Jan 23

Written by: reh
1/23/2004

January 23, 2004, 6:30 AM, Friday Josi drove up with Tony, his sister and his mother. I assumed they were going to shop in the city for the day. We loaded the bike. We all piled in and off we went!

Poverty increased. Any evidence of reasonable living conditions decreased. About 30 miles south of San Salvador, Josi pointed to a dirt road and said he was raised three kilometers up that road. He said that the flatlands we were going through were once planted in cotton, “It once looked like an ocean of white when the wind blew. Now look at it (reclaimed to desert scrub brush)”, Josi commented. “What happened?” I had to ask. “The war came. One side would say ‘Plant’. The other would say ‘Don’t plant’. If you took a side the other side would kill you. We moved to where my mother now lives.” Josi continued, “I left for the States at 17 with $25. That was in 1976. I took advantage of the Reagan amnesty deal, and am a US citizen.” I asked if coming home is a good feeling. “It always depresses me. Look at the poverty. It shouldn’t be. I would never come back if it weren’t for my mother.” The miles went by, the sun was warm, the conversation between me and Josi was relaxed. “You lived through the war and watched it from the US. Who was right and who was wrong?” That seemed like a natural question to ask. “Nobody was right. The government could have given in a little and the rebels didn’t have to destroy the country…and, all the senseless killing.”

10:00 The Honduras border:

Three hours of going from one line to another with crooks and thieves hovering everywhere. The main building is a wood frame roof over a concrete slab with a row of offices down each side. Both ends are open. It was dirty. At one point, Josi demanded, in a not too pleasant tone “Who’s the officer in here? I want to see identification.” (Officers don’t necessarily wear a uniform, and uniformed people are not necessarily officers). “I am, I am, sir,” replied a clerk from behind a desk as he showed a picture ID. “Well, this guy says he is!” Josi declared. Everyone chuckled. The liar was probably a cousin of the clerk. Trust no one at the borders.

About street urchins: Every tour guidebook talks about them. Each person must handle them in his own way. I don’t know how it is around tourist ports and resorts, but I experienced a little of this along CA-1.

In San Salvador, the night we stayed at the flophouse, Josi and I walked to a corner gas station to get some bottled water. As we came out, Josi handed each of about six kids a quarter. The urchins did not crowd Josi or fight each other for the money. I asked Josi if he commonly carried change. He said he does, “look at them. They shouldn’t have to take money from strangers. I feel so sorry for them. That’s what is so depressing about Central America.”

While waiting in one of the many lines at the El Salvador/Honduras border a small girl, not much taller than my granddaughter, had gently nudged me, just enough that I would notice. I said, “Vamos”, just loud enough for her to hear. She stepped several feet away and stood around (it’s not like she had a schedule). The little thing was wearing a pair of jeans and a blouse, and she was so dirty. I pulled out several dimes, probably five. I reached down, put them in her hand, and gently closed her fingers over the coins and, again, quietly said “Vamos”. She looked up into my face for a few seconds then stepped away without saying a word. A few minutes later, I saw her open her hand to an old lady street vender who gave the girl a leaf-wrapped cake of rice paste and took one of the dimes. The street vender felt sorry for the urchin, too.

Upon leaving Honduras, they closed the gate while the guard had dinner so we stood waiting in the dark (imagine, a border to an entire country closed while a border official eats dinner!). Several little boys came around in a quiet way. I discretely gave each boy a coin or two. There was no chatter about who got most, no coming back for more. Just some boys with a few coins. As for me, I will always carry some loose change.

We moved on. Before my trip, when people at work asked where I would stay on my trip, I flippantly said “They have hotels just like here, I’ll just pull over.” No they don’t! There is nothing but desert scrub brush and desperately poor people along CA-1 from San Salvador to Costa Rica. I was so glad I decided to rent the pickup. Josi told me the reason he brought a friend and his mother and sister was that if a car breaks down in Honduras after dark with one occupant, he would likely be shot for the vehicle and possessions, but thieves would not kill three or four people because that would bring the army in. Another reason was that his friends and family would not let him go alone. Everyone is most fearful of Honduras. “What do you expect? Look around you. They are desperate. That’s why there are armed guards everywhere. People will do what they must to eat.” In my naiveté, I had no idea just how badly things had deteriorated.

