Trans Americas 2009 - The Blog

Unusually, I've decided to combine 2 days blog entries into a single post, for reasons that will become obvious later... and this is going to be a long one, so grab a cup of tea and a few biscuits and take the phone off the hook...

Thursday saw us wake early (5am) in order to get packed and breakfasted before the off at 6.28am (Kevin realising that every time he says “six firty” in his east-end accent, he gets the mickey taken). Breakfast includes a boiled egg, which makes a change and was delicious, but at that time in the morning I can't stomach a lot of food, so go lightly on the bread and jam. Then it's convoy time again, as we roll once more down the cobbled streets of Antigua Guatemala, causing a stir amongst the locals that are busy going about preparing for their day, and out onto the open road. The first major challenge is to negotiate our way onto the ring-road round Guatemala City, and with the traffic already heavy, Gerald's bike starts to overheat, so we all cram ourselves onto the pavement at a junction, 16 big bikes with panniers jostling for space so we can investigate the problem. With some more oil added things improve, and we weave our way back into the rush-hour traffic, choking on bus fumes (emissions regulations don't seem to have reached Guatemala yet), trying to keep an eye on where Kevin is leading us. We make our way slowly towards the centre, before veering off towards the “periferico” and into what looks like a part-industrial suburb, with the road narrowing and a complex one-way system taking us onto a road that looks like it goes right into the centre of the city... but then it twists and turns and pops out on an elevated section that looks like a ring road, but is very busy, then Kevin stops mid-flow next to a police car and has a quick chat before diverting us off on the slip-road to his right. Now we start to clear the city, the traffic thinning a little, and we pass a lot of men working on a derelict house – only it's not derelict, it's been demolished by a truck that's still inside, and the men are trying to make the electricity feed safe, but we can't tell if anyone is still inside the rubble, as we've to concentrate on the road ourselves. Shortly we pull up into a petrol station to re-group and take a break.

The next section is much quicker, but we still have to cover 150 miles before the border, so it takes us until noon to get there. When we arrive, it's swelteringly hot, but not too humid so it's bearable... I'm going to be leaving the group for a couple of days as I want to head over to La Esperanza to meet someone who can guide me up to the school I helped build in 2006, when I was here with some colleagues from work. That means I've a further 4 hours riding to do once cleared, whilst the group is heading just 7 miles down the road, so I'm first in the queue with Kevin and Julia as we suss out the process... first, clearing ourselves out of Guatemala, getting our passports stamped, then booking ourselves into Honduras at the window next door, with no passport stamp (seems the Guatemala entry stamp is sufficient) but with a receipt for the $3 charge. Then off to the vehicle importation office to get the bikes stamped out of Guatemala, with a minor panic as I couldn't locate the entry receipt, which I knew I'd put safely in my document folder, but had folded and was looking for it as a full-size document. Finally, we walked over to the office to book the bikes into Honduras and the official started the bidding at $35 per bike permit, before renegotiating on $30, then asked for 2 copies of our passport page and the V5. Luckily I had these, and so was able to be part of the first 6 he wanted to process. We brought the bikes up to the office ready for inspection as he slowly processed the paperwork, then finally he emerged and started checking the VIN numbers, before giving us the official importation document, which I double-checked and was then ready to go...





As the rest of the group still needed to be processed, I said my farewells and rode off under the barrier and into Honduras. The scenery doesn't drastically change on crossing the border, the land still sculpted into sharp hills causing the road to rise and fall constantly as it twists its way round and up and over the hills, the tarmac generally good but with patches of gravel and huge pot-holes to catch the unwary or speeding biker. I keep my pace steady, determined to enjoy the ride as well as get to my destination before dark. The people have changed, though. No more bright colours of traditional clothing, them being dressed in more western attire, lots of red tee-shirts and jeans. But they are smiling and happy and waving, the sight of a lone hombre on a big motorcycle obviously not part of their daily lives.

I follow the route-notes the group will be using when they leave Copan the day after tomorrow, but keep stopping to check my map as I can't afford to get lost. Soon I pick up the road to Santa Rosa de Copan and know I'm heading the right way, then get stopped at a police checkpoint. The guy wanders over and chats to me in Spanish, which I can't hear because I have my earplugs in, and couldn't understand even if I hadn't... So I remove my helmet and plugs and give him a smile, shake his hand and look dumb. He asks for my documents, so I get off the bike and pull out my passport, which he studies intently, before handing it back, and then asks how much my bike costs. I understood that alright, so I smile and say $5,000 because it is very old (it's worth about $10,000 and isn't that old, but out here that's a small fortune). He smiles again, and points at my Mexican flag rolled up behind my seat and my Guatemala flag still attached to my windshield, and I reply that I want a Honduran one next... he laughs and that's it, I'm free to go.

