Do you remember I said a while back that everyone in South America warns you about the country to the north? So the Chileans say Peru is dangerous, the Argentinians say Paraguay is dangerous, and they all say Venezuela and Colombia are dangerous.Well, there I was having afternoon coffee at a little chef in Nicaragua with Dione and Leigh, an English couple on a pair of Yamahas heading south, and they say that everyone in North and Central America warns you about the country to the south. So the Americans think you'll die in Mexico, the Mexicans say you'll die in Guatemala, and so on.

Of course, none of this is really true, otherwise Colombia and Panamá would be really, really dangerous and full of abandoned motorcycles. Mind you, both Dione and I have suffered the nasty flu-type bug that's been racketing around this neck of the woods.

I encountered my first border corruption stunt crossing from Nicaragua into Honduras (apart from the appalling Entre Rios policemen in Argentina). Getting in and out of Nicaragua was a breeze, with plenty of Mummy's Little Helpers and friendly officials. Honduras, though. oh dear. I ended up paying out more than $50, with official receipts for less than $10. But there's little one can do. The hand-written vehicle permit had an alteration where the woman initially wrote the registration number wrongly. I asked for a replacement "clean" permit. That would cost $100. I don't think so. She did at least change the P to a B, but there should be a J instead of a Y. I risked it.

Naturally, at one of the police checkpoints they decided to check everything (thank heavens they couldn't find the engine number because, of course, it's now wrong). And they didn't like the alterations on the permit. I suddenly lost all my Spanish and lapsed into Spanglish. I told a sorry tale of being ripped off for $100 at the border, and how the officials refused to let me be with the bike while they did the paperwork, and so on and so forth. The guy obviously wanted his palm crossed with a wad of greenbacks, but I just wasn't going to do it. Eventually he gave up - a couple of overladen trucks came along and they probably afforded richer pickings.

Once in Honduras everything was fine - the usual friendly locals, decent roads, all that stuff. After Tegucigalpa I pottered along to Copán Ruinas and the Mayan city, just inside the border with Guatemala. The place was entirely full, it being Independence Day weekend, which wasn't too much of a problem for me as this charming cobbled colonial town was a nightmare to ride through. In common with most of the Spanish towns, the cobbles are big, rounded, and shiny, the hills are steep, and wrestling 300kg of bike on the narrow streets at very slow speeds behind incompetent Chelsea tractor drivers is very high risk indeed. Every time you have to stop the ground's in a different place, on the hills you start slithering either backwards or forwards with both wheels locked because there's 'gerall traction, you get the picture. So I headed back out of town to a posh sort of place full of the richer sort of locals, where they could accommodate me for one night (I really wanted two, but there you go).

So, up at sparrow's to take the hotel shuttle to the ruins and back to the hotel in time for the noon checkout. Eight miles to the border, knowing I'm going to get hassle and anticipating a fraught afternoon.

Not a bit of it. All very friendly and sensible. I noted that on the Honduran side there was posted a list of legitimate fees for people and vehicles entering the country (in English as well as Spanish), and a phone number and address to contact in the case of corruption attempts. All very different from Los Manos where I entered. And the Guatemalan side was just as nice, and the customs man indicated to his minions that I needn't be searched (thus allowing me to pass the queue of Chelsea Tractors being turned inside out). Good result.

Today I'm in Quetzaltenango, doing laundry, tightening bolts, all that sort of thing, and tomorrow I'll head for Mexico. Probably.