Oregon to Ushuaia on an XR650L

Welcome to Latin America. I made the mistake of arriving at the Honduras border late in the day, tired and hungry. Unfortunately, against my better instincts, I allowed a helped to negotiate for me, and I think I got ripped off for $80. Your tactics may not do much for the gringoes following, but the "helpers" and the corrupt officials are giving the Latin American border crossings a bad name, and certainly do not reflect the kindness of the people within the countries. Ride Safely...

Wow, talk about going from bad to worse...! Wishing Justin the best of luck negotiating the international waters.

Come on!!! Don't leave us hangin!

Awesome report! They are persistent fckers aren't they!!,

Keep them coming.

They defiently give a new meaning to the word persistant. It's horrible!

So there we were, stuck in international waters, men with no country. Actually, it was just Justin without a country; my little act had gotten me my Guatemala entrance stamp.


We got back on the bikes and rode back to the Mexican side where we went through the whole ordeal again. I sat on the curb and watched the bikes and played with the little kids while Justin went back in to try and convince the Mexicans to just give him a stamp so that we could get out of their hair. After about another hour of waiting, I went over and started looking for someone that spoke English. Sure enough, after a little bit we found one guy who seemed pretty fluent.<?XML:NAMESPACE PREFIX = O /><O></O>

<TABLE style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN-LEFT: auto; MARGIN-RIGHT: auto" class=tr-caption-container cellSpacing=0 cellPadding=0 align=center><TBODY><TR><TD style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"></TD></TR><TR><TD style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" class=tr-caption>This little guy was really, really interested the games I was playing on my phone.

</TD></TR></TBODY></TABLE>We explained the situation to him and he got this "this is very serious" look on his face and started telling us about how this was a big problem. He was asking us why we didn’t get receipts for our stamps when we were in La Paz, and why we hadn't noticed that the official had given us the wrong stamp. We tried explaining to him that this wasn't our fault, we had no idea what a Mexican entrance stamp was supposed to even look like and didn't even really know what the whole border crossing process was supposed to be as no one had even tried to stop us at the border in Tijuana or anywhere else for that matter for the first 1,000 miles that we rode in Mexico.<O></O>


We went back and forth like this for a while until he finally told us that we would have to go back into the town we had stayed in the night before and talk to the Immigration office there to take care of this. We weren't having it, so we told him that we wanted to talk to his boss. He hemmed and hawed for a little while, then disappeared back into the office to find el jefe. We sat around for another hour or so until they all reached a consensus. They called Justin in to the office and told him that they would make some calls and try and work something out so they could stamp his passport.<O></O>


So we waited another hour while they phoned La Paz, and phoned the Immigration office, and phoned the Mexican president, just to see if they could just stamp this lonely little gringo's passport.


<TABLE style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN-LEFT: auto; MARGIN-RIGHT: auto" class=tr-caption-container cellSpacing=0 cellPadding=0 align=center><TBODY><TR><TD style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"></TD></TR><TR><TD style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" class=tr-caption>Justin waits for the wheels of Mexican bureaucracy to finish turning. </TD></TR></TBODY></TABLE>

Finally, they told Justin that he would have to pay a fine for not getting the correct stamps in his passport and then they would give him the stamp that he needed and we could leave. At this point I don't think he really cared whether or not this was legit or some sort of corrupt scam; so he forked over a wad of pesos and we got back on the bikes and headed for the Guatemalan side again.....where we were immediately accosted by many of the same Helpers that we had ignored before.<O></O>

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</TD></TR><TR><TD style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" class=tr-caption>This little guy wanted to watch my bike for money. I'll told him no, but offered to let him ride it. He was really scared, but I convinced himto get on so I could take a picure.

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Fortunately, things were running smoothly now, and Justin got his stamp in quick order and we were on to the next step: fumigation. Ten yards from the Guatemalan immigration office was a dude with a pressure washer and a respirator spraying the nether regions of vehicles with a thick white, noxious smelling liquid before they crossed the border. After having the undersides of our bikes sprayed down, we then rode another 10 yards forward where we paid another guy about 10 quetzales for the fumigation that they had just performed. Ironically, there was a homeless man nearby who was washing the fumigation off of every vehicle that came by and charging a few quetzales. And the chemical was just running back down the gutter and then out into a small nearby stream. Go green peace!
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<O></O>
Next step was a second immigration office where they wanted copies of every single document that I had on my person: passport, passport visa page, drivers license, bike title (front and back), bike registration, proof of Mexican registration, etc., etc. I already had most of these, but I wasn't prepared for the back of the title or the passport visa page, so I had to run back into international waters and pay a Helper to make copies for me. Then I came back handed in my copies and was directed to a small bank were I had to pay for a temporary registration for Guatemala.<O></O>


