|05-31-2013, 07:42 AM||#136|
Joined: Jan 2012
Location: Arab, Alabama
I just read your last installment on Enduroearth. As a fellow Bammer' - I just wanted to say I find your commentary at times to be crude, border-line offensive....AND F'N funny!
..... "toe-nail clippers and uni-brows"....
Keep up the good work Sir!!
|06-03-2013, 09:05 PM||#137|
Joined: Dec 2008
Location: Red stickered, in the wild, wild, west
a little google reveals a bit more about this master of, um, oh yeah, well cool fucking music for one thing, that's what. Diggin this rr.
|06-08-2013, 09:53 AM||#138|
2 scoops of stupid
Joined: Apr 2011
Location: Sacramento, CA
I don't know how I waited this long to watch them, but fucking love the videos! Well done and reeks of stinky swagger. When you posting again, we're waiting for Christmas here..
|06-13-2013, 08:11 PM||#140|
U lie&yo'breff stank
Joined: Feb 2007
Location: lower appalachia, Alabama
Riding South, chapter one: mexistan and central bunghole
Monday April 13th 2013
Las Lajas Honduras to Granada Nicaragua
Journal Entry 03:37
Loaded up the bike. Mild case of the splatters. Not sure what it’s from. All I had to eat yesterday was a few protein bars and a Coke. Must be the Coke. ..
I was talking to myself quite a lot yesterday while dodging oncoming traffic. I came up with this:
Six Ways to Identify a Fucked-Up Country:
1. There is a constant feeling that a Dark Force is watching your every move; waiting for you to make a mistake. If you do not arrive at a safe zone soon after dark you will be robbed at gun point, knifed in the stomach then left to die naked on the side of the road where dogs and famished horses will fight over your entrails.
2. There are more llantera than there are cars
3. Every public transportation vehicle comes equipped with a deep water-crossing snorkel kit.
4. The potholes are can become so large that they will swallow a passenger bus tire, two men and a 2x4.
5. The two highest paying jobs are : 1. Narco and 2. Police officer (who is paid by the narcos)
6. “Why does everyone carry a shotgun around here?”
7. The smile has become a lost tradition
After summoning the gate keeper to release me from Casa de Gas Fumes I hit the road around 05:00. Dark, and its fucking freezing. Mountain roads in the dark. I pass two, unmanned military or police checkpoints with sand bags piled in the center and sides of the road. Guess inspections only happen from 09:00-17:00?
I stop at a drive through “Super Mini”. There is an extremely attractive woman working here; she is wearing black, tight fitting clothing. “Mmmmm naked. Me want” rattles around inside of my skull. There is something about the shape of her body that I find interesting; her neck has a vein that is pulsing. I notice a guy walking around with a 12 gauge shotgun which is pretty common in Honduras. There is a considerable amount of random people walking around with guns in this country. Personally I like the idea of being able to go shopping while carrying a shotgun (why can’t we do this in the USA? I thought we were the land of the free and the home of the brave? … oh yea, all the faggots, metro-sexual vegans and in-bred, blue-gummed baby factories have pretty well erased that out of our constitution). Fuck it, anyways, hombre with the shotty poses for a picture, I buy a can of Vienna Sausages and some OJ then hit the road towards Tegucigalpa. “why is it so cold here?”
Hombre con Shotty
Breakfast of Champions: OJ and Vienna Sausages. The OJ was the best I’ve ever tasted. It nearly brought me to my knees. The girl at the counter started laughing at the noises I made while drinking it.
Just outside of Tegucigalpa are huge, sweeping multiple lane mountain roads that run through high elevation pine forests. Its beautiful. I think I’m hauling ass coming out of a turn when a white 4 door pickup truck passes me doing over 100mph. As the truck gets to be around thirty yards ahead of me his engine lets loose. HUGE, thick, white clouds of smoke explode from every crack in the car. “ooo damn that sucks”.
Tegucigalpa is the capitol of Honduras. Think dense population, over urbanization, poverty and over-congestion. The city’s infrastructure has fought a losing battle and any attempt the government makes to revive it spawns mass chaos. That being said, Tegucigalpa was a great experience and I had a blast riding through here.
