When I was in college I remember hearing, ‘it’s not your grades it’s who you know!’. And thinking to myself, what the fuck does that mean? Does this golden rule suggest I leech onto the richest classmate I can find and hope his dad hooks it up with a great job? Sounded easy enough but not exactly my cup of tea.
Through out my working years I remember hearing similar advice, expand your network for your next job! After experiencing both, I can confidently state that networking events are worse than bed bugs.
It’s only recently I think, I might, know what the ‘advice’ suggests. I think, it is a common passion and kinship between people who have an instant connection. The want to help, that in no way feels like an obligation, someone who’s shoes you’ve worn or have a desire to wear.
No one reaallllly wants to help you get a job, that’s why recruiting is a huge self sustaining industry. But passion is contagious and the wave of emotion is something people want to be swept away in.
I have experienced more times than I can count or remember, friends and strangers alike offering the olive branch of their time, resources, and advice to help me along my journey. And while none have expressed their reasons for helping, the look in their eyes and the curve of their smile while saying goodbye tells me all I need to know.
Mazunte was a nice little beach town down in Mexico. Accommodation was cheap and maybe for the first time a little too cheap. Those hanging beds by the beach look great on instagram but provide the worst night sleep imaginable. Back at Alberto’s garage I met an expat who owned a hotel on a secluded beach and told me to call him if I wanted a nice place to stay. After 3 nights of no sleep I decided to take him up on his offer.
While I was eating breakfast a guy grabbed my attention and asked if I was the other biker. He was a Chilean heading north on a GS and had just left the place I was heading. He had raving reviews and I commented how strange for our paths to cross this way.
When you see another bike in the hostel parking lot you instantly start to play “who’s bike?” I hadn’t seen his yet but he had guess correctly on his first try. We spent the morning swapping stories and advice.
He had come down the 190 where those European cyclists were murdered and told me how to deal with the extortion at the roadblocks. I shared some information about the trails of Colorado and I told him about breakfast burritos. Same Same but Different.
I am so glad I made my way to this resort, my friend from Alberto’s garage really hooked it up. Little cabana right on the beach with a clear view of the ocean. There was no leaving for food and the chef came by in the afternoon asking which menu I preferred for dinner. I think I’ll travel that way for my next trip. The following morning feeling rested, I left for a long ride to the final state of Mexico.
San Cristobal de Casa is the last place in Mexico anyone really visits. It’s a nice little town but didn’t find it all that impressive compared to the others I had visited. After a couple of days I was eager to get back on the road.
The last stop in Mexico would be Comitan a tiny town known for waterfalls about 2 hours from San Cristobal and less than an hour from the Guatemala border.
It has been pretty smooth sailing in Mexico and didn’t expect anything noteworthy for the rest of my time. Enter the roadblocks. I intentionally did not venture to the Yucatan because I didn’t want to cross the group blocking the roads.
While there aren’t many details of why those cyclists were murdered people say these guys were involved in some way but no one really knows in what way. To my understanding this group is fighting to overthrow the government. It’s made up of a bunch of really pissed off country folk who don’t have much to lose. They basically just take an important road in the middle of nowhere and extort the drivers until the cops come and fight them. They do not want to be photographed and will not let you pass until you pay.
Wasn’t something I was hoping to see and actively avoided it. On the road to Comitan the traffic suddenly stopped after a little town and from the back of the line of 100 cars I figure it’s another police stop. So I turn on my GoPro in hopes to finally film one, only to realize my memory card had already been filled.
Once reaching the front of the line I realized this was not a police roadblock, but exactly what I was afraid of. Eighty glassy eyed guys holding spiked bats and machetes covered each entry and exit point in every direction. There was no turning around and the only way out was blocked by a spiked log controlled by a rope pulled back and forth by a team of vigilantes.
With my iPhone mounted on my handle bars, GoPro stuck to my helmet, and tank bag full of valuables, I entered the line behind the first car and waited for my turn. I watched as the gang surrounded the car and spoke to the driver. I watched guys waiting in the hills above and in the ditches below the road.
After a brief exchange with the driver the log is quickly slid out of the way and the car passes. I slowly inch forward and watch the log pulled behind the car blocking any chance of escape.
One of the protestors is holding a hand written sign to my left. Next to him a younger guy runs from the back of the pack yelling and pointing at my GoPro. Remembering what my Chilean friend told me I knew they didn’t want to be photographed. The crowd starts to get agitated and I have now caught everyones attention.
