A trip like this has difficult days for different reasons. Maybe I'm sick, maybe I have a motorcycle breakdown. Maybe I'm bogged down by harsh weather. They all require differing levels of patience, preparation, and tact. Well, a double-border day is one of those kinds of days.
Border days are already stressful. You put yourself in a situation where you cannot take a break. Once you start, you're in a legal limbo and you have to push through. There are many factors to consider. What border crossing? What will you wear to stand in line all day? How do you eat? When will you go?
Airport security is stressful enough. Try importing and exporting a motorcycle across borders of unfriendly countries? Oof-da indeed.
It always begins the day before
You need to set yourself up for success. That's what I'm thinking, anyway. I'm here to win, I'm here to get through and make this as painless as possible. Border days suck, double-border days are something even worse. In El Salvador, I come down and out of the mountains from Perquin, the FMLN Rebel town. My ears pop as I engine brake my way down the main highway, snaking through small towns. The road is littered with speed bumps, stray dogs, and chickens.
I'm on my way to the home of a man I found on my iOverlander app. He lives 10 minutes from the Honduran border and it says if I ask nicely I can camp in his yard. No shower, no sink, no food, just a place to crash. I get there and his sons are in the living room as I knock on the front door. We speak only in Spanish, as I suspect they are locals. They call their dad and he says to let me set up and offer me a water. I pitch my tent up under an awning and start reading a book. No Wifi, my cell service is almost gone, no outlets to charge outside. It's as primitive as it gets, but it doesn't matter. I chose this place for the geography alone.
I'm going to start the day swinging. I'm going to go to the border, first thing, before sunrise. It's going to be nice and cool for this first crossing. No lines, very little waiting.
I talk with Adonay, my host, a lawyer who lives here. Every review of this guy's place on iOverlander has been singing his praises and it's all true. After he arrived, he sat with me and we swapped stories. He speaks great English and his sons are visiting from Texas. They are all US citizens and live up there most of the year. They're leaving for the US the next day, and the oldest son wanted to learn how to ride a motorcycle. Luckily, I'm there.
They have an old Yamaha 125cc, really small and simple machine, so we go to a field on the property and I teach him how to ride. He rides in circles, even going into second gear. He crashed a little bit, too. He fell over at about 5-7mph and tumbled but he was fine. I feel like that was my payment to Adonay for my stay, teaching his son how to ride.
Adonay even sat down and began to talk about the Civil War. I told him that was a big reason for the places I was visiting, and he voluntarily divulged his experiences as a child in the 80s when it was going down. He said that his father owned a property where they lived in the mountains to the north in FMLN Territory. He walked to school with bodies in the streets. Some were beheaded, some were gunned down in a pile-- some pretty dark stuff. He said that was normal life to him, though. He didn't think anything of it as a child. It was a part of life. His father finally moved him out of that property and onto their current one where I was staying.
That night, I fell asleep to the thumping of bass from a quincenera party a few blocks away. In my tent with Adonay's fan facing me, I'm woken up by the dog barking. I'm annoyed but expect it, "Dog Hours" in Latin America are 10pm-2am. It's a special time where dogs, both owned and strays, just bark at each other in the late hours for no good fucking reason. It happens in Mexico, El Salvador, Costa Rica, everywhere in Latin America. I expect it's just another one of those times.
This time, however, Adonay's dog is barking RIGHT NEXT TO my tent. I'm a little miffed, even with my earplugs in, so I give him a whistle and tell him to shut up in Spanish. It was then that I saw movement.
A man in a bright orange shirt was ON THE PROPERTY and standing around Lechuza. I couldn't see him entirely because my tent was behind a short wall, but I saw him moving away from my motorcycle and going toward the gate / exit of the property to the street.
I was still waking up so I was caught completely off-guard. I unzipped the tent and jumped out, ran up to the short wall to find the man leaving the property and closing the gate behind him. I ran over to Lechuza and did a quick check. It looks like he didn't do anything except MOVE MY MIRROR? Very, very strange. I was upset.