I hit the city just in time for the morning rush hour. Motorbikes hauling ass (dodging potholes), their riders jamming themselves into any tiny gap that they can or cannot fit through; cars doing the same (while dodging potholes) then throw in a few random bicycles (dodging potholes) and a few fucking idiots running around it the middle of this chasing their children who are in turn chasing dogs and you’ve pretty much got the picture.
Instantly I have to adjust my riding mentality. “This shit is fucking crazy. Adapt or die. Darwin was trying to kill me.” I turn down a road that is being “worked on”. The air is filled with dust and from what I can tell it had been two separate, two-lane… one-way streets that had been directed head-on into each other… then in the middle of the cluster jam there is an under-construction dirt road that everyone is converging upon which will take us up the side of a mountain. “I can’t believe these cars are actually moving!”.
Somehow, everyone just keeps going forward. It’s absolutely amazing how this traffic flows. In America there would be people starving to death in their cars by now. If you try to drive a car or ride a motorcycle like we do in America, here in Tegucigalpa you will die.. but not by starvation.
Every Honduran road-goer is in it to win it. In other words “the race is on”. Mirrors are useless. Fuck the blinkers. The objective is to pass everyone, don’t put the brakes on, pass on the shoulder, pass on the sidewalk, split lanes “don’t panic… be like water”. This is how every country should be. Just full-power go-god-damn-it, get the hell out of the way or be stampeded off to the side into an oily mess.
Border Crossing: Honduras/Nicaragua “The Hands”
I arrived at Los Manos early, around 08:00 to exit Honduras and enter Nicaragua. I’ve been trying to do the border crossings early in the day for three reasons: 1. there seems to be less “immigrating” in the early mornings 2. I’m usually in a better mood in the morning time and 3. It’s not so fucking hot.
eight things that usually happen, need to happen or are otherwise nice to know about crossing borders in Central America.. while traveling alone on a motorcycle.
1. A tramitador (“helper guy”) will likely yell at you to park in a certain location. Just park next to the officer at the gate. Ignore the mob of tramitadores.
2. People will try to hand you things. Don’t take the things they hand you. Find a money changer. Exchange your money.
3. Look for a building labeled “aduana”. Here immigration will cancel the visa in your passport for the country you are leaving (you will likely need to go make copies of everything here)
4. Have them direct you to their customs section. This is where they will cancel the import permit for your bike
5. Go to the new country’s aduana. Give them your passport, license, title or registration for your bike so that they will know that you need to go to customs next.
6. Immigration will stamp your passport then tell you to go to customs. This is where you will import your bike into the next country. It can take a while.
7. Sometimes the immigration or customs officials will give you something to be signed by a police officer. Most of the time the officer is nowhere to be found.
8. At the end of this you will (hopefully) obtain an import permit for your motorcycle. You will need to show this to the guard at the gate as you enter the new country.
Honduras/Nicaraguan early morning border crossing
customs officials. The lady inspected the VIN on my bike then we had to track down the officer to sign off on the paper work (he was out wandering around somewhere).
customs and immigration… and the magical copy machine room
Honduras Nicaragua border. Dealing with customs officials. I can’t remember if I am importing or exporting the bike here.
After every border crossing I’m always filled with a sense of accomplishment. I feel refreshed emotionally. Everything seems new again, like turning a page or waking up in a new day. At these moments everything is positive, points align easily and I feel extremely lucky to be who I am.
Enthusiastic curiosity is what fuels the desire to travel, experience new environments and to Honestly Know for one’s self how things really are. The further I go the more clearly I can see behind the veil that shades not only the secrets of the world but also the Window to my soul. I’ve learned a lot about myself over the years spent with my head trapped inside a helmet with only thoughts and a motorcycle to converse with. The funny thing is that even when I’m not riding, my head still seems to be trapped inside the helmet. I’m always daydreaming of the faraway places and adventures that lay waiting for me or worse; that I may never have. What an amazing life it would be to just ride forever..
