By the time we had drifted south to the Guatemalan border with El Salvador the change from North America to Central America was complete. While some southern states are traditionally considered Central American, Mexico for the most part feels North American. Guatemala does not and, by the time we crossed into El Salvador, the change was obvious. We were reminded, if any reminder was needed, that the borders from here south would be a test of patience and determination for, in some things, Central America's reputation is deserved.

El Salvador is the second smallest of the Central American countries (Belize gets the prize) none of which are, by any measure, large. It is the sort of place where crass Australians joke about sheep stations (ranches) in the Northern Territory which are larger. Apart from extraordinarily fertile volcanic soil, it has few resources. Its greatest income (traditionally coffee) is now remittances from the Salvadorian diaspora.

El Salvador has had a troubled history from the get-go. The original inhabitants are missing from the modern gene pool to a greater extent than elsewhere because they were dispossessed of their land and killed in large numbers. There was, inevitably, a lopsided distribution of national wealth with the government, the military and the landed elite doing well and a large, restless, angry underclass missing out. Dissent was suppressed with great brutality. The military eventually took power sparking a long and bloody civil war which is a proven way to mitigate against the development of any strong national cohesion. The US backed the junta in response to the Soviet Union's support for the rebels and El Salvador became a hot ember in the Cold War. The collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991, and a subsequent peace agreement in 1992, saw the end of fighting but in the years since the country has struggled to mend its wounds.

Our Salvadorian friends are open and candid about the problems that remain. While they could never be described as joyously optimistic, they love El Salvador and its people and are in for the long haul. For us, this made El Salvador a delight. We often say to others, “you should go there, the people would be pleased to see you”, and the Salvadorians did, without exception, seem pleased to see us. We were treated kindly by everyone from the service station attendants and hotel staff to the harassed customs officials at the border. Perhaps it is something drawn from the long struggle; an ability to reconcile difference and a need to connect.

South from El Salvador lie two of the most notorious border crossings in Central America and, therefore, anywhere: the El Salvador to Honduras crossing and the Honduras to Nicaragua crossing. Long experience has taught us to allow a full day for border crossings, to arrive early, bring food and drink, dozens of photocopies of documents and an endless supply of patience. “It is just a day out of your life” we say. Since we only planned to transit through Honduras, the thought of two wasted border days close together seemed unbearable. So, in a moment of madness, we decided to make an attempt to cross into Honduras, ride across the country and exit into Nicaragua in a single day. For this stupidity I can only offer the streakers defence: it seemed like a good idea at the time. To compound the difficulty of this trick completed without a safety net, we chose a busy Saturday with the weather a hot and clear 30°C.

It is hard to describe the crush of sweaty chaos at these borders. No amount of research will prepare you for the apparent confusion and disorganisation and your best resources are limitless patience, an easy smile and a ready sense of humour. This should not be read as a complaint about the officials in these places. Everyone we dealt with did their job well and often with considerable sympathy to our sweaty situation. They were, however, prisoners of hopelessly inefficient systems which require dozens of document photocopies and an endless filling out of forms.

Two hours and forty five minutes (a fair time) got us through into Honduras in good order and we made excellent speed across the “pothole alley” that is the Pan American Highway south which got us to the frontier with Nicaragua by mid afternoon. It was here that things just got miserable. The temperature was soaring. In the customs and immigration building a crush of sweaty humanity pressed towards the service windows calculating the minutes until they could hand their documents to the harassed clerk on the other side of the glass. We spent three hours, mainly holding our place in line, before we finally had our documents checked one last time at the exit gate and rode into Nicaragua in the last minutes of daylight.

Of course, Rule One in Central America is never ride at night, but if you are stuck on a border at dusk, Rule One doesn't apply. We rode south trying to make good time, all the time staring into the night looking for danger. We dodged obstacles all the way. Dogs, pedestrians, pedalo food carts and mopeds with no lights were common. Trucks with no tail lights appeared out of the blackness. Oncoming traffic had one light, no lights, lights pointing in strange directions or a battery of driving lights which they refused to dim. Oh, and did I mention the pot holes? They appeared in the pool of light a few metres before the bike and you needed a gunfighter's reflexes to avoid a crunching hit to the suspension. It took two hours to get to the nearest town and find a hotel. We were dehydrated and exhausted, but quietly proud after a tough but successful day.

Our years on the road have taught us some good life lessons and we put one of these into practice that night. We showered and changed into our best (only) clothes then wandered out to celebrate with a steak dinner. We always celebrate our small victories and spend a little time enjoying our modest successes.