I find the next turn towards Gracias just as my bike reaches 2 significant milestones – the odometer passes the 35,000 mile mark and the sat-nav (which is more accurate) records the trip mileage since leaving Anchorage pass the 10,000 mile marker... still 15,000 miles or so to go, though! Then through the village of San Juan before starting the final section of dirt road over the mountains to La Esperanza. I've been making good time, having not stopped for lunch, and start to look forward to getting there before dark and heading out in search of my old watering hole.

Then, as I continue up a steep hill, the bike cuts out without warning. I'm confused, the sudden loss of power a big shock, but I quickly put on the brakes and get both feet down, then pull in the clutch and thumb the starter. The bike turns over but doesn't fire up. I try again. Same thing. Ok, it's still hot and now I'm sweating, so I put the bike on the stand and remove my helmet and try again. No joy. I check the position of the kill-switch, turn the ignition off and on, check the side-stand cut-out switch and try again. Nothing. Damn. Now I have a real problem. I'm in the middle of nowhere, on a dirt road through a mountainous forest, and I've very little water, haven't eaten all day, and have a bike that won't start. But I'm here, and I'm ok, so it's just a problem that needs fixing, that's all. Jacket off, tools out, and I start working through possible causes. Fuses – all ok. Fuel – tank still over half full (I filled up just after crossing the border, about 120 miles back). Spark plugs – I remove one and check it – it looks dry and brown, so I check for a spark and there is one. Now, if the bike is not firing and the plugs are sparking but dry, that suggests a fuel supply problem. But I'm not in a position to investigate it here, and my thoughts are of an electronic or computer malfunction (I can here the fuel pump prime itself when I switch the ignition on). I stop a bus and pick-up going down the hill and enquire about getting the bike to La Esperanza, but they're heading the wrong way and short on gas (and it's “20 Km” to La Esperanza from where I am). They help me move the bike to the opposite side of the road, where there is some flatter ground and it's safer, and then leave. I start to consider my options, it's already 5pm and will be getting dark soon. I try the bike again, no joy. I check the side-stand switch again, then correct myself as this is irrelevant if the bike is in nuetral, but I'm running out of options. A family in a 4x4 stop going up the hill and we talk, me in English, them in Spanish. I think I make myself understood, asking them if they can ask someone to come and help me recover the bike to La Esperanza. They leave and I'm alone again.

Then it starts to go dark – the sky starting to fill with stars and a large lightning storm filling the northern horizon with flashes of white and yellow, illuminating the trees for a split second before darkness falls again. There are howls in the distance from wild dogs and the forest is coming alive with the sounds of crickets, and all the time it's getting darker. I run through my options again. I've no tent, but it's not raining (although there is a storm nearby and this is the rainy season). I've no food, save for a few toffees, and little water. It's too far to La Esperanza to walk, and the last town I passed was San Juan, and that's also too far to walk. Besides, I don't want to abandon my bike with all my belongings in the panniers... So I settle in for the night, lying on the ground with my head on my rucksack, looking up at the stars and watching the lightning storm...





A short while later I hear a strange noise, and stand up to get a better look. I can't see a damn thing, but hear what sounds like a horse's hooves walking up the hill. Then I see it, there in the shadows, a white horse walking up the hill and past me... riderless and all alone, then he's gone and the sounds of the forest return... am I hallucinating? No, I saw a white horse by the roadside a few miles before the bike stopped. I contemplate chasing after him and riding him to La Esperanza but as I can't ride a horse and it's dark, I decide that's not a good idea...

I settle down again, reasoning that as the couple I asked to get help left at 6pm, and it's now 8.30pm, that no-one is coming. I start to snooze and may even have fallen asleep for a while, when I hear a vehicle approach (2 others have passed, both going downhill and neither stopping). It's the family returning. They stop and get out, and we have another unintelligible conversation. I ask if they'll take me to La Esperanza and they reply San Juan, then they phone a friend who speaks a little English and I explain the predicament, and he explains they will take me to a hotel in San Juan. They want me to follow the car on my bike (it's downhill for part of the way) but I explain that with no engine, there's no brakes (and besides, riding on rough ground with no engine would be suicidal). So I decide to abandon the bike, grab my overnight bag and documents from the bike and jump in their 4x4, squashed between mom and dad whilst the son (who looks about 15) and dad's mate sit up front... the son driving... he does a good job, too, avoiding the bigger potholes and negotiating carefully over the little wooden bridges that didn't look strong enough to support my bike, never mind the 4x4. When we arrive at the outskirts of San Juan about half an hour later, he stops and dad and son exchange places... there'd been some chat in the car which sounded like “we'd better swap or the police will see” and something about drink driving, but I didn't care. Then they pulled up outside a building and told me it was a hotel, so off I went to investigate, dad coming with me, and they had a room... so I got my stuff, gave the family some money for their trouble, thanked them as much as I could, and went to my room... a flea-pit of a hotel with a small bed and a dirty shower, but at least I was out of the forest and could plan my next move... oh, and it had started to rain as I checked in, too....