Standing in line waiting for the bank, I struck up a conversation with the bank guard and started asking him questions about his shotgun. Throughout all of this, one pesky little Helper had stood by my elbow, talking in my ear in broken Spanglish, and otherwise getting in the way and making a nuisance of himself. I told him that I didn't have any money for him and I wasn't going to pay him anything, but he continued to stick by me like glue. After a while, the bank guard and I became fast friends and he let me cut in line to take care of my work.<O></O>


With my temporary Guatemalan registration in hand, I walked back to the immigration office one more time, and was then forced to go make more copies of receipts and other documents that they had given me. Finally, I came back, handed in my last copies and was given a little sticker to attach to my windshield which proved my registration had been completed. And that was it.<O></O>


Justin finished up a few minutes after me; we mounted up, and prepared to ride into Guatemala. The little helper who had been standing by me this entire time finally piped up about money as I was putting my helmet on.<O></O>


"Give me 30 quetzales!" He said.<O></O>


I started laughing at him. "Why?" I said. "I told you to get lost like three separate times."<O></O>


"20 quetzales!" He said.<O></O>


I was really laughing now. "You didn't even do anything. You stood next to me for about an hour and told me things in Spanish that I didn't even understand or listen to. I'll give you five quetzales just because I feel sorry for you." And with that I pushed a crumpled five quetzal note into his hand. <O></O>


He got a really indignant look on his face, and thrust the five quetzals note back at me. "Give me 20 quetzales!"<O></O>


I just ignored him and fired up my bike and started rolling forwards. <O></O>


"All right, all right! I'll take the five quetzales!" He said, lurching after me.<O></O>


I stopped gave him the note, and then we left.<O></O>


By this time it was after 2PM. We had been at the border for nearly six hours. We were both really frustrated and really tired, but more than a little happy to have finally made it into Guatemala. We stopped after about five miles and had our first Guatemalan meal: fried chicken and French fries slathered in mayonnaise. Delicious!<O></O>

<TABLE style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN-LEFT: auto; MARGIN-RIGHT: auto" class=tr-caption-container cellSpacing=0 cellPadding=0 align=center><TBODY><TR><TD style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"></TD></TR><TR><TD style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" class=tr-caption>I think that this was very authentic Guatemalan fare.

</TD></TR></TBODY></TABLE>We now had about fifty miles to ride to make it to the town of Xela (pronounced Shayla) where we would be spending the night. We figured that it would take about an hour, maybe two tops to make it there.<O></O>


What we hadn't counted on was that the road would climb from sea level to almost 10,000 feet during that distance. We also hadn't counted on the fact that Guatemalan roads would be even more confusing and scary than Mexican ones, would have 20 times the number of potholes and semi domesticated animals in them, and would also be filled with thousands of gigantic, brightly colored school busses belching black diesel smoke in our faces. Ohh, and we really hadn't counted on the fact that we would be riding straight into a fog bank that would prevent us from seeing more than twenty feet in front of us at times. Or the fact that the recent earthquake had reduced sections of the road to rubble. Or the fact that the temperature would drop from about 90 degrees at the start of our ride to 60 degrees at the end. All in all, it turned into a hair raising adventure in and of itself.<O></O>

<TABLE style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN-LEFT: auto; MARGIN-RIGHT: auto" class=tr-caption-container cellSpacing=0 cellPadding=0 align=center><TBODY><TR><TD style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"></TD></TR><TR><TD style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" class=tr-caption>The fog became extremely thick. This picture doesn't even show how bad it was in some spots. It was very unnerving to be riding along at five miles per hour and then suddenly have a huge school bus come lurching out of the fog and into your lane!

</TD></TR></TBODY></TABLE>After about three and a half hours of white knuckle riding up and down a crazy mountain road, we finally arrived in Xela and began hunting for the Hostel that some previous riders had told us about. They had even been so kind as to provide us with GPS coordinates for the Hostel. What they didn't tell us was that they had pulled the GPS coordinates off of google maps and that they were over a kilometer off and in the bad part of town. So we spent another hour riding around Xela after dark, through seedy neighborhoods and markets, asking everyone we met for direction until we finally found the Hostel and crashed.<O></O>

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<TABLE style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN-LEFT: auto; MARGIN-RIGHT: auto" class=tr-caption-container cellSpacing=0 cellPadding=0 align=center><TBODY><TR><TD style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"></TD></TR><TR><TD style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" class=tr-caption>This was a section of road in one of the towns that we passed through that had been destroyed by the earthquake.</TD></TR></TBODY></TABLE>

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So, in summary, the day went like this: wake up early, puke all over the ground, get stuck in the border zone for six hours, bribe a Mexican official, fend off a bunch of crazy locals, nearly lose our lives riding an insane road into the mountains, get lost in a Guatemalan city at night, and finally find where you are supposed to stay.<O></O>

loving the story...