Northern Nicaragua is mountainous, rugged, filled with sunshine and reminded me of parts California, southern Colorado and Utah. Small, thirsty trees with little grass; almost a desert… almost but not quite.. who am I kidding? Its Nicaragua, there is nothing else like it.
The bike was running was enjoying being flogged and I was enjoying flogging it. We were hauling the groceries with a smile. After San Isidro the roads become flat and the only entertainment I had was passing cars and watching the oil seep out of the filler cap located on top of the air box (on the Sertao the air box is where the gas tank usually is). I guess I had put too much oil in it “better too much than not enough”. It was covering the side of the “tank” at this point; “at least its clean oil and not black. If it runs low I’ll just put more in it”. “Must be that fancy shmancy Touratech locking oil filler / dipstick-a-ma-bob I installed before I shipped out. Was I supposed to use the stock O-ring? Fuck it.”
Northern Nicaragua near Dipilto
Window and I would ride through: Totogalpa, Yalaguina, Valle Ducuali, Condega, El Tular, Esteli, over Cero Tomabu, San Isidro, Sebaco, Tipitapa.. (yea I like that name too), Masaya and finally into Granada. Just South of Sebaco I stopped at an inviting looking restaurante called La Casa De Pradera (the prairie house) which was fitting because it was in fact, a house on the god damn prairie.
When I walked inside I was shocked. I immediately felt like I had arrived at a 5 star restaurant and was waaaay too filthy to be allowed inside this joint. White table cloths, tile floor, waiters dressed in black, pressed clothes. I’m greeted by a young man of maybe twenty years; I pull my shirt out to the sides, look down at it and then point at my clothing “It’s OK ? “ I ask. He smiles and nods then points at a table. The metal tips of my boots click and clack on the tile as I squeak my way over to it.
“Hmmm.. I’ll have the Lengua Empanizada please sir… and a Coke.. with french fries”.
Hit me with the Cow Tongue Sir
As I sat there munching on my four “tongues of cow” I realized how special the tongue of a cow is. I mean, think about it. A cow only has one tongue; it has plenty of meat and steaks and loins and even two eyes and two testicles… but only one tongue. Kings meat baby and I’ve got four of them on my plate bitches ! muuahahahaaa.
The tongue was excellent but the dipping sauce they brought out with it was repulsive. It was like an extremely fatty mayonnaise; fatty to the point of having a little greasy fat pond accumulating in it and smelling of the monkey-pit at the zoo. I gave the “troll lard” a shot and used a thick layer of it to cover my first cow tongue. The next three tongues of cow were to receive no lard of troll.
My Window at La Casa De Pradera
I arrived in Granada at 15:45, put gas in the bike and explored the old colonial city for a good hour on the bike. The architecture is beautiful here and most of the streets are cobblestone. As I was riding down a random street I crested a hill and was introduced to Volcan Mombacho; a huge dormant (hopefully) volcano that casts a shadow of doom down upon Granada (honestly it’s pretty spectacular). I had no idea that I would encounter a volcano today. Something I found interesting about Granada is that it was the first European city in mainland America.. Granada is also the world’s largest producer of toenail clippers and exporter of the unibrow gene. I also didn’t see any women worth sticking a dick in. The squat, man-ish, lower-back-hair gene really has gotten out of hand here; maybe UNICEF or the Red Cross can provide some assistance?
Located on La Calzada next to Hotel Granada is Iglesia Guadeloupe. It was constructed in 1624
The front tire rolled around town until I stumbled upon a nice looking place called Hotel Granada . They only had one room left (the mega-pimp room) and I got it. Not the cheapest room around town but it sure was nice. First thing I did was rinse my beard out in the sink, then rinse my shirt out. I put my wet shirt back on then headed straight to the bar to get twatted. My wife had made me get life insurance before I left so I had to quit smoking for a month before the exam in order to get the lower rate. I was craving a cigarette like a dried out whore craves the Astroglide. I was ready to smoke and drink ‘till I puked next to the toilet. Game on.
