Jan 26

Written by: reh
1/26/2004

January 26, 2004, 7:00, Monday Ate a slow, relaxing breakfast. Set up the bike for shipping, got a plane ticket for tomorrow.

On street urchins: I pray the same God that guided me through a fool’s errand of my own choosing will guide a dirty little girl with straight teeth, dark freckles on brown skin, and no smile, on the Honduras border. Surely it is obvious to Him that she is more deserving than me. If you prayed for me, while I was on my trip, then pray for her. Surely your prayers helped me during my folly. Possibly you prayers can help her.

On border crossings: The border crossing process is a scourge to Central America and a real source of embarrassment to those Central Americans that know the system. Most Central Americans never cross borders so they aren’t aware of this national scandal. Most travel books refer to the quaint process where one gives his passport to a runner who gets them through the maze for $50 in fees and a $5 tip. Balderdash! Rubbish! Bullshit!

There are two components to a crossing:

• Processing out of the country you are leaving.
• Processing into the country you are entering

The base for each of these countries is a $3 to $5 a day economy. Any person who is lucky enough to get a job as a clerk, guard, or other border job has a hundred relatives to help. Each clerk makes his individual job as confusing as possible (if you ask where the next window is, the answer will be “around the corner”. But, it is actually around two corners, through the middle door, and the second desk down). Lines are long, and the only way to shorten the line is to give a second person money that will be passed to a guard. Buses and transfer trucks have a chosen runner at each border who runs the maze for a set fee. This is the runner’s bread and butter. All others, even residents of Central America, are dessert.

A cottage industry of rogues and thieves work the travelers making it clear that they can get you through the maze for a fee plus the obligatory bribes to shorten lines. This industry is condoned, even encouraged by the border administration. While the published fees are $25 dollars tax and $25 fees, I defy anyone, or any two travelers, to attempt a crossing in less than 6 hours with less than $125. It simply can not be done.

The resounding message to all residents:
Become a low-life lying scum runner at the border and prosper. I hope my lasting memories of the trip will not be the decadence that is the border crossings, but I fear it will be.

On Border Inspections: In all of the hours of movement between purposely confused teller cages, endless lines, and tedious paperwork, I never saw a bus, truck, car, or any person inspected for anything. The only purpose the borders serve is to transfer money from the traveler to the state or the legions of paracites fostered and condoned by the host state.

On bathrooms: From Matamora to San Salvador every public bathroom I saw was immaculate. The most humble plain cinderblock structure with a tin roof was scrubbed spotless. They must re-clean after every use. Bring your own toilet paper, it is commonly not furnished. From southern El Salvador to the Costa Rican border, most public bathrooms don’t work, and all are filthy.

On tattoos: Josi told me that no one in Central America gets tattoos except prisoners. When entering prison they must choose a group for their own safety and carry that tattoo. Josi has lived in the US for 25 years and understands that tattoos are a fashion statement - but not in Central America. The stigma stays, and a tattooed person will not find a willing employer upon release. I saw no tattoos on employed people. I did see tattoos displayed on several different men when stopped for gas. These men were not pushy or timid; they simply occupied their space with an air of confidence. They also appeared to live a little better than the average local, though I have no idea how they sustained themselves. Bad-ass bikers that style their tattoos in US bars probably better stay there. I don’t think an arrogant display of machismo would hold up too well on CA-1.

On beautiful women: (This is for my buddy, CH) Girls start to strut their stuff at 13 or 14. This obvious display of sexuality is apparently part of the culture because they strut their stuff even when with their parents. This continues until about 18 or 19 when they get married. They instantly turn into haggard, old, matronly ladies. There is no middle-age. For the few that can maintain their beauty, like the El Salvador Beemer rider’s wife, they are knock-out beautiful. They are also very high maintenance. I am afraid that, even with all your money, CH, you can’t afford them.

On buying auto insurance: I was told you simply buy it at the respective border crossings. What a bunch of bull. There are no insurance brokers and there is no insurance. You just drive like you know what you are doing. Driving without insurance bothered me for a few hours. Then other things started occupying my mind and I didn’t think about it again until just now.