Hey, Ulyses,

I guess it goes something like this: The USMC made you into a man, and your Trans-American bike ride is making you a wiser (more patient??) man.

Loving the report. Stay safe.

BTW--it is raining cats, dogs, and geoducks in the PNW. Even 10,000' @ 60ºF is better than this.

PD

Haha! Wiser and more patient? I think not! I can't stand getting passed by people. And I'll go into the dirt or pass in the blind to get around cars. Patience is not a virtue I have mastered yet. And as for wiser, well I almost got killed two days ago, and it had nothing to do with motorcycels. I'll write about it soon, but I'm still hunting the guy responsible.

And I'm thanking god I'm not in the PNW. I haven't even been rained on yet! Everyone should move down here!

Hurry up with that write up!!!


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"I'm still hunting the guy responsible."

Sounds like a Marine to me. Keep up the good work.

I can't finish the write up until I find this a-hole. Seriously, I may end up in Guatemalan jail over this.

Enjoying your ride report !

Thanks!

The narrative continues......

We left Xela the next day, which was a shame because it seemed like such an interesting city. The road out of Xela was a beautiful four lane highway with huge sweeping turns and pristine tarmac. I began to think that the road from yesterday was only a nightmare, a figment of my fatigue addled imagination. The beautiful highway climbed and climbed up to nearly 10,000 feet. Towards the top we stopped and I rode through a cornfield to get some pictures of the cloud toped mountains.
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<TABLE style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN-LEFT: auto; MARGIN-RIGHT: auto" class=tr-caption-container cellSpacing=0 cellPadding=0 align=center><TBODY><TR><TD style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"></TD></TR><TR><TD style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" class=tr-caption>Our bikes in the Hostel the morning we left Xela.</TD></TR></TBODY></TABLE>
<TABLE style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN-LEFT: auto; MARGIN-RIGHT: auto" class=tr-caption-container cellSpacing=0 cellPadding=0 align=center><TBODY><TR><TD style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"></TD></TR><TR><TD style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" class=tr-caption>Right off the highway there was a beautiful view of the mountains. This picture was taken near 10,000 feet.

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We continued on the highway until we found the turnoff for Lake Atitilan and the town of San Pedro. After leaving the highway, the road immediately devolved into a single lane of half paved pot hole ridden chaos! In fact, after a while, the unpaved stretches began to outnumber the paved sections and we were truly adventure riding. Without warning, the road swept around a corner and began to descend very steeply. Not wanting to wear out my brakes, I put the bike in first gear and used the engine compression to keep my speed down. After nearly 30 minutes, we still had not reached the bottom! After countless hairpin turns on a washed out and desiccated path that the Guatemalans called a road, the lake suddenly came into view; it was spectacular! I was immediately reminded of Crater Lake in Oregon; a huge azure expanse of water ringed by almost vertical mountains and cliffs which stretched into the sky and terminated in cloud topped volcanoes and cinder cones. It was breathtaking; and it almost killed me because I quit paying attention to the road and almost got hit by a chicken bus!<O></O>


<TABLE style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN-LEFT: auto; MARGIN-RIGHT: auto" class=tr-caption-container cellSpacing=0 cellPadding=0 align=center><TBODY><TR><TD style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"></TD></TR><TR><TD style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" class=tr-caption>Typical Chicken Bus. These things are everywhere, even on really knarly mountain roads.

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We finally made it down to the lake and San Pedro where we found a reasonably priced hotel. By reasonably priced, I’m talking about 30 Quetzals, which works out to $3.85 a night. It’s a great hotel too; hot water, private bathroom, clean sheets, wifi, a common kitchen and laundry room, and a great view of the lake from the balcony. You could live in Guatemala for very little money.
<O></O>
<TABLE style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN-LEFT: auto; MARGIN-RIGHT: auto" class=tr-caption-container cellSpacing=0 cellPadding=0 align=center><TBODY><TR><TD style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"></TD></TR><TR><TD style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" class=tr-caption>A nice portion of the road into Lake Atitlan and San Pedro.