I ran up to the gate and walked out on the street to see the man walking away. He was moving at a brisk pace to escape me. I went back and knocked on Adonay's front door, his sons were still awake in the living room. Everyone came out and I gave my testimony.
Adonay said he was well-known in town and it was probably a drunk wandering on the property from the quincenera. It was Saturday, after all. To me, a drunk is still as bad as anyone else, he could've knocked the bike over, stolen something, or fought me as I confronted him in the front yard.
Adonay could tell that I was frazzled from the breach of security. He apologized repeatedly but I knew there wasn't anything he could do about it now except lock his gate. I saw he did so without being asked as I laid down to go to sleep.
That night I slept very lightly... more or less with one eye open.
THE BORDER AWAITS
I wake with my alarm at 4:30AM well before sunrise. I pack the tent. I pack Lechuza. It's time.
Adonay and his boys are packing the car to go to the airport at the same time. We say our goodbyes and I aim my tires east.
I pass through one checkpoint, then another. I get into the border zone and stop for customs. I got my paperwork at the ready. When I park, I learn that the customs agent for tourist vehicles doesn't come in until 6. I heard this was a 24 hour border zone but not for tourist vehicles, I guess.
Shit.
I wait for a half hour as the sun rises, and with it, the temperature. It's about 30C (85F) at about 6:00AM when he arrives. While checking my motorcycle, we both see it at the same time. My back tire is absolutely shredded. Well, not THAT bad, but we find bald patches on ONE side of the back tire that are showing threads. The tire is toast.
If I knew that it would be this bad I would've delayed. I would've maybe waited. It's Sunday. I'm crossing borders. Looks like I'm stuck with the tire. I'm going to power through to Nicaragua on this regardless. I'm going to have to baby this thing. No high speeds, no leaning in turns, taking it easy.
Honduras
On my way to check into Honduras, I find a biker club in line next to me as I'm checking in to customs. They see my motorcycle gear and ask me if I'm heading South. Upon saying yes and explaining my trip in Spanish, we get to talking. Being a biker, foreigner, and meeting on the road turns into their opportunity to find out things about my trip and the road. Spanish is key!
After hearing I'm going South, Richard, one of the Salvadoran bikers, asks if I'm going into Venezuela.
"I'm a Gringo, they won't let me in, you know that!" I joke. They all laugh. "Maybe Colombia then, the women there are amazing." He gestures running his hands down an invisible curvy woman: "They look nothing like my wife here" he jests. They all laugh again. Biker culture is rife with public locker room talk. No different from Canada or the US.
When I finally get through customs I find Richard outside standing by Lechuza. He parked right next to it. I find out he slapped a sticker from his motorcycle club on one of my panniers, in the most visible location, without asking. It's in a spot facing backward toward oncoming traffic. I was saving that spot for a special sticker but he just put it on himself, without asking, while I wasn't there.
I feigned a 'yayy' as we took pictures together. It was too hot and I was in too high of spirits to chastise him for it.
I'm only going to be on Honduras for about 115km. I'm cutting right through the country on the Panamerican Highway and passing into Nicaragua in one day. Of course I need to manage myself, so I stop somewhere to get food.
I see a restaurant and pull an ever-so-delicate U-Turn and pull into their parking lot. Given this is a major highway, there's a few people gawking. I ask for some food and sit down, but as soon as people took notice to me ordering my food in Spanish, they approach to start conversation.
The waiter's son is a REALLY good English-speaking 11-year-old who has never left his country. He learned it all in school and watching TV. I'm super impressed how good he is, even speaking with tenses and working on his accent. I make sure to tell him how amazed I am with his skills.
A family sits down next to me and we all start talking as well. It's a husband and wife with their daughter and 2 sons. The oldest son is my age, they were shocked to learn I was 33 when they thought I was 25. They laugh and say that the cold temperatures in Minnesota help preserve us so we look way younger up north. I was pleasantly surprised to have them guess the age.
We take some pictures together as I'm about to leave. The daughter is maybe 16 or 17, and she gets my Instagram information. She sees me as an opportunity to practice her English and she says: "You are so amazing." I say "Thank you! You are too!"
The validation of a teen must mean I'm still in vogue.
-JT
7/4/2023