On changing money: The banking system in Latin America is very structured. Certain banks only do business with secured instruments and don’t even deal with money. Most banks don’t change currency, even for a fee. While, I understand, some do exchange currency, I couldn’t find one. El Salvador and Costa Rica tie their currency to the US dollar and have accepted the US dollar as legal tender. Individuals at the borders carry a six inch thick stack of currency and will change money at terrible discount rates. For example, while processing out of Nicaragua, I asked a money changer how much US currency he would give me for four 500 paco bills.(the official exchange rate was 200 pacos equal 180 US dollars) I was offered 120 US dollars. I said I would trade for $160 and was turned down. Even at legitimate banks, one pays a 10% to 20% fee to trade into a currency and then a similar amount to trade into the currency of the next country. My advise: Use greenbacks. Take the discount demanded at gas stations and restaurants and move on. Overall, you will come out ahead.

One last note on currency: Even most money changers won’t trade for Guatemala or Honduras currency at any exchange rate. Pick up a few coins for souvenirs, otherwise, stay away from it.

On iguanas: From the south side of El Salvador to the Costa Rican border, from time to time, we would see a few boys along the side of the road. They would hold an iguana up by the tail as we drove by. Josi says they are alive and are sold as food. They may have been alive, but they didn’t look too spry. Remember the play “Night of the Iguana”? I never did understand that. Soon iguanas, too, will be gone.

On the police: Too many stories to list here. We were stopped at a roadblock somewhere in Honduras. The policeman took our papers and walked around the pickup. While the policeman walked around Josi muttered “The bastard can’t even read.” Later, as we rode along, he said there is no minimum standard for becoming a police officer and no training. Comforting, isn’t it?

On ox drawn, wooden wheel carts: Sounds quaint, but it’s not. What level of productivity do you think a man can achieve with a heavy wooden-wheeled cart and two skinny oxen? They are at the bottom of the food chain and they don’t smile.

On cell phones: There is something incongruous about walking along a sidewalk lined with tiny eateries where there are two tables inside and three on the sidewalk, where they boil food in two pots heated by wood and dump wash water on the ground out back and then to see a man in the standard slacks, a short-sleeved shirt and sandals, sitting at one of the tables talking on latest, fanciest, cell phone. Or, the guy standing next to a dilapidated motor scooter with files in a milk carton crate attached to the carrier rack, talking on a cell phone. Or the man, leaning against a door-frame in a mud-and-stick house with no windows or door, talking on a cell phone. Instant communication is here to stay. Yet to be resolved, is where it fits in the food chain. For instance, does it fit after food but before running water? Is it more important than windows but less important than church contributions?

On riding alone: The most immediate (though not the main) reason for not riding alone is safety. Two are ten times as safe as one and four is ten times as safe as two.

The main reason to travel with another (or others) is the camaraderie that it provides. The trip down CA-1 will always be full of interesting, unusual, even exciting things and events. Having someone to share this with, marvel over with, get through with, and reminisce with is essential to derive the full value of the experience. Looking back, I missed the companionship more than I feared the unknown.

That’s it. The day is done and the trip is over. As I was getting a beer from the lobby bar, an Australian (I think) asked whose Guzzi was out front. One of the bellhops pointed me out. He came over to say how nice it looked and asked how I got it here. I really didn’t want to engage in conversation, but I didn’t want to be offensive either. I said, quietly (as I moved toward the lobby) “I rode it here from Brownsville, Texas.” “You rode it here! Why?” he asked. Most family and friends quit asking “Why?” years ago. I wasn’t expecting the question. There is a low class bar in Montgomery named “The Keys”. Hanging on a wall is a tacky black and white plastic banner with the long name of some German beer. The motto under the name reads, “Because Life is Too Short to Drink Cheap Beer”. As I moved toward the lobby I said, “Because life is too short to drink cheap beer.”

THE END

Tags: