San Carlos (Costa Rica) Comitan de Dominguez (Mexico)

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Huehuetenango sounds like an Abba song. It is a town in western Guatemala. I arrive after three days of crawling up and down a rugged mountain range known as the Sierra de Los Cuchumaines. In those three days I have only travelled 160 km but it has been hard work. Although most of the road has just been paved the gradients are the steepest I have ridden so far on my trip. Guatemalan civil engineers are complete sadists, young children who torture animals are specially selected and groomed for years in special engineering institutions. Roads jump violently up valley walls for no good reason.

Exhausted I navigate my way to the centre of town and roll into a pleasant if slightly shabby hospedaje. A bit damp perhaps but such things no longer concern me. At 3 pounds a night it is twice the price of the tiny miserable windowless room I stayed in last night. I am staying here. Shower quickly then my mind turns to finances. I have 15 Quetzals, about 1 pound, on me. Need to find a cash machine that is going to talk to my Visa card. Not necessarily a straightforward task on a Sunday afternoon in Guatemala. Several laps of the plaza and eventually find one. Delayed temporarily by seven men playing two large xylophones being backed by a double bass and a drummer. The sound is entertaining but watching them move together perfectly is the most addictive part. Return to the hotel. Then I see her sitting on a bench in the courtyard calmly reading her Footprint guidebook. It is Steffi, my Steffi von Wuffalott*.

For months I have been trying to forget her. For months I have been failing. Wherever I ride on the Gringo trail there seem to be hints and traces of her. At other times I can feel my imagination smudging desire with reality but at times it really felt as though she has been deliberately leaving me clues, hints, suggestions.

After she vanished so suddenly in Argentina for a couple of months there was nothing. Then one day I thought I caught her distinctive scent on the streets of Puno in Peru. I turned the corner and only found an old lady frying a trout. Wandering aimlessly around Cuenca in Ecuador I am convinced I see her going into an art gallery. I pursue her and enter an empty room. In a bar in the old town of Panama City I fall into conversation with a drunken French yacht captain. He spoke reverently of a beautiful Austrian lady with a faint moustache that had recently sailed on his ship. She didn´t speak for the entire 5-day crossing betwen Cartagena and Panama. Every day she would just stare intently at the water. Deep in thought. Seeing things others couldn´t. When he recounted with a heavy sigh that she smelt ever so slightly of sardines it was clear he too had been captivated by her exquisite athletic beauty.

Highly animated moaning noises from the neighbouring room keep me awake all night in a slightly seedy hotel in Costa Rica. The next morning I happen to glance at the guest book. I see her name written in a fluid flowing manuscript. Just her name. Seeing the ebb and flow of her beautiful handwriting reminds me of the first time I saw her. The hypnotic way she cast her fishing line across the waters of the lake. I try and find out where she went but the hotel owner either doesn´t know, or seems to realise that discretion is an important part of his business. All he will say is "se fue". She went.

In Nicaragua I spend a couple of days crashed out in a rocking chair, recovering from the intense heat. Drifting in and out of a disturbed sleep I am sure I hear her talking to someone and feel the warm heat of her piscean breath as she leans over me. For some reason I am caught in an enchanted silky web of slumber, I can´t bring myself to wake up.

Then last week I am eating a sausage and tortilla sandwich at a one of the numerous popular fast food van in the plaza in Coban, Guatemala. Sheltering under the roof of the van from the year round soft rainfall known in the region as chipi chipi. I am in the slow but enjoyable process of clearing my plate when I am almost sure I spy her going down the steep sloping road. The road that leads to my hostel. I consider following her but pragmatically decide not to. Whilst an elusive mysterious woman will always be an elusive mysterious woman, a hot sausage sandwich will only stay hot for so long.

In Hueheutenango we look at each other without speaking. Probably only a few seconds pass. But it feels like hours to me. She does not look surprised. The expression on her face is a mixture of desire and gentle tenderness. A tenderness which seems to stop just short of an apology and avoids the humiliation of pity. We both know that she knew I was going to be here tonight. Although hundreds of questions hurtle through my brain when I finally do speak I only manage to blurt out the mundane, pro forma traveller conversation, borders crossed, ruins visited.

We go out for a meal. It is clear that despite what has happened that there is stlll an immense chemical attraction between us. Her eyes widen and my spine feels like it has been invaded by a school of migrating eels. Inevitably the conversation turns towards our last meeting and why she so mysteriously vanished that night. The explanation offered is that she had just received an invitation from the legendary Swiss adventure fisherman Doctor Kurt Schplunkenschpragger to join him on an expedition to Nicaragua. Gran Lago de Nicaragua or Lago Cocibolca is a freshwater lake in Nicaragua. It is full of saltwater fish which have up the Rio San Juan and adapted to the freshwater. In a deep husky voice she explains that on the east of the Isla Ometepe, an island in the lake, is a rare freshwater member of the bull shark family (Carcharhinus nicaraguensis). Kurt had asked her to help him fish for this savage prince of aquatic beasts. Unfortunately on the second day of the expedition tragedy struck. Kurt slipped on one of the terrapins that can be seen sunning themselves on the rocks of the island. He died in her arms minutes later. The terrapin also expired shortly afterwards.

After Kurt´s death she didn´t know what to do. She didn´t feel like fishing for the bull shark. Instead she drifted through the Guatemalan highlands for a few weeks trying to put the incident behind her. During this time she won a Mayan beauty contest and wearing only elaborate traditional headdresses deployed her Schlamringgen skills to challenge and defeat all-comers in local Indian wrestling festivals. In a further attempt to distract herself she also spent time in the small village of Rabinal studying the art of making lacquered guords. In a breathless gravelly whisper she seems barely able to control herself and begins to stroke my inner thigh as she relates how the glossy lacquer of the guord is made from the body of a farmed scaly insect called the niij (Llaveia axin). Apparently the male niij is boiled in water to release its oil which is then mixed with soot powder to create the lacquer to decorate the guords.

I am not sure what to make of this story. It all seems a bit far fetched and doesn´t seem to add up. It doesn´t explain why she always seems to be shadowing my route. Why she is so tantalisingly just out of my reach. Yet at the same time I sense that she wants to be with me but that some dark secret is preventing us from being truly happy. I excuse myself and leave to go to the bathroom. As I am washing my hands a sense of cold dread floods my body. I realise that she will not be at the table when I get back.

My fears are confirmed. She has gone. The bill has been paid. On the table is a 38mm spanner, something I have been scouring the bike shops of Central America for, and a detailed road map of Mexico. Despite the fact I now have acquired these precious items without Steffi I feel crushed and empty. Like a male niiij beetle...

Just a reminder that the main reason I am riding is to raise money for Medecins Sans Frontieres (and not the hope of finally finding the truth out about Steffi´s dark secret). If you would like to make a donation please visit my website, www.pushonnorth.com. Alternatively if you think you happen to know what Steffi´s dark secret could be I would be very grateful if you could please send me an email and tell me what it is ([e-mail]).

Push on

Tim

*For those readers unfamiliar with my blog I first met the mysterious Steffi von Wuffalott last year in a deserted campsite in the Argentinian lake district (see my blog entry Trevelin (Argentina) to Malargue (Argentina))

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Photos

Bienvenidos a Mexico
As the sun goes down on the end of my first day riding in Mexico, I am just picking my way through the outskirts of Comitan de Dominguez. I stop and this statue of an Aztec Sun god having a bad hair day meets my gaze with penetrating rays of golden light. The secrets of an ancient culture are revealed, if only for a fleeting moment. Bienvenidos a Mexico. Push on.

Rice and beans
Typical lunch in Central America on the road from a nice little roadside cafe in Costa Rica.

Volcan Orosi, Costa Rica
Stopped briefly to take this photo racing down the mountain trying to get to La Cruz before the sun went down. Beautiful late afternoon ride. Strange seing Saddam Hussain getting hung on television whilst I finished my lunch just beforehand.

Liam, Claire and me
Meeting Liam and Claire again by chance was one of the strangest things that has happened to me so far on my trip. Was just riding along a very quiet back road in Costa Rica when a jeep drove past, stopped and shouted out my name. It was Claire and Liam. I first met them in Salta, in northern Argentina. Like me they had ridden up from Ushuaia, on their honeymoon (not like me). So was pretty amazing to bump into them at random in Costa Rica. Spent New Year with them and Elaine and Ron (Claire´s mum and dad) and a lot of kitesurfers in Puerto Soley, Costa Rica.

Kite surfer, Puerto Soley, Costa Rica
Not sure if this is Liam or not. It could be. Spent a day lying on a beaching sleeping, letting the sand blow into my beard and watching kite surfers. From my limited observations kite surfing seems to involve: putting a snowboard on your feet; donning an S&M harness with a kite attached to it; launching yourself enthusiastically into Pacific ocean; hoping resident monster crocodile does not eat you.

Road from Puerto Soley to La Cruz, Costa Rica
This photo, like many others, is not really representational. Most of the riding I did in Costa Rica was on paved roads. It thus raises profound questions concerning to what extent a travelblogger has a duty to report on the objective truth, or the truth at least as he perceives it, instead of selecting simply the best photos and thus committing an aesthetic falsehood and perpetuating the myth of beauty and travel. Still it was quite a nice road even if it was only 10km long.