I yell and point to the camera “muerto muerto!!” While waving my hands in an attempt to tell them it was not recording and dead. A group of guys with machetes surround and flank my right and I look in my mirror to confirm I am surrounded. As soon as it happened I am overwhelmed on where to focus.
The leader says something to me and at first I try to play dumb “lo siento espanol pequito”. I know what they want but I don’t know how much. I also have enough electronics and valuables within reach of their hands or machetes to more than cover any price they ask.
Not buying it, the leader smiles and starts to read the well wishes written on my tank from others I have crossed thus far in my journey. I mean them no harm but I understood in that moment that I didn’t have a choice but to comply. I could understood mob mentality and how quickly things could incinerate. I understood how it could go from road block bribe to beheaded in a ditch within a small misunderstanding.
He looks back at me and says “pesos amigo!” while rubbing his fingers. I ask “cuando?” And while looking at his amigos lets out a sly “cien”. As if to test how much he could squeeze me. From what I was told the going rate was about 50 so while 100 is double, but it’s about $5 at the current exchange rate.
I take off my glove and reach into my tank bag for my wallet. Using my map to cover my wallet I slide out a single 100 Peso note and hand it over. As soon as it was in his hand he raised his arms and like Moses the Hellraiser log and his cronies parted clearing my path.
The next few days were spent hoping around national parks around the state of Chiapas. Parks full of enormous waterfalls and crystal clear lakes filled my final days of Mexico. Parks full of beauty and lacking any sort of tourism. An area of the world I didn’t know existed.
I truly enjoyed Mexico. I am not sure there is anywhere else in the world where you can drive from the top of an 8000’ peak to sea level and back in a matter of hours. Parts of Mexico reminded me of Colorado, others of Cambodia, and others of some desert I haven’t seen yet.
Each town surprised me from the little pueblos to the large old colonial towns. I saw parts of Mexico where tourism hasn’t reached yet and others where it was in full swing. I met the locals and finally learned how the stop signs worked on my last day. I met families separated by immigration reform and deported rehabilitated prisoners. I fielded questions about America and listened to the disinterest of immigrating due to their strong families and lack of work-life balance in the states.
It’s an awesome country and contrary to what I heard on the news and was told by others it wasn’t dangerous. Go looking for it and I can assure you, you will find it but it’s not looking for you. Allies in these countries have been the people and not the police or those who become corrupt with authority.
I felt parallels to the people of India in their awareness about their international perception. They don’t like it because it’s not accurate of the majority and not accurate portrayal of their families.
While I spent a month in Mexico I’ll be honest in reflection and admit I let fear dictate a large portion of my time. I was a bystander and didn’t take an active role in my environment. Language barriers are difficult to overcome but I could have made more of an effort. I am not saying I should have been more of an idiot but I could have spent more time exploring instead of viewing it out the window of my hotel room.
Crossing into Guatemala was no problem, reading about the process and knowing what to expect makes it a lot easier. A smile and a topic to talk about makes it a breeze. Everyone always asks about the tank and smiles as they read the messages. Dan put it best when he drew the first time on it. It feels like the painted nose of a plane from WW2. Except it’s a motorcycle and I’m not dropping bombs but it is taking me to strange and far away places.
After the border fumigated my bike and I unsuccessfully haggled with the currency broker I met some fellow Americans. They were brothers heading to Costa Rica to build boats and we swapped stories over lunch. They were the first Americans I had run into and and would relay back information about what lay ahead for me. They signed my tank with some advice to “keep the shiny side up!” And “DFD!” Which means ‘don’t fucking die’. Solid guys and it was great to meet them, hopefully I will see them soon when I cross into Costa.
A brief over night stop in Guatemala’s first major city and the next morning I was on my way to San Pedro on Lake Atitlan. It’s that big lake you see in everyones instagram pictures from Guatemala. Huxley was quoted saying it was the most beautiful lake in the world comparing it to Lake Como.
On my way into town I studied my map and planned out my route. I knew about the notorious “Bandit Road” linking Santiago with San Pedro together along the 14 road and planned my route around it. The bandit road is a dirt road like any other that is known to have bandits which this video is from : Robbed in Guatemala. Gun and machete. Note: avoid a 15 mile stretch of road, easy enough.
