Once
the documents were taken care of with relative ease and Sixto was fumigated,
arriving in Guatemala was a real breath of fresh air. Within the first few miles
of entering it felt like a new start in a place I knew little about. Within the
first few days, riding through this country reminded me so much of time riding
through Laos. Although the countries are an entire hemisphere apart they lie on
similar lines of latitude with similar climates and landscapes and have similar
agriculture, food, pace and street living. The streets and houses are alike and the peoples are both
warm, gentle, patient and composed, the indigenous women with beautiful skin
and big mysterious eyes and the children’s energy and smiles as wide and happy
as possible. They both have tragic histories of civil wars and intervention but
in the majority of the country they humbly carry on an agrarian way of life,
close to their families with only the most essential of possessions. Their
similarities show a lot about existing naturally in the tropics
with minimal external influence on a day to day level.
Unlike in Laos,
I’m able to communicate with a common language and I find I’m very welcomed by
the men in the streets. The women offer a colder approach for reasons
understood but the men of all ages extend a warm hand with all the time in the
world to pause for a moment and I find myself having the same conversations about their country, my
country and my travels. It’s always appreciated when I have a complaint to make
about Mexico. Sixto is always a conversation starter, the bikes are bigger here
and all the guys seem to ride one or have knowledge of them. Boys want to know size and value. Older men,
even those with a heavy load of firewood on the back, suspended by a strap
against their forehead stop to warn of their weather predictions and dangers lying ahead. Riding
through bigger towns and cities are always interesting with street sellers at
traffic lights, like a walking market of clothing, knick-knacks and
entertainers. I stop at a petrol station one afternoon for respite from the
pouring rain until the armed security guard, at a petrol station?, tells me he received a call from his
office who have seen me loitering on camera and asks me to move on, still in the pouring rain.
I rode into Flores from the border to rest in the small island town ready for a trip to the nearby Mayan ruins at Tikal the following day. Guatemala seems to have a handful of well worn backpacker stops and here at a busy hostel I’m introduced to the gringo trail for the first time, the network of travelers open to a good time and willing to offer advice on where they’ve been or chasing information on the next stop on the trail. It can get a little overwhelming to stop speaking Spanish, eating burgers in tourist restaurants and having the element of surprise taken out of the next place nevertheless it’s always fun to share an experience and a laugh, gain another perspective and drink beer and tequila through the evenings. I hang out with Hugh and James from Sydney whose Aussie humour and attitudes are a refreshing welcome. After a couple of days I ride on towards the central highlands on an eventful day of riding.
My GPS, which I’ve had since Texas, has been helpful for compass direction when stuck and disoriented, decided to stop working that morning so I had to revert to inconsistent road signs, my map of Mexico which covers a few countries further south and confirming directions on the street. There’s two issues with this, the map is not overly detailed with highways and secondary roads the only roads on it and secondly, I may have mentioned this earlier, Latin Americans, from my experiences so far, are not very good at saying ‘’I’m not sure’’ or ‘’I don’t know’’, instead suggesting the direction to a particular town when they have no idea which way it is. I appreciate the custom that everyone is willing to help strangers and that it’s rude not to but it often sends me round in circles or way off track. I’ve now learnt to read people’s expressions to work out if they really know what they’re talking about or ask groups of people as they’re more likely to discuss it together and offer better advice.
After hitting the 20,000km mark on my odometer and a celebratory Fanta, I take advice on the road to Lanquin knowing that I’ve overstretched the last highway. I’m send back 30km’s and told to take a left 8km’s past the next town. At the intersection, a bunch of workers at the bus stop point in the direction I want to hear. Within a few kilometres I’m hit by a silence and the asphalt turns to a very rocky, slippery surface which Sixto is not too happy about, his suspension and tyres aren't suited to this. I carry on and after a few minutes I stop to check my map which doesn’t show any road through here which can only mean I’m taking the shorter direct distance but much longer in time as it's likely to meander up and around the mountain range and the road condition is not going to get better, hopefully without any rain it won’t get worse. Later on some road workers tell me I’m two to three hours away and laugh when I ask if there’s asphalt in sight. It’s only mid afternoon so I’m happy to stick at a slow pace, watch the scenery change and greet the locals by the roadside on their way home from work with pick and machete in hand.
I spend the next couple of hours admiring the sharp cliffs drops and river crossings and stop for a drink when I reach a small village and chat with a few guys who make fun of me for choosing to take this road with Sixto, there was a better option supposedly. The night begins to fall quickly and the drizzle gets a little heavier when I’m told I still have half an hour's ride. Further on, I offer my water bottle to some road workers putting timber sleepers down in the mud who also tell me I have half an hour to go. The road gets narrower and windier and follows a creek for a long while and the mosquitoes come out to bother me. I’m exhausted by this point, roads of different sized rocks and pebbles means I have permanently focused on five metres ahead of me for the past few hours. I must be close to the town when the sun has set and I turn a corner slowly but slightly too sharp and before I know it I’ve slipped and fallen to my left. I pick myself up , hit the kill switch and notice I’ve snapped both my clutch levers at the hand and foot. A guy rides around the corner, helping me lift Sixto up and push him to the side of the road and says the town is only a couple of kilometres away. I collect my thoughts, take a breath and hail a tuk-tuk which passes a few minutes later. Unable to change gears, I convince the driver and passengers to wait while I lock up the bike and get my bags together. A truck also passes with backpackers on the back after an afternoon tubing on the river. James spots me and jumps off to see what’s going on and gives me directions to the lodge.
