The Road to Panama............6 Borders & a Dead Cat

Blasting through central America – The road to Panama

I had finally reached the Guatemalan border, which signified the start of Central America. It was a nice moment. Things were not going to be quite that simple though. Having entered Mexico illegally a month ago and being too inpatient to go back to the border and sort it out at the time meant I had no history of being in Mexico. Unsurprisingly, no matter how many times the immigration officer flicked through my passport he could not find a “Mexico Stamp”. I tried my best to explain what had happened to which the immigration officer replied, “Not on the system! No history in Mexico, just go!” Thinking I’d got away with it I pedaled over the bridge connecting the two countries, past all the con artists posing as immigration staff and dodgy money exchange men, to the Guatemala Immigration office. My luck stopped there. They wouldn’t give me an entry stamp to Guatemala unless I had an exit stamp from Mexico, slight problem!

Last few metres in Mexico, Guatemalan Volcanoes in the background

Looking a lot less of a smart arse I pedalled back over the bridge to Mexico hoping I could charm them into stamping my passport. I couldn’t believe it, the very thing I liked about Mexico, its complete lawlessness and ability to be dodgy ,had eluded me! Mexico was trying to be all straight and Germanic all of a sudden and wouldn’t bend any rules! I’d banked on their greatness at being corrupt! I wasn’t allowed to go back into Mexico and couldn’t enter Guatemala. I thought to cycle straight past the Immigration and enter Guatemala illegally, but trying to  explain how I had no history in either Mexico or Guatemala would be opening a can of worms at the next border crossing. “What do you expect me to do then!?” I ranted at the Immigration lady....pitch my tent on the bridge and live the rest of my life in no mans land!? I felt like Tom Hanks in the film Terminal! After numerous failed attempts the Guatemalan immigration officer pointed to the back door of the concrete immigration  building and I was ushered into a room with the senior immigration officer. After a bit of a chit chat he said to me, “there is one solution”.....of course there is, I thought to myself! Surprise surprise, it involved me paying him money! By me signing a bit of paper and paying him 200 Quetzalas (20 quid) everything could be washed under the carpet and I was allowed on my merry way into Guatemala.

My first day in Central America was an interesting one. Guatemala was definitely Mexico’s poorer relative.  50 yards after crossing the border the road ramped up into the most brutal hill. After a few extremely steep up and downs it then proceeded  into a ridiculous steep climb for over 30km without a single flat section. Brutal. I had gone from sea level to over 2500 metres in one afternoon, cycling right through the cloud layer. As I climbed the temperature dropped and then the heavens opened. I bared it as long as I could until I began to freeze. Looking for shelter I  saw a little tin hut by the roadside. The kind lady saw me looking like a drowned rat and invited me in. I sat around a little fire with her and her 2 daughters and she made me an unrecognisable hot drink and gave me a piece of stale cake, which at that moment tasted heavenly.

When the rain stopped I got back on my bike and continued the never ending climb (1st gear out the saddle was the only way I could turn the pedals over) until I reached the mountain town of San Marcos as night fell. Well to be precise, I thought I had reached it 5 miles earlier though It seemed smaller than I had presumed. I couldn’t even find a single hotel so asked a group of young lads. Follow me they said....  we finally arrived at an “auto hotel”....sex hotel! Latin Americas way of maintaining its affair culture....you drive into your own bay and pull the garage door down so nobody can recognise your car, then go upstairs and pay through a discreet hole in the wall. I think the boys were too young and Innocent to realise, not trying to set me up! I was so knackered I drove my bike in anyway, quite possibly the first person to rock up at a sex hotel on 2 wheels. The hourly rate was good but there were no economies of scale for the whole night, so I kept on riding into the dark and into another rainstorm. I had a sneaky suspicion the main town was further down the road, and I was right. When the heavens really opened again I darted Into a little shop where a family were making tortillas on a big hotplate at night, they gave me some food and pointed me in the direction of somewhere to stay. It was good to be finally indoors and dry. No camping that night.