As I cracked open the first Tona cerveza I glanced over at the television and saw a marathon runner fall on his face. I started laughing then the station continued to replay it over and over again. Then I realized that there were showing pictures of a bomb blast. I asked the bar tender to turn the volume up. There had been a terrorist attack on the Boston Marathon… … aaaannnd so there was really nothing I could do about it so I just kept drinking beer and these really strong vodka flavored drinks that the bar tender kept slamming me with. You know you are in trouble when the bar tender laughs at the amount of vodka he is pouring in your cup.
Tona, Cerveza de Nicaragua
Tuesday April 16th 2013
Granada Nicaragua to San Jose Costa Rica
The bartender kicked my ass last night; it was difficult getting dressed this morning. When I walked out to the bike it was gone, as in: “not fucking there”.
My stomach dropped. I ran back inside the hotel looking for someone but it I guess it was too early for anyone to be around. As I squeaked and clicked back outside approaches me. I start rambling and ranting and inquiring about the whereabouts of my bike. He explains in Spanish that the bike was leaking too much gasoline, it was making a big stink and that the managers and guests were both worried about it and complaining about it. . so he had to move it.
After the explanation I stop freaking out and we begin to laugh about it. He had rolled the bike into a gated parking area on the far side of the building. Yep, nothing like a good ol’leaky gas tank to piss people off.
The air was cool but humid in the city. People were out walking around getting ready for the day. Shop-fronts were setting up for the day’s business. Kids were carrying books, walking to school in their uniforms and the produce vendors were .. vending. I enjoyed hearing the exhaust braap off of the cobblestone and down the tight alleyways. This bike is so loud; it was setting off car alarms and making me smile with every blip of the throttle.
Mosquitos and Windmills:
The section of road that runs between Lake Nicaragua and the Pacific Ocean was lined with huge, white windmills. People place windmills where there is wind. . duh. . and these were pretty damn large ones. The wind blasting off the Pacific Ocean was constant and strong, easily keeping the wind-blades spinning all day.
In this same area is where I began encountering enormous clouds of mosquitos; like plague from the bible shit. As I rode I could see the clouds hovering above the road before I splattered through them. The first few clouds were fun but after that the clouds became worse, then absolutely gross. The clouds were so thick that it became difficult to see out of my goggles because there were now layers of mosquitos splattered across the lens.
The bugs began filling up the chin-bar vent of my helmet then squishing themselves all over my nose, upper-lip and my neck. I was riding through guts and I could now smell the humid, bug entrails with every breath. I leaned over the front of my bike to take a look at my hand-guards and headlight; completely covered. Legs, boots, shirt.. completely covered in splat. A smile formed on my face… I have never been splattered by so many mosquitos in my life. Shit, I felt like I should win some sort of prize or at least get to glory-stand on some sort of podium surrounded by hot, Tecate-bikini-chicas for a few seconds.
Plague of Mosquitos
Penas Blancas, Nicaragua:
“This border scattered my marbles; mainly because of its layout and procedure. There is a mile long line of parked, ass-to-nose freight trucks leading up to the border. I skip to the front and park next to an important looking building. As I am coming to a stop, 3 guys begin trying to help me; they stick with me as I walk towards a gate and its keeper.
The guy at the gate was easy going. He started laughing at all of the mosquitos that were pasted in layers over my goggles, pants, shirt, headlight and hand-guards etc. I asked him “why?” he told “la playa” causes them to be there. Ok.
After showing him my papers he points in a direction and I go that way until I find a lady in a concrete booth. I rattle off something and she points in a different direction which leads me to what I hope is the aduana.
Guy approaches me saying “immigration, help with immigration”. “No thanks” . I don’t know where I’m supposed to go. I walk into a building and I cant make anything happen at one table so I go to another where they hand me some papers that need to be signed by a cop. . but no one knows where the damn cop went off to (seems like a reoccurring theme at these places).
I walk all around outside looking for this cop but he is nowhere to be found. Everyone I ask about the whereabouts of this mythical policeman first point out to me that I am covered in mosquitos (which I’m proud of) then points in the direction that they believe the cop to be. After visiting every “official looking” person in the area I receive information that the cop is on his lunch break.. I must wait a few minutes.