I make my way there shortly after, drop my bags off and have a quick beer with the guys and given directions to Otto’s house, who may be able to help me with his pickup truck. A nice guy, we agree to push Sixto onto his truck and bring him back to the lodge for the night so together with a bunch of village kids and some planks of timber we make our way back down the mountain and by torchlight we push Sixto up into the tray and later slowly bring him down the ramp at the lodge. Finally I get to settle and realize the lodge is very big and full of the usual suspects – Western Europeans, North Americans, Aussies and Kiwis. I catch up with James and Hugh and party the night away, the beers go down well after a long day. The following morning I make a visit to the only motorcycle mechanic in town who had already heard of my fall and take him out to the lodge to explain what’s happened. Cardoso was incredible helpful and reassuring, he didn’t have a spare clutch that would suit so he immediately jumped on his bike with the broken pieces and rode one and a half hours to the provincial town with the hope of finding a replacement. I checked a few times during the day to see if he had returned but not until late afternoon did he show up, explaining having visited all the mechanics in town and not surprisingly nobody had a clutch to fit so he went to a welderer and had the pieces perfectly soldered together. We got back to Sixto and fitted the pieces and everything was as good as new. For a day’s work, petrol, welding and getting me back riding within a day, Cardoso only wanted $14, something that would have probably cost ten times the price back home, so I left him a decent tip and much gratitude.
My stop at Lanquin was to see the UNESCO listed Semuc Champey, a breathtaking series of waterfalls and clear pools and underground rivers which is probably the closest thing I’ve seen to paradise. The tour also took in an impressive cave swim with waterfalls and rope climbs and an 11m bridge jump.
At the lodge I stayed at a cabin still being constructed high up the on hill, my bed a couple of metres away from a full size natural window overlooking the roaring river and waking up to misty mountains and glaring sun. Pretty awesome spot. I stayed at the lodge for several days but went for a ride my second last day to take a break from the socializing, explore the area and get much needed cash from an ATM.
I traced my steps from the earlier evening, following the track until I reached a paved highway towards a bigger town. The weather turns pretty sour that afternoon and I got stuck in a windy storm, the sky becoming darker by the minute with no hint of an end. After food and cash stops and a rest I started my return in the late afternoon. Half way back, the rains got harder and I began fearing reached the rocky road in worse condition that the evening of my fall. I was too far gone to return to the provincial town so considered stopping somewhere on the highway for the night. Nothing really presented itself, just a little roadside village here and there with little but a few homes on the hill and a store or two. I stopped when two men waved desperately for my attention and asked for help to drag a motorbike up the hill which has slipped a few metres down the cliff having been casually parked in soft dirt all day in the rain. They suggested trying a private farm a few kilometres on which I couldn’t find and before I knew it I was close to the end of the highway and turnoff to Lanquin. The rains had momentarily stopped so I pulled over to greet a man by the road. His name was Jose.
I asked Jose for the closest hotel and he mentioned Lanquin but I explained myself and he understood my predicament of not wanting to ride the road in its current condition. The other option was riding an hour in the other direction which wasn’t pleasing as I’d need to backtrack and return again the following morning. He mentioned buses heading to Lanquin and that the last one would pass in the next half hour. It struck me to ask if I could leave my bike at his place, under his care, take a bus and return with another bus in the morning. Jose’s instant expression was the warmest I’d received in the past five months. I’ll never forget the look on his face. There wasn’t a question whether he’d help me out, a big grin come over him and he offered to make some space by his door and put a cover on. He insisted he didn’t want any money. A few minutes had passed and before I knew it we were joined by several children, a few women and another man. It was his brother, wife, sister-in-law, mother and their children who lived in the two little wooden shacks clad in corrugated iron that sat perched on the highway cliff far away from anyone else. I greeted the family and tried to get the shy children to warm to me, parking Sixto is the space provided and while one of the boys kept a lookout for the bus approaching in order to hail it, Jose proudly showed me his little piece of the world on the cliff behind his home where he grew vegetables, coffee and cardamom. We shared each other’s story in the misty silence until the bus arrived and I was sent on the roof as it was already overloaded and sat and watched the night fall through the valley, soaked in more rains. The following morning Jose was waiting for me when I shouted for the bus to stop outside his place and all the family watching on curiously as I slowly packed my bags on to Sixto, making small talk, hoping to be offered coffee which wasn’t to be. It was a long and exhausting ride to Antigua that day, a colonial city to the west.
After a few days in Antigua, doing little but recovering from my cold and eating at the market, I rode north to Lake Atitlan, a volcanic endorheic lake, i.e. it doesn’t flow to the sea. It’s a magical setting with villages dotted around it and a few volcanoes as backdrops. I take a kayak out for an afternoon as well as chill out by the water and hang out with a few travelers at the bars at night.
My way out is stopped for a while as a big group of young guys fill the road with sand after it had given way in a storm. I spend the next couple of days heading to the Honduras border. My time here and the Guatemalan people have been a real highlight for me and a place I wish I stayed longer. I leave in high spirits.
