Travelling toys with the mind.  The last few weeks have been a bit of a grind and I haven't been inclined to write up another blog chapter, yet re-reading my diary notes just now, there have been a heap of interesting experiences.

The border crossing into Honduras had the usual red tape bullshit, but was actually quite pleasant. For starters, the Guatemalan and Honduran officials shared a single air conditioned building. The only walking around was to check the bike's VIN (once for each country) and a couple of visits to a photocopy store.

The Guatemalan migration lady smiled and pulled out her own license: same birthday! I said "The day of the dead" (1st of November) and she nodded. "Dia de los Muertos" is a big deal in these Roman Catholic parts. She wasn't as crusty though, only being born in 2000.

One hour forty minutes and two passport stamps heavier.

First up was Copán, a Mayan site close by its namesake town.  The ruins presented differently than those in Guatemala, with mowed lawn.

A hieroglyphic staircase, now covered with a tarpaulin for protection, has symbols etched into the stones.

The oddest aspect was ongoing restoration.  Parts had modern mortar, which looked out of place against the ancient stones.  A crew were replacing blocks with string line and cement.  If I was running the show, I'd just keep the plant growth in check but leave things as found.

The site is also unusual in having stelae - free standing stone carvings several metres high.

As a bonus, a Macaw rescue program releases birds within the Copán site. Pretty cute!

Cubi from Texas was an interesting bloke to talk with.  He has an academic background in Latin American politics. Like most Central American countries, El Salvador (bordering Honduras) has suffered a violent past. For most of the 1980 to 1992 civil war, he worked for the US State Department.  Given the often unhelpful interference of the US in Latin American affairs I immediately thought  "CIA".  He painted a more benign picture: co-ordinating financial support, largely to persuade youth from becoming rebels. 

Nowadays, he visits Honduras to oversee a programme funding education of kids in small Indian villages . Without it, they'd have a gap between year 10 and university.

The website/app Wikiloc showed an interesting route away from the main roads. Rising up on dirt into the hills was delightful. This type of mild dual sport riding is ideal for a loaded DR: putt-putting along, enjoying nice scenery, not really technical just at a gentle pace.

Lunch was had in the shade of pine trees. Peaceful.

Afternoon rain left the clay surface pretty darn slippery. Braking hard down a long steep hill the rear was skittering with the motor only just keeping it spinning. I had that all too familiar thought "Fark, hope I don't have to come back up this". Didn't have to - the path went uphill anyway soon enough.

It was all going well until it wasn't.

The lazy Suzuki took a nap going up a hill.

You might not believe this, but hours a day in the saddle, drinking beer with most meals and dropping all exercise save hiking has not helped core and arm strength.

It was a right bastard to get upright again, made worse by inadvertently walking it backwards into a drainage ditch, leaving it impossible to ride out. Rain came pissing down hard. I dragged it on its side 180 degrees to point downhill. Being perched on tank and pannier, now I REALLY couldn't lift it. Fortunately a bloke came walking past, machete in hand; he may have been skinny, but sheez he had more strength. 

The weird part was that by the time I rolled down for another crack, I couldn't find him for thanks and a few lempira. 

The Caribbean coast of Honduras is known for beaches and sealife, so I pointed the handlebars northwards.

Getting up the main highway near San Pedro Sula (former world record holder for homicides per capita) was simultaneously entertaining and terrifying.

Three kids on little dirt bikes passed, so I endeavored to stick with them. Traffic density was insane, all blocked up belching fumes. The three weaved in between vehicles, sometimes left sometimes right. I figured if I could see them on the wrong side of the double lines, there was probably nothing coming around the blind bends, so took a few liberties. After half an hour I was frazzled, so backed off.

Out of Tela is a spit of land betwen lake and sea.

In the estuary folk fished, waist deep in the water. 

Scattered along the sandy spit were Garífuna abodes. These folk seem pretty relaxed and why not? It's all sand, sun and surf, miles from the maddening crowds.  

The fried fish they served was excellent. 

It was the most enjoyable part of Honduras. 

The Caribbean island of Roatan is known as the cheapest place in the world to gain SCUBA accreditation. I half considered spending a week doing this, especially having heard my sis Michelle rave about diving. In the end I figured blobbing around on the surface with a little plastic tube in my gob was enough. 

The day tour out to Cayos Cochinos was okay ... a solid okay in fact. However, having been spoilt back home in Ningaloo and the Great Barrier Reef then Hawaii, the underwater sights were just a bit humdrum. 

We swam, snorkelled, saw "pink" boas lazing along tree branches and wound up with another fish lunch on a tiny island almost covered with timber + thatched roof shacks. 

