Category Archives: World Tour

Montezuma

As I waited at the border the minutes bled into hours. I had perfected my disinterested border zen but this time I had a deadline looming; my hotel check-in was closing at 8pm. I sat on the ground on top of a fine layer of sand and dirt watching my arrival time tick past 8 while I waited for ‘authorization’. When I finally made it through I hoped that some velocital liberties would make up the 30 minute difference.

I sped along the Costa Rican highway, the light slowly fading. Unfamiliar jungle trees flew by on each side. Google Maps was also fading, losing my position every few minutes. I switched to Maps.ME, an offline maps app. It has an adventurous idea of what constitutes a road and had caused me to traverse mountains on dirt roads in both Iran and Albania but it had also saved me a few times in other countries.

I followed the map to the right off the highway. The spine of Costa Rica rises into ridges like some sort of sleeping dinosaur I was trying to clamber over. Almost on queue the road changed from smooth tarmac – to pothole strewn – to a former road that could now be used to film a moon landing. The last of the light was now gone and I was again on top of a mountain on a dirt road at night. Thanks Maps.ME. The only other traffic was small local vans that looked like they would survive Mad Max apocalypse, they were making the trip between tiny villages that clung to the mountainside. I slowly slalomed from the edge of one crater to the next. Winding my way up the mountain, watching my arrival time slide to 9pm. And then 10pm. I decided when I got there I would pitch my tent in the hotel car park, mostly out of spite for having a closing time.

The well worn road dipped left over a small hill, at the crest of the hill I slammed on the brakes. A large river blocked my path. I peered left and right into the darkness, there was no sign of a bridge. I looked down at the map, it clinically showed the road cutting straight across the river. I consulted Google Maps for a second opinion, it had the same prognosis.

I knew I should wade across the river and check the depth, but with the fatigue you get from months on the road and a long day in the saddle, I just couldn’t get off the bike. I could see the tyre tracks of a 4 wheel drive leading out of the river so I convinced myself that it must be a main route around here and couldn’t possibly be that deep. I slowly rode into the river – mercifully it was about one inch deep, relieved, I accelerated. About halfway across it got deeper, suddenly I was up to my knees in 3 feet of water and the engine cut out. My heart sank, along with my boots.

I looked around but I was surrounded by running water, darkness and silence beyond that. Drawing water into my engine was not a situation I was prepared to deal with. I held my breath and gingerly tried the ignition switch. It started up. I twisted the throttle and could hear the engine roar but the bike didn’t move. The silt on the riverbed was sucking the tyres in like quicksand. The bike was fully loaded and it would take a long time to unload everything and drag it out of the river on my own. I slowly rocked the bike back and forth as I gave it a little throttle, more in hope than in expectation. The tyre caught and slowly crawled up the river bank, the engine screaming in protest. I sat triumphantly on the far side of the river and looked back across the rushing torrent, cursing my long dead GoPro.

Around the next bend the tarmac reappeared and the bike charged ahead as if the last few hours had never happened. I rolled into Montezuma at 11pm and thankfully I was met by the hotel security guard who let me into my room. I took my dripping boots off at the door and headed straight for the shower. It only had one tap, not even a pretense of hot water, but it was the best shower I’d had in months.

Montezuma is an idyllic Bohemian village at the end of the Nicoya Peninsula. At the center of the town is a perfect white sandy beach. Stalls selling jewelry line the streets, everyone in town is a backpacker or full blown hippy. Long flowing hair, man buns and tanker shirts are everywhere, not a sleeve in sight. Dense green jungle trails filled with capuchin monkeys lead to 3 spectacular waterfalls. I had truly come through chaos and arrived in paradise.

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The Grandmaster

As soon as I got to my hotel, I launched myself out onto the streets. My brother always told me, “The best way to get to know a new city is by walking around and getting lost.” I didn’t even take the time to Google ‘Belize City’; if I had, I would have learned that Belize used to be a colony of Britain and was called British Honduras – or I would have seen the endless warnings to get the hell out of there. An economic downturn coupled with President Trump’s decision to deport illegal immigrants with criminal records had resulted in a lot of people returning to Belize City with no job, no prospects and desperation rising.

I wandered down dark streets, expecting the buildings to rise and to get that familiar imposing city feeling, but the run down housing continued on and on. Belize has the lowest population density in Central America and that is clear from the size of their capital. I eventually found the city center, a large crowd was gathered at an open air concert. As I arrived the last chords rang out and the crowd dispersed within minutes, scattering into dark alleyways. That is the sort of timing you can expecting with long term travel.

I gave up on my wandering tour and decided to head back to my hotel. An old black man with a silver beard glinting in the darkness stepped in front of me.

“I am Leroy. Where you from?”

“Ireland.”

I was used to answering Irelanda from my stay in Mexico, just saying Ireland is too much of a leap for Mexico, they stare at you confused and when you follow up with ‘Irelanda’ their eyes light up and they shout ‘Ahh’ every single time. Belize is English speaking, but with a Caribbean twist that makes it almost unintelligible when they are speaking to each other, and really cool when they are speaking to foreigners.

‘Ahh. Come in and have a drink in my bar.’ He pointed at the Chinese restaurant across the road. The first room contained an imposing five foot tall solid wood bar on the right hand side. A handful of Belizeans crowded around the bar on cheap metal bar stools. We passed through the next door to the Chinese restaurant. Wooden chairs surrounded white folding plastic tables. Belize being a heavily Catholic country, a Madonna figurine looked down protectively over the bar. We sat and watched some random Basketball game on the small old CRT TV. Leroy headed behind the bar and came back with two rum and cokes.

“Let me introduce you to the owner, Liu this guy is from Ireland.” The owner of the bar looked across disinterestedly, ‘Hey.’ The staff had a familiar dynamic with Leroy – I had seen in many times in bars across the world, an acceptance that the local barfly is going to be there anyway so you might as well put him to work. It was an air of tolerance rather than acceptance.

“What are the police like in Belize?” Getting robbed twice by the police in Mexico had made me weary. “Oh the Police?” His head dropped into his hands dramatically. “You understand?” I understood.

Leroy leaned over to me. “I’m famous you know. They call me the Grandmaster. Look it up.” I Googled ‘The Grandmaster Belize’ In the photos a young man shone up at me, a look of hope in his eyes. I looked up at Leroy, the years had taken their toll, a hard life had beaten the light out of his eyes. He was a dub poet who had found success writing poems about life growing up in Belize’s dreaded Majestic Alley. “You see that concert in town tonight?” I nodded. “I was the warm up act.”

“This is a tough place. You see the people behind the bar? All men, you know why?” I shook my head. “When this place goes off, it really goes off.” His voice lowered. “You see those holes in the ceiling? They’re bullet holes. You should not walk back to your hotel from here, you should get a taxi.”

I wondered aloud “If things are so bad, why do you stay here?”

“I am Belize.”

Mexican Standoff

I’ve been stuck in Mexico for so long that I might just give up and live here. It’s not the heat, or the constantly getting robbed by the police, or even the crater size potholes that you wreck your bike in, it’s the lack of friendliness. In America it’s fake and only lasts as long as your transaction, but at least it’s a human connection. When you get far enough into Mexico nobody speaks English and nobody wants to help you, even if you’re standing on the side of the road with a broken down motorcycle. I’m told, ‘Help, my motorcycle has broken down at night’ is a common ploy of the banditry but when a hundred trucks drive past you it just starts to feel personal. Or maybe it’s just missing Ireland, where there is a common unspoken understanding that we’re all fucked, but we’re all in this together.