A run For The Border, Part II cont. (Letter written January 25, 2004)

reh@knology.net — Sun, 25 Jan 2004 20:59:49 GMT

January 25, 5:30 AM, Sunday No message from the Beemer riders. I decided to press on. If I wait for them to get up, the Costa Rica group may have already left, and I would be alone with a late start. I wanted all the daylight I could get, just in case. I was on the road at 6:30. To go around Managua one goes about 5 kilometers east of the airport and Best Western motel, away from town and then turns south. You turn southward at Tipilapa. Then southwestward at Masaya. Next, turn a little more westward at Catarina and meet up with CA-1 at Guanacaste. Managua’s version of a bypass. The road has some potholes and lots of pedestrians so I did not rush. In Guanacaste I decided to fill up one last time before the Costa Rican border, which is 120 miles ahead.

I filled up and paid the attendant. All through Central America there are attendants to pump gas and collect the charge. I then pulled away from the pumps and parked on the macadam apron so that I could go inside for a bottle of water before heading down the road. I had noticed several boys 10 to 14 years old that appeared to be scavenging the area. As I parked, they were more than 40 feet away, and around, the bike. I got off and started walking toward the store. The circle of boys around the bike was now 30 feet. I looked around. There were no security guards! Where were they? In the bathroom, at church, their day off? These boys were tightening the circle in the middle of the morning at a busy gas station and nobody was paying any attention. I walked rapidly back toward the bike. The circle of boys was now 20 feet away or less. There were at least seven of them. They were not excited, or mad, or gleeful. They were simply closing the circle inch by inch with a look of purpose. I was reminded of a bird migration movie where an injured bird was on the beach. Soon he was surrounded by crabs. The circle of crabs methodically closed in; all staying equal distance until all could strike the bird with claws at the same time. I was that bird.

From the time I start to mount the bike until I’m moving fast enough, anyone could simply pushed against any part of the bike (or me) and the bike will fall over. From zero to some reasonable speed, there is nothing a person can do to protect himself.
As I swung my left leg over the bike, I pulled a handful of change, including small bills, motel receipts, and all, and scattered them to the right rear. It had the desired effect. The boys broke rank to grab at the paper money and collect the coins – all except the one to the left front, who I surmised (from his demeanor), was the leader. I thrust the key into the ignition, started the bike, gave lots of throttle, and moved forward. The assumed leader was a boy, possibly 15 or 16 and he looked pissed! I steered the bike right at him as I lunged forward. In an instant of confused panic, he jumped and tripped to my left. I veered to the right and was on the road instantly. I had to turn right at the very station I had just left so I looked over as I accelerated. The leader was kicking at one of the boys in anger. He knew there was much more than the $15 or $20 dollars scattered on the ground while the younger boys had probably never seen that much scattered money. The disturbing part that still bothers me is that nobody raised an eyebrow during the entire event. Granted, I was not actually stabbed, or clubbed, or even touched by the boys, but I believe the response of people at the corner gas station would not have changed - regardless of how events would have unfolded.

I pity the next poor bastard who tries to distract this group of boys with pocket change.

I moved rapidly through town, intent on getting several blocks between me and the band of street urchins. All I wanted was out of the town. I was soon in the countryside. I cannot say I was enjoying the ride.

I was cruising along at a prudent speed, mindful that any mishap could result in a bad ending. The Costa Rican border was now about 80 miles ahead. As I rode along I was sifting thoughts through my mind. I no longer had any idea how to evaluate and respond to events. It started to settle in that, in these war-torn, desperately poor countries, there is nothing to evaluate. A lone traveler with assets will come to harm, given time. There is no response that will assure control of events in this environment. Given time, ill will befall a lone traveler. As this reality settled in, I understood the importance of continuing to move, of not getting lost, and of crossing the Costa Rican border.

Seeing the water of Lake Nicaragua with islands that are volcanic peaks at approximately my elevation was an odd site. I can’t say I really enjoyed the experience. My every sensibility was directed at assuring that I didn’t make a wrong turn and continued to move toward the border as rapidly as prudence would permit. All of a sudden, breaking down was not an option. Every tick, rattle, backfire noise, or pothole became an all consuming concern. “Keep moving and don’t get lost”, John had said. Keep moving I did. The remainder of the trip to the border ranged from slow through small crossroad towns to a rapid, but prudent, speed on open highway. Fast was not the object. Continuing to move was.

I must tell you, I never saw a single person in Nicaragua smile. Not at each other, not in conversation, never - not even among the staff at the dirty, second rate Best Western in Managua. I think it was the same in Honduras but, I was in a vehicle and the awareness was not so great. Of the two, which country is the most dangerous? My answer: The one you are in at the time. Earlier, I said that El Salvador was bad. I now tell you that conditions in Honduras and Nicaragua are a quantum leap worse. No one smiles because there is nothing in their lives to smile about.

12:00pm Finally, the border was in sight. This was the first time I felt a sense of relief and calm when approaching a border crossing. They could take their time going through my papers, ask questions into the evening, and have me fill out more paper. I was never so glad to be in the company of armed federal border officials and the band of thieves and rogues that go with it!

From Managua, I had called a friend of the family who is a Costa Rican national and asked if she could meet me at the border. She could not. I crossed by myself in three and a half hours (which is a story in itself). The name of the border town is Penis Blanca. Yes, the interpretation is as it appears. When asked the question, how would you like to answer “I come from Penis Blanca”.

Costa Rica is like a 51st state. It is prosperous and fairly free of corruption. Petty, nonviolent crime is common, but violent crime is rare. With prosperity comes cars and congestion. The road was crowded with vehicles coming back to the capitol after a weekend in the mountains.

I thought I would feel a sense of exhilaration after crossing to safety. I did not. I felt the weariness that comes with completing an arduous task and simply pushed forward to the Hampton Inn by the airport.

After parking the bike for the last time, signing into the hotel and cleaning up, I walked two blocks, after dark, by myself. The importance of being in Costa Rica started to settle in. A sense of wellness, possibly euphoria did wash over me. I wanted to drink coffee and eat sweet bread, stay up all night absorbing the tranquility. I wanted to drink beer and eat french-fries. I wanted to go to the Honduras border and give that dirty little girl more change. Mostly, I wanted to go home.

I didn’t sleep well, and I didn’t care. Laying there knowing that there was no dread in tomorrow’s activities was sufficient.

The Motorcycle Diary

A run For The Border, Part II cont. (Letter written January 25, 2004)