide open and kept his ample belly on display at all times, I pondered over how his wife (though not exactly a looker herself), had found the courage to perform the act of reproduction with such a beastly specimen. We shared an uncomfortable night with an orgy of mosquitoes whispering sweet nothings in our ear, and trudged away from Fattys bar, full of lethargy.

The abundance of poverty had become a familiar fixture throughout Central America, but Nicaragua seemed to demonstrate an even lower echelon of living standards. Houses were often built simply from tree branches and a black plastic sheet, and measured no more than three square metres. I shuddered to consider how these families coped during the rainy season, let alone the repercussions of Hurricane Mitch, which had caused unimaginable devastation in the north of the country.

In the town of Nagarote we became stuck in no-mans-land, the nearest hotel an unspecified distance away (we discovered long ago that if locals do not know where a place is, they will tell you whatever distance pops into their heads, making the ambiguity of responses vast and therefore extremely frustrating.) We decided to try our luck at the local Police Station and, after much official deliberation, El Heffe (the boss) took us under her wing and gave us a place to sleep for the night. It was the next morning during breakfast that we first caught a glimpse of the mysterious solo cyclist. Excited to see another tourer, we hurried to finish our gallo pinto (the local staple consisting simply of rice n beans), and peddled on towards the capital city, Managua, where we eventually crossed paths with the lone rider. We learned that Lego, a Spanish guy from Pamplona, was planning to cycle all the way down to Argentina, having begun his journey in our beloved Guatemala. Lego was softly spoken, with an excellent grasp of English. He had a tranquil disposition while simultaneously exuding an enthusiasm and eagerness for discovery.

We had decided to catch a boat from Granada, across Lake Nicaragua to the east side of the country and Lego, upon hearing our plans, opted to join us. The rigmarole of getting our bikes on the boat was arduous, removing every single item including water bottles, due to a warning by a local that they would mysteriously disappear if left unattended. It turned out to be sound advice, as we looked round to find the very same guy that had given us this inside info, attempting to make off with our belongings. He did warn us.

As for the boat journey itself, 15 hours of watery hell would be a fair description. Crammed into the small interior of cattle class, shoulder to shoulder like pickled gherkins, the heat was unbearable. On my right was a woman holding a baby that screamed incessantly and kept grabbing my arm that displayed a suspiciously contagious-looking rash. When I could take no more I decided to retire to the aisle to catch 30 winks. What I got was 30 kicks – in the head – not to mention numerous suitcases, boxes and sacks of oranges dragging across my face. Total concentration was fixed upon not vomiting (although the baby next to me did not seem to share my determination, allowing chunks to flow freely and without prejudice), as the choppy water rocked us to and fro, more closely resembling the Atlantic Ocean than a fresh-water lake. My seat was now occupied from my stint in the aisle, so I tried my luck out on deck with the cargo, eventually finding a resting place next to a mound of bananas. My head rested directly above the engine so that it felt like a hole was slowly being drilled into my temple. I awoke to the sight of a bearded Nicaraguan urinating off the side of the boat, within 3ft of my head.

The ultimate objective for taking the boat in the first place was to make a quick and easy crossing into Los Chile, Costa Rica, and the hellish journey would have been worthwhile had we not taken a wrong turn down a dirt road for 15km, reaching an illegal river crossing reserved solely for the export of oranges. Day wasted.

By midday the next day we were finally at the Cost Rican border, after being forced to take another boat across the River Rio San Juan from Los Chiles, where we had stayed the night at the local fire station. We had made it. The challenge was Canada to Costa Rica and we had just entered the latter. The feeling - although slightly diluted by our new-found resentment towards all forms of water transportation – was tremendous.

The light was fading, as the three of us began peddling through the country known as the Switzerland of Central America, due to its political neutrality and love of yodeling (the latter is totally unfounded). Our surroundings were a mixture of verdant green and Ayers Rock red, and new and colourful tropical birds graced our ears with unfamiliar concertos. Night fell and we found ourselves in a small village, the focus of which was a lush green football pitch overlooked by a royal blue church. We gave thanks for such a perfect camping spot and cooked dinner on Lego’s incredible portable stove, expertly built from two beer cans, before retreating to the tent for the night. We awoke in the early hours to a light pattering on the roof, closely followed by the thunderous applause of torrential rain. The heavens had opened. Lego chose this point to inform us that his tent was not strictly waterproof, as puddles began to form beside our heads. Mark, in denial of the whole situation, attempted to sleep through our watery crisis, only stirring when the puddles had reached ear-level. We spent the rest of the morning underneath the church entrance, wet and miserable, chasing cockroach after wretched cockroach out of our bags. No one had told us it was still the rainy season in Costa Rica.

And so, sodden to our skins, we attacked the mountainous terrain one slippery slope at a time; Lego hunched over his handlebars, fighting his way up the steep inclines, his latimus dorsi accented from years of rock-climbing; Mark, head down, teeth gritted, using his favoured technique of focusing on the immediate road beneath his tyres and not the climb ahead, to avoid demoralization; all three of us wondering where our next cup of coffee would come from, and when the rain would desist.

If you have the pleasure/misfortune of knowing Mark, you will have noticed that Angry Mark surfaces anytime he is hungry. Being on the road together for so long puts you in perfect synchrony, invariably meaning that if one is hungry, then so is the other. My personal reaction to hunger is a complete mental shut-down, making even the simplest decision equivocal to quantum mechanics. This increases Angry Mark’s infuriation and so the cycle continues (no pun intended). It was 4pm on the 19th December, one hour before dark and we had just ridden past a sign telling us that San Jose was still 50km away. Perhaps the close proximity of our final destination was having a psychological effect on my compadre. Mark looked drained and was clearly hungry. Unusually, my state did not reflect his, and Lego and I were sprightly and alert. 50km in an hour is physically impossible on a bicycle, but for some reason, Lego seemed to think that we would make it that night. I enjoyed his blind enthusiasm and decided, instead of correcting him with common sense, to jump on the delusional band wagon. This infuriated Mark (as I knew it would), but he was too exhausted to argue. One hour later we were engulfed in darkness, riding down the busiest road in Costa Rica with no lights. My idiocy astonished even me, but it was almost worth risking our lives to see the grumpy northerner at his best for one last time.

In case you hadn’t guessed yet, we made it. Despite the anti-climactic nature of our arrival in the dark – tired and hungry with no obvious place to stay, we had crossed the finish line. The next day, after sleeping in the Red Cross car park in the centre of town, we went to the barbers for a much needed shave (I have never felt so manly), before parting company with our Spanish friend. Then ensued the comical packing of Mark’s war-torn bike, and the ceremonial exchange of literature. All that was left was to sit in reflection, drinking dark rum and smoking our victory Nicaraguan cigars. We summarized our plans for the future; potential trips, career choices and ambitions – subjects that had been at the fore-front of our thoughts and conversations for the past four months. Now it was finally time to actualize those plans.

I lay awake, despite the ill-effects of the previous night’s rum. It was 5.30am but the deluge of thoughts pin-balling around my head would keep me from sleeping anymore that day. My friend and riding partner had just begun his journey back to England in time for Christmas, and I felt distinctly alone. Over the last 4 months we had shared everything; every elation and adversity, every ache and pain, every crumb of food and cent of Cordoba, peso or dollar. We had reached a high-context level of communication that meant we often knew what the other would say before they said it, and the quantity of catchphrases and inside jokes was infinite. We had spent every second together for 16 weeks, yet by some miracle, I did not want to kill the guy.

I thought about all we had been through; the steep learning curve in bicycle know-how, the vast sandy beaches of Oregon, the redwoods of Northern California, the lavish glamour of LA and the bohemia of Santa Cruz and San Diego; the culture shock of Mexico with its dry, suffocating heat and dangerous roads, illness and exhaustion, hospitality and hostility – not least the near-theft of our beloved vehicles. We had ridden past some of the most beautiful coastline in the Americas, over the volcanic terrain of Northern Guatemala and through tropical rainforests in Costa Rica.