The hotel owner was a Keen cyclist and joined me for a few miles the next morning as I headed up hill towards Quetzaltenango and then started descending towards Lake Aitilan, Guatemala’s biggest attraction. My map showed a road which left the highway to climb up and over a mountain and drop into the big crater where the lake sat. I don’t know how on earth this road made it onto the map, but it shouldn’t have! Someone had obviously stated to build a road many years ago before giving up on realising the mountainside was just too steep. All that remained were the remnants of an abandoned JCB, a  small section of concrete that had slipped down the mountainside and the rest a track of rocks and mud on a gradient the equivalent of a black run ski slope. At times I had to lean back and hold my bike with both hands to stop it falling down the mountainside. I could see the lake beneath me, though it would take hours to reach it on foot. Before arriving at the downhill section I had been chased by 20 dogs, snapping at my heels, I wont try and be cool, I shat myself. Luckily none managed to bite me. Shortly after that I had a reached a plateau, where as many as 50 dogs were hanging around in a big gang. It was bizarre, the nearest villages were miles away. They began barking and snarling at me, I instinctively started singing, “I’m singing in the rain!”...and they left me alone! And now I was stumbling down a mountainside in complete darkness. It had been a long day. I could see the lights of Santa Cruz on the lake shore beneath me. My destination was a standalone hostel called “Free Ceveza”.

My arrival was a little bit legendary I must say. As a load of privileged student backpackers drank beer on a terrace stumbling around a campfire, I rocked up covered in dirt and soaked in sweat in the pitch black of night. “How did you get here!?” they all came over and asked, “I came down that mountainside “ I replied as modestly as I could! The small fishing  town was known to be accessible only by boat.....so my entry had caused quite a stir and a million questions from student backpackers 15 years by junior,  dressed like 60s hippies (I was starting to feel my age, but was taking great delight in stealing there kudos!) It felt pretty weird to be at one moment in remote mountain villages, riding my bike 1000s of miles and making my way down a mountainside in pitch black chased by dogs to then open a hostel gate and stroll upon a load of backpackers who’s only effort was to walk over to the bar to order another beer! I’m not saying that my journey is better, but it was a strange sensation.

Heading down the mountain and into darkness, Lake Aitilan

Free Cerveza

Free Cerveza. As its clever name attention grabbingly suggests gave away free beer. It was  great business concept and the owner was clearly extremely savvy, though was a completely self obsessed greedy tosser. I’ll come to that in a sec. The Peruvian born American owner from Miami had bought a plot of land right on the lake, cleared all the trees, built a load of Eco toilets and pitched some glamping style marque tents on the grass and opened a hostel that gave away free beer from 5-7pm. It was perfect, there was no competition and in such an  isolated spot everyone bought the 10 dollar meal at 7 pm and continued to buy drinks all night! After watching him burn cardboard and hearing of neighbors complaints he had removed every single tree, it was clear he didn’t give a f### about the environment, the Eco toilets were just cost saving. He openly told me his break even was 12 people and he was at capacity of 45 every night making a killing. More of why the owner was a wanker. Firstly I witness him charge a young land to prise up a piece of decking to retrieve his dropped phone, tell a group of French (OK perhaps deserved) to get the F out for partying too loud at night, yes after naming a hostel which it based around drinking! Finally the megaphone, he enjoyed the sound of his voice so much every night he pulled out his megaphone every evening and tried to flog his crappy tours, if there wasn’t complete silence he would get the hump, it felt like a Butlins holiday camp!

Unwisely I  decided to have a day off and asked to stay another night. They were fully booked  but he allowed me to pay to sleep on the decking after the nightly party had finished. I didn’t pay much attention at the time but the price for roughing it alfresco was more than the price of a tent! Anyway, it hit midnight, the party was in full swing, and I was knackered, so I ask tosspot if he minds me  pitching  my own tent on the grass, explaining I don’t expect the party to stop for me. To which the answer was “No!”. I decide to move outside and sleep in the rain. On seeing this, two Dutch siblings  ask how he could possibly let me sleep out in the rain and ask if I could stay in their private tent, to which the answer was...... “No!” After all this, on checking out he tries to bribe me (a 35 year old man)  with the offer of cookies for the road in exchange for giving his hostel an online review!?!?!?! Complete dickhead. I sincerely hope his eco hostel burns to the ground!!!