</TD></TR></TBODY></TABLE>The next day we met up with some fellow riders whom we had ridden with in Baja and rented kayaks on the lake. We paddled across the lake to a little town called San Marcos and spent some time swimming and jumping off some cliffs. The lake is several miles wide and we were all a little tired after the crossing so we decided to see if we could find a power boat to take us back across the lake to San Pedro. However, after finding out that they were charging 50 quetzals ($6.85, what a rip off!) I decided to paddle back across the lake and save some money. Justin decided to wait for the boat, so I told him to tell the Captain to stop and pick me up when they reached me out in the lake.
<O></O>
<TABLE style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN-LEFT: auto; MARGIN-RIGHT: auto" class=tr-caption-container cellSpacing=0 cellPadding=0 align=center><TBODY><TR><TD style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"></TD></TR><TR><TD style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" class=tr-caption>It cost 15 Quetzals to jump off this platform. It was worth it, especially with the volcanos in the background.

</TD></TR></TBODY></TABLE>I started paddling back and got about a third of the way across when I heard the drone of an outboard motor fast approaching me from behind. I looked back and saw a motor boat blasting towards me, with Justin’s yellow kayak protruding from the bow.
<O></O>

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“Awesome!” I thought, “I’m getting tired. Justin’s right on time.” I turned around and kept paddling, assuming that the boat would slow down, come along side, and pick me up. After a few seconds though, I realized that the sound of the engine was not slowing down. I turned around just in time to see the bow of the boat only ten yards away and coming straight for me at full speed!
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&#65279; A lot of things flashed through my mind at that point. The first was, “Oh sh*t, this guy is going to run me down!” The second was: “I should really try and jump out of the way!” Unfortunately, I knew that I couldn’t jump because I was sitting flat on my butt in the bottom of the Kayak. So I did the only thing that I could: I threw my torso to the left as hard as possible in the vain hope that the boat would miss me.
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As my face hit the water I heard the motor boat crunch into the back of my Kayak. “Oh sh*t, this is it!” I thought. “I survived two deployments in Afghanistan and 3,000 miles of riding through Mexico only to get taken out by a Guatemalan Motor boat in the middle of a lake.” What a terrible irony. And with that I felt the hull of the boat smash into my back and drive me under water. <O></O>


“Well, any second now the prop is going to come along and shred me to ribbons.” I thought. I bobbed back towards the surface and the hull smashed into me again and drove me even deeper under the lake. And suddenly my head was above the surface and I was spluttering and cursing. In shock, I watched the motor boat roaring away, not slowing down, the captain and passengers totally unaware that they had just run over a kayak and a now very angry bald gringo.<O></O>
I knew I was in shock and I assumed that most of my major arteries and limbs had been shredded by the propeller but that I just couldn’t feel it because of the adrenaline coursing through my veins. I scrambled into my kayak which was amazingly bobbing a few feet away, totally undamaged. I did a quick pat down over my entire body and realized that I wasn’t bleeding to death and that the only major damage I could feel was a large welt on my back where the boat had hit me.<O></O>


I then noticed my hat and sunglasses floating a few feet away, submerged under a few feet of water. I dove back into the water and snatched them up. Amazingly, my thought process was now saying: “I can’t lose my Oakley’s and baseball cap; I’ll never be able to replace those down here.” With my accoutrements now rescued from the watery clutches of the lake, I paddled back over to the kayak. I threw an arm over the bow and then just sat there. I started laughing hysterically. I could hear my friends in the other kayak yelling at me, asking if I was okay. I couldn’t even reply, I could only laugh and wonder what in the hell had just happened.<O></O>
Eventually I scrambled back into the kayak, still unsure if I was really okay or if I was horribly injured but couldn’t feel it due to shock. My friends paddled over, full of concern, asking if I was okay. I started laughing again and told them that I thought I was. I had them look at my back to make sure and they told me that I had a huge welt on my back, but other than that, I looked okay. We all just sat there in the middle of the lake for a minute. I could still see the boat, speeding away towards San Pedro, nearly a mile away now.<O></O>


At this point, all I could do was laugh. For some reason it was so hilarious. I had literally just about been killed. If the boat would have hit my head, I would have been knocked unconscious and drowned. If the prop had hit me, I would have been cut to ribbons and bled to death before anyone could have helped. I’m pretty sure that the only thing that saved me, apart from the grace of God, was me throwing myself to the left as hard as I could. If I hadn’t done that, the boat would have hit me square on, hit my head, and then run me down the keel and into the prop. And then I would have just been pink mist in the water.<O></O>
After sitting there for a while and realizing that no one was coming out to help, I knew that I was going to have to paddle all the way back to San Pedro. We struck off, following the wake of the boat that had just run me down. I was fervently thanking Jesus for saving my life and plotting the demise of the captain who had been piloting the boat; a rather incongruous duality of thought.<O></O>