We had experienced the unlimited potential for kindness and compassion in human-beings, constantly incredulous at the lengths that people would go to help a couple of complete strangers. We listened to a plethora of different views and perspectives from the eclectic mix of individuals we met along the way. Some of these opinions we dismissed, some will stick with us for the rest of our lives. We learnt about ourselves and each other, knowing exactly what made the other tick; when they would need motivating and when they would just need to be left alone; when to force ourselves to carry on and when to recognise our limitations and concede defeat. Everyday we were challenged – physically and psychologically – and the greater the challenge, the more we grew as individuals. Nothing in my young life has had such a profound influence on my principles and imperatives for the future. Few things are more conducive to reflection than cycling 100km a day.

I can think of no better way to appreciate the intimate details of a place than by bicycle. In a motorized vehicle one may appreciate A, then travel to B. On a bicycle the very concept of A and B is academic. Travel is slowed to a pace where one can appreciate every single inconsistency in the road and subtle changes in landscape, culture and even atmosphere. On no other form of transport would we have had the opportunity to meet so many local people, allowing us to get a very real insight into subtle cultural quirks that simply would not have been accessible in the more tourist-friendly areas. Our journey seemed to flow like a river, steadily working its way through the landscape, never rushed, yet constantly on the move. The way life should be.

MARK:

This final blog has been on my mind for sometime now, and as I sit down to write I find my situation has changed somewhat. Gone are the evenings spent scribbling by torchlight, trying to squeeze in a few paragraphs before being driven to my sleeping bag my hungry mosquitoes.

I arrived back in England on the 22nd December, ecstatic to see Sam despite her red and runny nose which seemed to be sported by the majority of the British population. As I had suspected, this was the perfect time of year to arrive home regardless of the cold. In addition to seeing all of my friends and family, I was presented with feasts of the kind which I had hallucinated about during bouts of madness in the Baja desert. As I had also anticipated, my powers of memory and description proved sadly lacking when trying to conjure a worthy answer to the often asked question; ‘So, was it good then?’

‘Bloody brilliant’, I answer. Things happen when you travel on a bicycle. Over the last 100 days we have slept on starlit Mexican beaches, by a railway line, on a yacht, on the gravel floor of a Nicaraguan bar (in which UB40 was blasted from a jukebox to the small hours), on a building site by a ferry port, in a lakeside hammock surrounded by volcanoes, in a Guatemalan family home where 4 generations slept, and in a beachfront villa owned by a flamboyant Mexican motorbike enthusiast.

I have lost a tent while running away from a dog. We have wrestled our bikes from the pick-up truck of 4 would-be thieves. I have watched the sun set over deserted cliffs feeling like the king of the world. I have laid in the roadside dirt under the baking sun next to a roadkill dog, unable to move through sheer exhaustion.

Things happen…

Looking back on the trip, the thing I am most proud of is that we have followed through on what we said. We have translated words into action, and the feeling of empowerment arising from that is enormous. Crazy plans now seem more possible than ever! I look forward to getting back on a bike with Greg in the future, and can think of no better companion for an expedition. Well done mate.

I am also incredibly touched by the actions of people at home. To everyone who helped out with any of the exercise bike days last summer, anyone who turned up to a curry night or a cabaret, anyone who read the blog, made a donation, or sent a text or email of encouragement – thank you so much. Thank you to my family for their incredible efforts, whether organising cabaret nights, inspiring pupils in assemblies, or selling wrist bands, and thank you to Sam for selflessly encouraging me to finish the trip when we were both feeling as low as we could be. I would also like to thank everyone at Plan in Guatemala and the UK; the people at Candelaria Yalicar for welcoming us so warmly, everyone who offered us kindness on the road, and Muddy Fox Bikes for helping 2 rookies get on their bikes in the first place.

So, how was it? - Bloody brilliant…