Guatamala, Road from Lake Aitilan to Antigua

From the lake I passed through beautiful Antigua, by far the nicest town in Guatemala, before descending down from the mountains towards the coastline and the El Salvador border.  The jobsworth border control officer questioned my lack of stamps for Mexico, which I hoped by now would have been forgotten about. He then approached his older colleague who luckily  gave him one of those “who cares” looks and I was allowed on my way. From that point on I decided to tell any border officers that my trip began in Guatemala, it was less impressive  but saved a lot of agg! Anyway, El Salvador’s claim to fame was that it had the  highest murder rate anywhere in the world outside a war zone. Impressive stuff. It had a serious problem with gang violence, though apparently they weren’t interested in killing tourists. In every town the shops and gas stations were guarded by security men with guns, the police carried even bigger guns and the even more bad ass police masked there faces and had even bigger guns. It was hardly surprising I didn’t see any tourists in my brief time in this tiny country. It  did have some awesome waves and the best food in Central America though, for some unknown reason food presentation was a big priority in El Salvador.

Arriving in Antigua

From El Salvador I crossed the border into Honduras,  seen as the second most dangerous country in Central America. I managed to cross it in 24 hours, my only memory being a taxi driver blasting his horn and shouting abuse at me, despite me being butted up against the edge of the road. I instinctively raised my middle finger and shouted F you!!. He stopped by the side of the road waiting for me and then did a “u” turn and came back shouting more abuse at me. At times like this I wish I still had my bear spray. Although still friendly, Central America had been anyway near as hospitable as Mexico. From Honduras I hit Nicaragua, a poor but beautiful country with some nice crumbling down old towns and heaps of Volcanoes before my penultimate country in Central America, Costa Rica. The Costa Rican people live well. The country had decided to have no military and instead pump all the money into education, and it showed. A few days saw me through Costa Rica’s Lush Jungle environment, over a bridge swamped with crocodiles below and I eventually to the border of my final country in North America, Panama. I think I had underestimated just how far it was on a bicycle from Alaska to Panama. By now I had lost interest in seeing any more Beaches and just wanted to get to Panama city, find a bar and chill out! The end was near and I wanted to get there, I worked out that if I rode 100 miles a day consecutively for the last week I would  arrive in Panama city for Saturday night, perfect.

Leon, Nicaragua

Not a posy photo...the guy I gave my camera to obviously didn't like my face.  The 2 Volcanoes behind are on the tiny island of Omotepe, Nicaragua

Leon, Nicaragua

Riding past a football match on a Sunday in a  small mountain town in El Salvador. The supporters saw me over the back of the stand and called me in to watch. Some dodgy looking scars on some of the supporters..I didn't stay for too long!

Huge Barrel waves in Costa Rica

Town of Granada, Nicaragua

Nicaragua 

Honduras Border, a river crossing like all Central American Borders

Honduras Border

Malacon, Puerto La Liberdad, San Salvador

El Salvador, best food in Central America

Costan Rican Crocs....no place to Camp

I wasn't the only one using green transport on the PanAm Highway

Jaco Beach, Costa Rica

I must say it felt good to cross the border into Panama. Its the furthest continuous landmass and first full continent I’ve cycled and my Alaskan number plate mounted to the rear of my bike was looking increasingly impressive and grabbing more and more attention.  After a hassle free border crossing it seemed as though it would be an easy last few days on my now haggard bike to Panama City. My target for that day was the city of David, though since I had  reached it with a couple of daylight hours to spare I decided to keep on going. I passed through the congested city centre before descending down a short sharp hill to leave the city and rejoin the Pan-Amercian highway. What was about to happen will make me look at cats differently for the rest of my life. As I accelerated at tremendous pace down the hill a cat darted out across the traffic from the other side of the road. |I couldn't turn due to the heavy traffic in both directions and it was coming straight for me! Being a Cat I still believed that Cat instincts would kick in and it would dart out of my way at the last second. It didn't. My front wheel hit the Cat smack on at pace and I felt the disturbing sensation of a huge bump as my front wheel rode right over the cats body. Things were about to go from bad to worse. The cat was sucked up by the rotation of the wheel and became jammed, and I mean really jammed, between my front fork, mudguard and the wheel. As I looked down in horror the Cat was screaming out loud whilst being ripped apart by the rotation of the wheel, it was literally skinning the cat alive. Suddenly I felt my body to rise into the air, the cats body had completely locked up the front wheel and after performing a huge endo I was thrown into the air upside-down over the handlebars. I cant remember how I landed but found myself lying in the road, cuts all over my legs and both wrists and my shoulders in agony. Though compared to the cat I had gotten off lightly. The sight from oncoming traffic of a yellow haired man riding a bike on its front wheel with pannier bags and a cat wedged in the front wheel must have been quite something!