I showered and tried to sleep, my mind in overdrive running over the possible causes of the bike's problem, and working out a plan. I came up with one, to get a taxi in the morning to La Esperanza to make my meeting with Telma, and to ask her to help me get the bike there, then I could try and fix it, and arrange with Kevin & Jeff for the van to pick it up if not. A plan formulated, I slept a little, waking at 1.30am and then falling asleep proper until 5am, when I was wide awake again. I showered (think I may have got more dirty rather than any cleaner, but I needed to feel awake) and went outside. San Juan had nothing but a corner shop and the hotel I was in. So I asked the woman running the place if I could get a taxi (a phrase that for once was in my phrase book!) and she told me there was a bus that would be here shortly, and would I like a coffee whilst I waited (in Spanish, of course). I said yes, and brought my stuff from the room, and drank a sweet black coffee and waited. Ten minutes later an old American school bus, still resplendent in yellow (although having seen many better days) pulled up, honking its horn and I offered to pay for my coffee (she refused) and went and got on the bus. For the princely sum of 25 limpera (fortunately I'd changed some money at the border), or £1.50, it would take me to La Esperanza. The bus was mostly empty, just a few local Hondurans, the men's faces wrinkled and mahogany coloured under their cowboy hats, the women with faces that looked like they'd lived a thousand lifetimes, all of them hard, the young girl opposite with the wide-eyes of youth and a beautiful smile. I stared out of the window as we climbed the dirt road I'd ridden the day before, the early morning light making the hills seem greener, the dotted hamlets of houses painted bright colours shining in the sun. Eventually we passed the spot where my bike was abandoned, the sight of it causing a stir on the bus, the locals murmuring “moto” and gabbling excitedly in Spanish... but at least it was there, and I was on my way to try and get it recovered...





I checked my watch, keen to know just how far from La Esperanza the bike was, and how long it might take to get it out of the forest. When the bus finally pulled off the dirt road and into the muddy pot-holed streets of La Esperanza, it had been 50 minutes. About 20 miles...

I got off the bus and wandered around trying to get my bearings and realising that I didn't recognise La Esperanza at all. A policeman stopped me and asked me where I was going, again in Spanish, and I said Hotel Mina and he said taxi, so I jumped in one (that already had a passenger, but she didn't seem to care) and he took me to the hotel, right in the centre of town and on a road of wet mud. But it looked OK, much better than the one in San Juan, and I tried to explain about my booking for 2 nights, gave up, and asked for a room for the night. Despite it still only being 7.40am, they let me into a room and I was able to shower and change, and head out to try and get my bearings. I didn't, but I did find an Internet cafe where I could use the phone and called Kevin to alert him to my problem, saying I would try to get the bike to La Esperanza, but might need the van to pick me up. Then back to the hotel to wait for Telma...

Just before 9am, she arrived with her husband in an old Nissan pick-up, and I explained the problem as best I could, asking if she could help me get my bike to the hotel. She phoned Elisa (my English-speaking contact that arranged everything when we came to build the school) and I chatted to her and explained the problem, and she said that Telma and her husband would go with me to pick the bike up in their pick-up. I explained the bike is heavy (approaching 350Kg) and she said they'd get some local help. So off we set, picking up 3 young lads en-route out of town, then onto the dirt road, slowly bouncing around in the potholes for an eternity before we got to the bike. We pushed the bike onto a raised bit of ground and then backed up the pick-up, tailgate down until it was close to the hillock and then pushed the bike into the back. Sometime during this I pulled a muscle in my leg (think it was as we pushed the bike onto the hill, with me downhill and the bike almost falling on top of me as it sank into a soft patch), but I wasn't concerned, we were on our way out of the forest with the bike strapped in the back, and 4 of us in there with it to ensure it didn't fall over.