“(((what in the hell is going on here ? why is this place so friggin confusing and unorganized ?)) It seems like people are just wandering around; there are no signs and all of the border processing departments are spread out illogically. Why is it this way? Why is the customs official working on a folding table in between a tour company and a fucking preacher’s pulpit? .. and why are all of those backpacks and luggage bags outside setting on top of large wooden shelves? “
While in line to get my Nicaraguan visa canceled I meet a guy who has traveled with a friend from New York in a red Ford Transit van. Their original plan was to drive to Panama City. They had been robbed in Leon by two guys who he explained took him and his friend to a place to stay the night then they broke into his car and stole all of his money and documents. He had gone to the embassy and had a temporary passport made. He was experiencing a giant pain in the ass sorting out the import/export of his car (car’s docs were also stolen). His friend had said “fuck it I’m going home”. He was to the point of just abandoning his car and flying home. I told him that I had felt that way just a few days ago while having all of my tire problems. I tried to cheer him up and told him that he was almost done. Just one more country left, “don’t give up now, you are too close to the goal to quit now”.
I met this husband and wife duo that had shipped their bikes from Scotland to Argentina and were riding their way to Alaska. They told me that I was the first motorcycle traveler that they had seen in a long time. I thought it was pretty cool that we were all riding the same kind of bike (neither one of them noticed my bike was the same make as theirs until I told them). BMW G650GS Sertaos. They were carrying soooo much shit with them. No way in hell I will ever carry that much shit with me on a trip. You can see “the guy from New York’s” red Ford Transit van in the background.
the Scottish guy getting hassled by the tramitadores
Having paid up, exchanged my Cordobas for Colones I took all my important things to the Costa Rican side. There is a gate just after the fumigation area before entering the Costa Rican side of the border. Two guards checked my documents and allowed me to pass. I rode to the next gate where there was another guard. He walks up to me, looks over my bike and asks “ticket?”. I hand him all of my important things. He rummages through them and asks again “ ticket? “ I point at the pile of important things. He smiles and says “ok”. The gate is lifted and I ride into the land of Rich Coast. ..
more later as i get around to it
|06-14-2013, 04:06 AM||#143|
Joined: May 2011
Location: palm harbor, fla
... "don't drink whiskey and shave yourself w/your KA-BAR".... i gotta write that down and keep it in my wallet,...... or something......
|06-14-2013, 09:26 AM||#144|
Joined: Nov 2004
Location: In my natural state
Loving the RR, but seriously. A shot of some ugly pug with a shotgun and no pics of the hottie behind the counter? Get your priorities straight.
"Do or do not. There is no 'try.'"
|06-14-2013, 10:04 AM||#145|
U lie&yo'breff stank
Joined: Feb 2007
Location: lower appalachia, Alabama
... hmmm you have a good point there. thanks for the input
|06-14-2013, 10:06 AM||#146|
Joined: Jul 2004
Location: Concord, CA
I like the way you look at things. Beers and whiskey are on me Swampy when you come this way.
live2ridetahoe screwed with this post 06-14-2013 at 10:14 AM
|06-14-2013, 02:40 PM||#147|
U lie&yo'breff stank
Joined: Feb 2007
Location: lower appalachia, Alabama
Bring on the bourbon
thanks for the invitation man.
Come ride with us in bama for a few days . You'll have a good time and i promis we will only tie you to the tree for a few hours every night ;)
|06-14-2013, 10:34 PM||#148|
Joined: Jul 2004
Location: Concord, CA
Tie me to a tree? That is nice of you to offer.
My Grandpa used to say that when he used to drink, he'd have to grab onto the grass to keep from fallin' off of the earth.
I'm guessing that is what you meant?
|06-19-2013, 04:06 AM||#150|
Joined: Jan 2007
Location: Annapolis MD
this ride report brings me a smile when i open it
and [quote] The funny thing is that even when I’m not riding, my head still seems to be trapped inside the helmet. I’m always daydreaming of the faraway places and adventures that lay waiting for me or worse; that I may never have. What an amazing life it would be to just ride forever..
very well said - something that applies to me as well
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