So There I Was...

So there I was...
leaving Guatemala by coming outa the mountains at record speed downhill for 40km. I was gonna miss this place that didn't seem to be nearly as dangerous as it appeared to be. I wasn't sure who to be more scared of- the armed guards outside every bank, or the armed guards guarding the Brahva beer trucks. Every single window in Guatemala is covered by iron gates to keep out the unwanted...which seems to be everybody. So I left Guatemala armed with my own arsenal of new Spanish words and more of a respect for food poisoning.

So there I was...
crossing the border into El Salvador where being a gringo is just another word for 'money-magnet´. Everybody wants to be your friend at these border crossings because that's just the way they are. They just want to make sure YOU are happy. I especially like how the black-market-money-changer guys give you an exchange rate and STILL try to rip you off by giving you less money back. I'm glad Mr. Block drilled those multiplication tables into my head back in 6th grade. He probably didn't know it at the time, but he was saving me $5 in Central America. And then the little guy who so kindly showed you where the immigration office is, also expects his cut. Even though I was more than capable of walking the 2 feet around the corner to find it myself. So, anyways, since El Salvador uses American dollars as their currency it was kinda like being back home. I almost thought I was back home listening to the Eagles at a bar on the beach one day. That is, until I noticed some guy pissing in the corner of the bar. Or how, when I went across the street, I was only able to buy bags of water, not bottles. But I did like it in Salvador. The roads are excellent and the people look like they know how to have a good time.

So there I was...
in the middle of El Salvador fixing my SEVENTH flat tire of the day. It was bound to happen. The dreaded day where nothing could go right. Not one, not two, not even three. Let me get straight to the point again. SEVEN FLAT TIRES in one f*cking day. Luckily I was able to find a shop that actually had my size tubes in stock. But that wasn't even the end of it. Next... the tire pump broke. But, again, I was lucky enough to find another shop in Honduras that sold pumps. Back on track right? Well, over the next 2 days I actually had two more flats and realized my getting to Panama wasn't going to just be given to me. I was going to have to rely on whatever bike shop was in my path to make it all the way. So be it.

So there I was...
eating at a restaurant in El Salvador and talking to these two kids about their Salvadorian lifestyle. However, they didn't seem a bit interested in what I wanted to learn. All they wanted to talk about was how much sex I've had on this trip so far. I told them Americans don't have sex and that movies are all a bunch of lies. They were shocked.

So there I was...
riding across the border into Honduras. There's not many major changes crossing from one country into the next. But there's millions of minor ones. First thing I noticed in Honduras. was how the kids have been taught since birth how to scream the word "GRINGO!" as loud as possible when you pass by. I thought it was kinda cute at first the way the little dirty rugrats would chant while jumping up and down screaming "GRINGO, GRINGO" the whole time. After a couple days however, I was ready to buy a machete and skin me a little Hondurian boy. Enough said.

So there I was...
crossing into Nicaragua. These little countries just keep on coming and coming. Once into Nicaragua, decided I'd had enough of the hot, sweaty riding and mosquito-infested camping nights. So decided to get this real gem of a place (NOT) at the border town. Walking into the local cantina one day looking for a beer, some guy insisted on being my friend and made sure I knew that he was The Boss of the town and everyone knew him. And he was right. Everyone did know him. Everyone knows the town drunk. And he was determined to be my protector also by getting in anyone's face who didn't speak English to me for whatever reason. Things were getting a bit tense with my new buddy. I tip-toed out after finishing the beer he bought for me.

So there I was...
riding down the first dirt road I'd encountered on my trip down thus far. Not fun riding over rocks for 50 kilometers. And then, when your rear rack breaks apart and you're forced to fix it on the side of the road in 100 degree F weather, you feel like you've hit bottom. Hot, dusty and too tired to care. But that's usually when the miracles happen. And, wouldn't you know it, the ice cream man just happened to be passing by at just that moment. Best damn snowcone I've ever had.

So there I was...
at a Texaco near Leon, sitting in prayer with a Nicaraguan family and a missionary from North Carolina. Sometimes I wonder...how do I end up in these situations? So, Roger the missionary explains to me how he's been coming down to Nicaragua for the last 4 years to help this family's village that was destroyed by hurricane Mitch back in 1998. And he just tries to give as much as he can to everyone down here because nobody has any money and a lot of people are having liver problems due to insecticides. He tells me this is the first time this family has ever went out and had a decent meal: at a chicken fast-food joint in a Texaco gas station. Now, this whole trip I've just been satisfying every primal, instinctive impulse just to keep going on the bicycle. As I licked the cartilidge of my meaty piece of chicken to get every last morsel to fulfill my narcisstic, animal desire; I couldn't help but feel a little guilty after listening to all this. But only for a couple minutes.

So here I am...
in Leon, Nicaragua. Resting up after the craziest, strangest, most random week of this trip, if not my life. And pondering how the Vikings could have possibly traded the greatest wide receiver God has ever created in Randy Moss. Even with the bad 'fro. So what's next? Who knows...but it just keeps getting curiouser and curiouser.