Stood in the back holding the bike hard against the side-stand on left-handers and holding it back to stop it tipping over on right-handers, we slowly made our way up the hill and past villages, the kids smiling and waving as we passed, the adults looking puzzled at the sight of a big motorcycle in the back of the truck. At least I got to see Honduras as I remembered it, the hills full of trees with little houses dotted here and there, although the school I came to see is the opposite side of town. Finally, after an hour, we emerged from the dirt and into La Esperanza, Telma's husband taking us first to a motorcycle mechanic who came out and had a listen, and then when I said I needed to get the bike to the hotel in case we couldn't get it going, volunteered to come by the hotel later and take a look. So we drove on to the hotel and unloaded the bike, first backing the pick-up against a raised footway outside some rooms, then pushing the bike down the footway to where the curb was low enough for it to be manoeuvred into the car park and placed on centre stand outside my room... part one of the plan successfully executed... I paid the lads for their help (too much, said Telma, but 20 limpera is about a pound!) and then went to the back to get some money for Telma and her husband, the cost of recovery 800 limpera or about £40 – as they've both recently been made redundant, I hope it helps...

I then spoke to Elisa again on Telma's phone, to ask about what to do with the money I'd been generously given by the trans-am group. When I mentioned what I was doing at the pre-border briefing yesterday, they dipped their hands in their pockets and between the 22 of us we raised $880. I won't embarrass anyone by mentioning who gave what, but one very generous soul donated $500. This will all go to good causes in the area (and in particular the school I'd come to see but sadly won't be able to this time), and so I arranged with Elisa for the money to get to her via Telma, and for her to email me with details of what it gets used for.

When Telma and her hubby had gone, I went back to the hotel and set to work stripping the bike in the car park. Tank off, I could find no loose connections or other obvious signs of the cause, so started to look for the fuel filter, which my over-night mental investigations had concluded was the cause. But could I find it? No. I had a spare, part of the service kit I'd brought from the UK, so I knew what I was looking for, but it was nowhere to be seen, even after I'd removed everything I could. Damn. So I re-assembled the bike and tried the starter once more, out of pure optimism rather than any sense I might have corrected the problem.... and it didn't start.

Just then the mechanic turned up, and we ran through my investigations, showing him the spark plugs and he checked for a spark just as I'd done in the forest. He then said it was a fuel supply problem, 99% likely to be the fuel filter. With my diagnosis confirmed, the hunt was on for the elusive filter, and I decided to go to the Internet cafe and try to find out. The mechanic said he'd call back later to see how I was getting on, and so we parted and I went back to the Internet cafe. I called Kevin again but couldn't get his number, so left a message with Jeff's voicemail, then rang Tracy to explain what was going on whilst surfing the web to find where BMW have hidden the fuel filter. Tracy didn't sound concerned (she knows I'm ok, and solving problems is what I do), but was obviously worried that this problem may curtail my adventure (something I was deliberately trying to avoid thinking about). When I'd done with my calls and surfing, I'd discovered that the fuel filter lives in the fuel tank...

So, I bought a bucket to catch the petrol in and went back to the hotel, removed the tank and realised I didn't have an 8mm spanner to undo the plate where all the fittings attach, so had to go back out to find a shop, which I did, and bought both an 8mm and 9mm spanners just in case, then back to the hotel. I stripped the tank down, taking the float, pump and filter assembly out, and spilling petrol everywhere (I did manage to get some in the bucket). When I went to remove the filter, I noticed one of the hoses didn't seem to be properly attached (which may well have been the cause of the problem), so made doubly sure that things were on properly when fitting the new one. Then I reassembled the tank fittings, a fiddly job involving a couple of awkward breather hoses and a reluctant to-seal rubber seal... but I soon had it back together again, and refitted to the bike, connecting up the fuel pipes and double-checking everything, before taking a very deep breath and thumbing the starter...

And...

Nothing...

Same as before, but with a slightly different sound...

Try again...

And it...

FIRED UP!!

I resisted the temptation to pull my shirt over my head and run around the car park whooping with joy (allowing myself a simple “yes!”) as the bike settled into a smooth burble and my legs went all weak (was it the pulled muscle or the tension flowing away?). My bike lives again!!

I put my tools away calmly, then showered and put on my bike gear, then headed out into town for a test-ride, the bike feeling just great and people stopping and staring at this smiling hombre stood up riding his big bike through the muddy streets of this little town. I found my way to the mechanic's garage and sat outside, the bike idling quietly until he appeared at the gates, his grin as wide as mine...





We shook hands, and I told him about the filter, and thanked him for his help and words of encouragement (in good English, too). He smiled again, happy that our shared diagnosis had been correct, then made a note of my website before waving me off...

Back at the hotel and a couple of American women shouted “oh, I see you got it running, then!” to which I replied “and a good job, too, it's got to get me to Argentina”. We had a brief chat about where I had been and what I was doing, one of the women revealing her husband works in Prudhoe Bay... small world...

Dinner that evening was a steak in mushroom sauce, served on a sizzling platter and accompanied by chips and a couple of bottles of Port Royal (the local beer) and average food has rarely tasted as sweet, or beer as refreshing...

Whoever it was that said that it's life's downs that make the ups seem special was absolutely spot-on...