I am going to get on my soapbox for a minute before I continue. As you know, Che Guevara was Castro’s personal doctor during the Cuban Revolution. Che was from Argentina and the only high ranking non-Cuban in Fidel’s government. Che went back to South America after Castro’s successful revolution to lead an insurrection. His plan assumed that the country peasants would support and aid his efforts. They did not. He was hunted down by federal troops with the help of US Special Forces units (I know this because, while in Southeast Asia, I served with several of these guys). Che continues to be the most popular figure in Latin America.

Che was raised in a wealthy family and went from high school, to college, and on to medical school. Between med school and his internship, he and a friend took a motorcycle (an old Norton, as I recall) and headed across South America. He and his friend had letters of introduction and access to money if the phones and banks and his good name could all work at the same time. A few days out, the bike gave out so they hitchhiked. The letters of introduction were of little use and the two were compelled to live and travel most of the time with the poor. At one very poor village, he was welcomed as the doctor promised by the government. He spent months putting a hospital together. This motorcycle/hitchhiking time is well documented and is published. The upshot of the whole trip is that Che came to understand the plight of the very poor and looked to socialism as the answer. He went home but could not reconcile his family’s privileged status with what he had observed. He never finished his internship. Soon he went to Cuba.

While Che’s observations were keen, and his published diary of the trip is well worth reading, he came to an erroneous conclusion. The insensitivity of “The Man”, as real as it was, and is, is not the cause of misery among the poor. If you took all of the food in the world and distributed it evenly among all of the people in the world, everyone would be hungry. Every time technology provides an advantage for humanity, humanity simply multiplies to negate the advantage. There are simply too many people. Hunger (and associated misery) will prevail, regardless of available administrative procedures. If Che would have used his intellect, charisma, and energy to cause governments to stem the tide of over-population…

We stopped at a run down gas station about 20 miles before the border and unloaded the bike so we wouldn’t be doing that with a huge audience of rogues, leaches, and ne’er-do-wells. The station attendant and the half dozen associates were a surly looking crowd. Once again, I was glad that I rented the pickup.

We got to the Nicaraguan border at 4:00 PM and I knew I would have to ride by myself to the nearest good hotel after dark. Not something I wanted to do. We processed out of Honduras, and drove around a curve toward the in-country processing area for Nicaragua.
There, just ahead, were two Beemers and two riders with sports riding gear! I rode right up beside them and asked if I could tag along with them before I even asked their names. They said they would wait! By the time I processed in, it was night. Josi and his family headed back across Honduras while I followed the Beemers into Nicaragua.

It seems that there was a super-bike race in Managua that they were going to. There would be club members from Costa Rica at the event, and I could finish up my trip following them into Costa Rica. So I decided to stay over a day in Managua and go to the races. Is that cool, or what?! But it is not to be, as you will see.

I followed behind the two riders as we left the border. I think the leader tried to set a brisk pace, but I could tell by the track of his front wheel that he was at his skill level. What a fun ride! A brisk pace, no lights to dull the stars, good roads, lots of curves, and company.

About a mile from the motel we, were flagged over by a police roadblock. There was a row of cones down the center lane of a divided highway. The police claimed that we were on the wrong side of the cones. As one of the cops approached me, I dug for my passport and entry papers as I gave him my best “Buenas noches” to which he responded, “Hello baby”, and grinned. One of the guys gave a cop $5.00 and said “Lets go”. The city version of the country roadblock.

10:30 PM At the hotel we were laughing about the incident. I asked how much they had paid. Each said, “$5.00”, and asked what I paid. I said “Nothing, you said it was handled so I took off.” They both laughed, and said I was a quick learner and would do just fine in Managua. It seems that $5.00 trumps a passport and entrance papers every time. Then, they were laughing about the “Hello, baby” reply. It seems that that was the officer’s best Arnold Schwartznager impersonation from the movie, “Terminator”.

I was so relieved that I had some bikers to follow.

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