  I looked up the road to see my broken bike, now several metres behind me sprawled across the carriageway with the cat still jammed in the wheel and screaming out in agony.  The sight of the cat made my injuries seem minimal and as the driver of the first car got out to help I shouted out loud in best gringo Spanish, I'm OK, HELP THE CAT!! After bending over grimacing from the pain of my wrists for a couple of minutes I joined the man in his attempts to remove the cat. 10 minutes of trying and we still couldn't release him. He was well and truly squashed. We moved the bike to the sidewalk and let the huge cue of traffic past and continued as the cat screamed and tried to claw us with every attempt to dislodge him.

He looked in a bad way, rear legs bend round 180, stripped of fur and several deep bleeding wounds where the friction of the wheel had cut right into the flesh of the cats body. The other man was just saying we need to call the fire brigade when we managed to remove the front wheel and release the cat. It lay there on the pavement, its heart going into a spasm breathing like crazy. I could have sworn it was about to die and even if not it would never walk again. At the very least the legs must be completely broken. Would we have to put it out of its misery? I really didn't fancy hitting the poor cat on the head with a brick. Someone walked over to the poor cat, and miraculous it jumped to its feet and ran off. I couldn't believe it. I don't know if he went off to die or is still roaming the streets now, but it was good to see him run away. Both the Cat and the Panther had lost one life.

Getting back on my bike was painful. I had to change gear with my least painful left hand and every jolt was agonising. If ever there was a night I needed a hotel that was it, instead all I could find was a bit of wasteland behind a petrol station to camp on. The kind lady at the restaurant nearby let me use her shower though, well I guess you could call it that! My second and third nights were spent camping too, the latter being the best camp so far. Hidden away behind the trucks on a Pan AM service station. It had it all, a secure fence around the property, warm showers for the truckers I was allowed to use, and good food. Waking from my tent I had finally reached the last day. Just 95 miles separated me from the end of North America . Panama City is literally the end of the road for cycling North America. The road stops there and does not continue to Colombia. An area of  dangerous Jungle/Marshland occupy the 60 mile stretch between the 2 continents known as The Darien Gap. For this reason, Guinness world records state that anyone attempting to break the record for cycling the Americas must fly or take a boat from Panama to Cartagena, Colombia. Its a shame it breaks the journey but it is was it is. It is also seen as the half way point, I was half way around the world.

The Darién Gap is a lawless wilderness on the border of Colombia and Panama, teeming with everything from deadly snakes to antigovernment guerrillas. The region also sees a flow of migrants from Cuba, Africa, and Asia, whose desperation sends them on perilous journeys to the U.S. Jason Motlagh plunged in, risking robbery, kidnapping, and death to document one of the world’s most harrowing treks.

My last few miles to Panama city were brutal and never ending. This was not helped by the fact everything was now broken, literally everything, no speedo or music for motivation since leaving Mexico, cycle shorts ripped to pieces, holes in my tent, bike worn out in every way imaginable. The Pan American highway had been nothing more than a quiet single lane carriage way in other Central American countries, though in Panama it was a beast of a high speed chaotic dual/triple carriageway. In many parts there was no shoulder and impatient lorries and cars would blast there horns as they squeezed past me at pace. Unlike other cities, where your nearing of the city limits would be acknowledged by the slow build up of industry etc, there was no sign of anything in Panama city, the road weaved through dense jungle forests and up and down small mountains until finally, the spectacular sight of the Puente de las America  (Americas Bridge) exploded onto the Horizon. I have crossed a lot of spectacular bridges on my journey so far, from the Golden Gate in San Francisco to a floating pontoon bridge crossing the Ganges in India, but 3 months and 26.5 days, 8689 miles (14,000 km), after leaving Anchorage, Alaska and 9 Border Crossings later none felt as special as crossing this spectacular beast over the enormous Panama Canal and dropping in Panama City, the end of the road. 

Final Border Crossing

Puente de las Americas

A nice moment

Panama Canal

21,000 km from one tyre..German made, have to give them credit for that one. The Blue is the puncture protection where the rubber has worn right through

Perhaps time for some new bar tape ... bar is also bent from the cat crash

Squeezing past traffic for the final time crossing the Panama Canal, a stressful but rewarding last day

Panama city, a city of huge contrasts, looking from the harbor at the Old Quarter to the new town