Drew´s bike
This bike belongs to Drew form the US of A who I met in La Cruz, Costa Rica. Like me he has a Bob trailer with suspension. Unlike me he has had an additional rack welded on top of it so that he can carry his surf board and guitar.

Isla de Ometepe, Lake Nicaragua
Lake Nicaragua is the largest freshwater lake in the world.

The ladies of Rivas, Nicaragua
These ladies work at the very pleasant hospedaje I stayed at in Rivas. Earlier in the day the TV repair man had been summoned. TV fixed the ladies relaxed in their rocking chairs to watch wiht great appreciation what looked like the Nicaraguan answer to the spice girls shaking their booties down.

Lobby of the Hotel Espinge, Granada, Nicaragua
More seductive rocking chairs in the lobby. Amonst the people I met here was a mad scientist from the US who was plotting how to undermine his archrival's alternative science conference which apparently is to be held this summer in a small village church hall just outside Manchester. In addition to this Machivellian scheming he also laments the fact that the credibility of the alternative form of technology or energy that he champions, aka the DORbuster, is being used by the US followere of David Icke to block the portals being used by giant lizards to enter earth. Oh dear.

Richard
Richard is a bike mechanic in Granada. Tried to leave Granada on a Sunday morning. Rolled only a few blocks from the hotel when my pedals started freewheeling in both directions. An interesting but inefficient experience. Asked around and found Richard working in a corner of a small courtyard, containing a chaotic heap of bike wheels and parts that must have gradually grown over the decades and also home to several green parrots. Richard dropped what he was doing and spent 2 hours on a Sunday afternoon cleaning, hammering and greasing my rachet. After he finished he just said give me what you think is right. This is always a difficult question as do not wish to be seen as underpaying, but he seemed really happy with 100 corderos. Not very much, about 3 pounds, I think. Richard Urbina address is, De La Gaviota 1/2 Cuadra al Norte, Granada.

World´s most famous ladies
Stamp collection of the world´s most famous women on wall of hotel in Nicaragua gives an interesting take on world politics from a Nicaragaun perpective. Our very own Mrs T gets centre stage, Mother Teressa et al have to settle for places on the border.

Road from Octal (Nicaragua) to Danli (Honduras)
Didn´t enjoy riding through Nicaragua much as spent too much time on the Panamerican highway which was quite busy and dirty taking me past lots of interesting things like chicken processing factories. However this part of the road, north of Esteli, was quite nice and fairly quiet.

Customs officials at the Nicaragaun Honduran border
The Honduran customs official has just erroneously suggested with a large smile on his face that I need to go back to the capital of Nicaragua and get my passport stamped properly. A further inspection of my passport reveals that this is complete nonsense. Tension over I try to capture the moment and I take a lovely photograph of these two gentleman. Hoping perhaps to promote international harmony amongst the many passport stampers and other officials that inspect paperwork on the borders of Central America dilligently protecting their frontiers against the hordes of unwashed anarchist bicycle tourists intent on infiltrating their countries with incorrect paperwork and presumably go on to start bloody revolutions. It is afterall a slipperly slope.

Danilo
Riding up a hill to the Honduran town of Yuscaran my bike started making unpleasant creaking noises. Couldn´t work out why until the following morning found a large crack in the drop bar of my frame. Thirty minutes later had my bike welded. Didn´t even have time to really think about what to do. Was walking along a cobbled road and Greta, a German lady from Berlin, walking her two dogs, helped me find Danilo a welder. Danilo promptly welded the frame and when I asked for how much he would he explained that the average daily wage in Honduras is 5US dollars and asked for about 70 pence. I gave him 1 pound 25. He seemed really happy with this and asked me if I would like to have brunch with him. I readilly agreed and was given a very substantial plate of beans and tortillas. Over our meal Danilo enquired whether I would like to stay on his farm for a bit and whether I was Roman Catholic. Got a bit paranoid, probably unreasonably, at this point that he was trying to fix me up with his daughter. Explained that unfortunately my schedule was quite tight and pushed on. So far, touchwood, weld still holding up ok. Thank you very much Danilo (and Greta).

Honduran whacky races
Not sure what this man does on the uphill sections but the downhill part looked fun.

Felix and I
Had a nice chat with Felix over lunch after climbing out of capital of Honduras, Tegucigalpa. Bearing in mind what Danilo had told me about the average wage in Honduras I refused Felix´s very kind offer to buy my lunch. A few minutes later he peeled out of his brand new large silver Renault and his very nice looking girlfriend took this photo.

Road near Santa Barbara, Honduras
This I think so far is my favourite road that I have ridden on in Central America.