A nice part was chatting with a young family from down near the Nicaraguan border. One fellow in particular had good English.  He worked as an online translator between Hispanic patients and English speaking medical staff, with both other parties in the USA. We covered the usual family stats, then he was interested in how I felt being a father as his wife didn't want kids. It was a bit deeper than most chats.

Another chatty local was Pepe the Toucan in Tela. The little bugger chomped my arms and legs. Handsome fella though. 

Every town celebrated Independence Day (from Spain), the 15th of September, with similar parades of school aged kids. Boys donged drums or blasted brass, girls tingled xylophones  or twirled batons.  Families cheered their uniformed darlings on.

Dave Bailey, I think this bloke wins the top box size competition.

The heat was getting annoying, especially in heavy textile riding gear. No locals wear this stuff, it just doesn't make sense. I took to wearing cotton dress trousers and a long sleeve shirt only, about a million times better. The only hassle was strapping the pants and jacket to the bike - the whole pile became tall, leaving the bike even more cumbersome and easier to drop.

Over a coffee in Danli I scanned a photo book of North American geography. Reading all the now familiar names San Juan, Tetons, Sawtooth, Grand Canyon et cetera had me all a bit sentimental. Someone later that evening asked where my favourite parts of the journey had been. Sure, I could list off big ticket items in Mexico and Guatemala in particular, but overall I had to say that I'd loved the freedom of the US outdoors. 

Funny, I had only started in the States as a convenience. Peru and Chile have always been the dream. Yet here I am five months in, no where near them and fondly recalling the US.

It also suggests I should seek out camping, even though general wisdom is to preference hotels in Latin America for safety reasons.

Leaving Honduras my migration lady Sandra was so friendly, sitting down outside her office after formalities for a social yarn. All around was the grime of a thousand trucks and a thousand sweaty truck drivers, so watching her dimples was a pleasant interlude. 

Nicaragua has a reputation for bureaucratic nonsense at borders. Officials weren't malicious, helpful actually, just caught up in a Heath Robinson system. After clearing the final hurdle I couldn't help but give a "Woo hoo!" with raised fist while taking off. 

Red and black FSNL flags flew for the Sandanista National Liberation Front. You might recall a period of Nicaraguan history in the 1980s when the CIA covertly backed the Contra rebels, attempting to overthrow the incumbent Sandanista government. Red and black is prominent in every town. 

As ever riding in the mountains was the best, especially just in from the border at Los Manos. Nicely cool, pleasing scenery and roads to carve up.

How about this for a surface? A squillion interlocking pavers. They made for a surprisingly smooth ride, just a wee bumpiness on the front, better than most tar. Zero potholes. I thought "I'd love to see the machine that lays these", but was told they're all laid by hand, even being manufactured on site.

In hindsight I squandered Nicaragua. There is a swath of forest/jungle track to be had, especially in the north away from the built up areas.

An expat told me of his many dirt bike rides, when he would set off exploring and worry about accomodation later - in the smallest locality, asking locals would always turn up SOME place to stay.  Mind you he'd emigrated from Spain, so he had a pretty good handle on the lingo!

I sure am weaker than I was. Only seven years ago I crossed the Simpson Desert solo on a dirt bike, never dropping it once in all those hundreds of kilometres of sand. This trip I've dropped the fat lump a heap of times, all at no speed. The final straw for a pannier was side swiping a bus, the outer skin splitting vertically then creeping forward. 

Oh well. It gives me something to do, as my dad says. Often.

The nicest Nicaraguan place to stay was Hotel Aguas del Arenal.  

German born Jürgen and Nicaraguan wife Annabelle built it from scratch, having first arrived with only a tent. Jürgen roasted his own plantation's coffee beans in a whopping big iron pan over the open fire. Guests shared dinner in a family like setting, the Bratwurst snags having been fried over that same fire.

Electricity came from a mini hydro plant - a paddle wheel driving a single 24V truck alternator + battery. A 110V inverter fed the buildings. Okay, one couldn't use say a hair dryer, but it could handle lighting and device recharging. Impressive for nerdy me.

Jürgen himself was a barrel of laughs. A language teacher by trade, but backpacking hippy at heart, he had a heap of stories. He maintained the best way to learn a new tounge was to be in that country with no money.

Some big ticket attractions beckoned, but after a night in Grenada, I'd had enough of noise from my fellow humans so just moved on.

How stupid is your author? 

The new helmet that seemed fine in Australia just didn't sit right once I started touring in May - the chin piece was too prominent, the peak too high to be useful and the chin strap hurt my windpipe. 

I also missed having a neck roll and asked Kirsten to include an old favourite in a "care package" posted from home just before Mexico.  I insisted it would be sitting in the sportscar at home, yet she couldn't find it there.

Can you pick where this is going?

Yep, only last week I realised the neck roll had been scrunched up inside the helmet. Since April.  Black material in a black lining.  Old eyes. 

Costa Rica next.