My number one complaint with google maps is the inability to lock in a route. At some point along my ride the mapping changed and took the ‘quicker’ way down along said road.
Here I am bopping along a nice dirt road, I just got my first glimpse of the lake and things were good. I take the turn and am left with no one else around me along a remote stretch. A single motorcycle is approaching me and is frantically waving his arms. Looks to be a boy about 15 riding a small Honda of some sort. As we pass each other we make eye contact and he starts yelling at me.
I don’t normally stop when someone yells at me but this felt different. I stop my bike and turn to him and see he is also stopped and about to turn around. He seems relieved and asks “San Pedro?!?” I answer, “Si”. And he crosses his arms and says the road ends and to turn back motioning to go around the lake the long way. I protest and show him the map, San Pedro was only a few km straight ahead, I knew where I was going. He grabs the map and shows me I am way off course and about to take a left onto the bandit road.
I yell back asking “Bandito?!” “Si Si amigo!”
Well shit. I thank him multiple times in the most gringo “Grassiess” I can muster and turn my bike around. Another one of “Those people” on my path.
Spending the next few days at a hostel in town I scout out a Spanish school by the lake. San Pedro Spanish School might not have the most creative name but they do have beautiful facilities. Within a matter of minutes I signed up for classes five days a week, four hours a day and have a room in a house with a family in town.
Guatemala is beautiful but in May it’s winter and pours at 2pm everyday. My tan is lacking but my Spanish is improving. I have not one but FOUR shelves in my room to store my things and a door. It’s the first time I have had my own space since October. It is a wonderful feeling.
The family is great and very accommodating. We eat meals together and they suffer through my broken Spanish. I historically have never been a fan of kids but the little girl here is pretty cool. She is about four and bounces her basketball on the roof above my room constantly throughout the day. I spent last Friday night playing with a coloring book and doing matching games which was a first. I’m not sure if I am more awkward with children or trying to talk to girls.
Classes have been improving and for the first time since I left I have a consistent schedule. Waking up early to go to the gym, eat breakfast and go to school. I have welcomed some structure, I miss it. I in no way miss a job but a familiar place to sleep and familiar surroundings can be wonderful.
When I started classes I planned on studying for three weeks but due to recently developments in Nicaragua, I need to get back on the road. I feel the situation is going to get worse before it gets better and if it develops into a civil war my trip will be over. I’ll be forced to go back to the states and ship it which I don’t have in the budget.
I reached out to the guy I met on my first day of the trip and asked if he ever faced the decision to enter a politically unstable country. He quickly replied assuring me he remembered me and told me to trust my intuition, follow the duck rule, and fill that 10 gallon tank and send it.
I’d say he is the godfather of sending it and way before instagram made it popular. His advice made me laugh and put me at ease a bit. Saying to not allow some guy sitting in New York scare me and believe he knows better when I am the one living it on the ground. He sent me an article he wrote about a guy who bailed on a trip and like a bunny hopped home blaming it on some false narrative he created in his head. The purpose of an adventure is to gain an education and a worldwide point of view. Also today if one is seeking adventure often they must look for danger, not run from it. That’s in line with pretty much everything I’ve done so far this trip. Learning how to trust myself and figuring it out along the way.
While many people look at me like I am crazy and must have a death wish to attempt so many challenging and dangerous things consecutively. I would say unfortunately and fortunately, for the first time in my life, I actually really want to live. I want to see what it’s like to get old. I want to see what it’s like to have a yard, a family, a home. I want to see what it’s like to die long from now having lived a life fulfilled.
I don’t think I was ever really living before I left and certainly wasn’t happy. I was just following the next step and comparing that step to those around me. No choices were being made, just caught in the flow. I want to live a life where I don’t hate Mondays or wait for Fridays. I want to lose my fear of death because I was left with no regrets. I am seeing what is possible in the world and in my small slice of experience that is my life.
I’ll finish up my classes here on Tuesday and take off on Wednesday morning. By the weekend I hope to be at the Honduras-Nicaraguan border. My tank has a range of 700Km for a country that is 550km long. I’ll buy cartons of cigarettes and stuff my pockets with small bills to use as bribes for the roadblocks. I’ll cross my fingers and try to explain how I am sympathetic to their cause in broken Spanish. If you don’t hear about me on CNN, I’ll consider it a success.
Hasta Luego
-Joe