As I kept paddling towards San Pedro I was torn between bouts of hysterical laughter, rage, and utter fatigue. The adrenaline was wearing off. I didn’t know if I wanted to find the Captain who had hit me, shake his hand and take a picture, or tackle him into the water and drown him Navy Seal style. Probably both.<O></O>
About thirty minutes later, as I was nearing San Pedro, I saw the boat that had hit me coming back out onto the lake. As he passed by I waved my paddle in the air and angrily yelled at him to stop. Several passengers in the boat looked at me, smiled, and waved but the boat kept going. I threw my paddle down in frustration and shook my fist at him, futilely cursing his name.<O></O>

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</TD></TR><TR><TD style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" class=tr-caption>My camera was a little wet, but this is the boat that hit me coming back out onto the lake as I was still coming in.</TD></TR></TBODY></TABLE>

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I paddled the rest of the way back to the dock where I met Justin and the guy from whom we had rented the Kayaks. As soon as I told them what had happened they gave me incredulous looks and started plying me with questions. Justin had been in the boat that hit me and he said that no one had even realized it. The proprietor walked us all over to the dock were the motor boats landed.<O></O>
By this time I was seething with rage. I knew that if I saw the guy that had hit me, I was probably going to knock him out. Unfortunately, I had no idea what he looked like. Justin told me that he had been wearing a Suzuki hat, so I just started looking for baseball caps and angrily glaring at all of the Guatemalan boat captains. We eventually talked to someone who was in charge and told them what had happened. They assured us that their boss was en route and that the captain piloting the boat was on his way back right now.<O></O>


We sat down to wait. I sat on the edge of the dock dangling my feet in the water, overwhelmed with everything that had just happened. Fatigue was setting in. After paddling over two miles on the lake, going cliff jumping, and receiving a direct impact from a motor boat that was probably travelling at over thirty miles an hour, I was exhausted. I still had my shirt off and Guatemalans kept coming over to look at my back and ask me if I was okay and if I needed a doctor or something.
<TABLE style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN-LEFT: auto; MARGIN-RIGHT: auto" class=tr-caption-container cellSpacing=0 cellPadding=0 align=center><TBODY><TR><TD style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"></TD></TR><TR><TD style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" class=tr-caption>My back after getting hit by a boat at full speed.

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Ten minutes of waiting turned into thirty and the Guatemalans kept reassuring me that their “jefe” was on the way and that the boat captain responsible would be here any minute. By this time I was beat. All I wanted to do was drink a beer, kill a Guatemalan Skipper, and take a nap. My friends and I retired to a restaurant with direct line of sight to the docks and ordered lunch. After I had eaten half a hamburger and a Corona, the jefe arrived on the docks. I went down to talk to him. He was extremely apologetic and kept asking me what I needed. I told him I wanted to know who the captain was, I wanted to meet him in person, and I wanted to see a doctor. He apologized profusely, and told me that the boat captain had gone home for the day and lived in San Marcos across the lake. He claimed that the Captain would be held responsible and punished for his actions.
<TABLE style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN-LEFT: auto; MARGIN-RIGHT: auto" class=tr-caption-container cellSpacing=0 cellPadding=0 align=center><TBODY><TR><TD style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"></TD></TR><TR><TD style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" class=tr-caption>Justin patrols the docks looking for El Pescador and the rogue captain.

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“Yeah right.” I thought. “That’s why you were all calling him and telling him not to come back to San Pedro.“ I asked him what the name of the boat was that had struck me. “El Pescador” he replied. “Great”, I thought, “I almost got killed by The Fisherman.” The jefe did walk me up to a doctor’s office a few blocks away, where we sat around for 30 minutes waiting for the doctor to show up. Of course, the doctor was operating on Latin time and never showed up. I eventually gave up and told the jefe that I would come back to the docks later and find him. But I never did.<O></O>
That night I went out to dinner with my friends, had a few beers, and ate a big plate of food. I was still ravenously hungry, so I finished off their dinners then went back to my hotel room and crashed. I woke up the next morning and felt fine. Ironically, everyone else had horrible sunburns and could hardly move. The running joke now is that if I get hit by a bus or crash my bike, I’m just going to eat three dinners and sleep it off.<O></O>


This all happened about two days ago. Every day now I go down and lurk by the docks, looking for El Pescador and the Guatemalan that was piloting the boat. I’m still not sure if I’m going to shake his hand and get a picture or just beat the hell out of him. Maybe both.

Geez, that's a hell of a welcome on the lake.

Anyone else feel that bump? Oh... it was just some gringo in a kayak...

I am riding the same way though you are a bit behind me. Let's see if our paths cross

Damn! Good story!!! Glad you are ok.


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