Our hotel, the Aurora, is a converted mansion. Its magnificent courtyard is filled with bright flowers, lush lawns, with a small fountain at its centre. There are comfy couches outside the rooms, on the tiled veranda. Our room has a huge bed and a deep bath, polished wooden furniture and an open fireplace — not that we’ll need it at this time of the year. The bike is safely stowed away in the compound at the back of the hotel and we can walk into town. Perfect.
An impressive fountain, much more resplendent than the one at our hotel, is the heart of the town square. Tourists take a spin in horse drawn carriages. Musicians play, the haunting sound of the pipes making an evocative soundtrack while we sit in a little bar, people watching.
In the side streets families busk, decked out in matching ponchos and women sell small bags of fruit from huge baskets carried on their heads. Ice-cream sellers are doing a roaring trade.
The craft market has stalls selling magnificent fabric bags, placemats, and serviettes — all in a rainbow of vibrant colours. There are brilliant masks depicting animals and mystical creatures. Shirl spies a satchel made from an old flour sack with Ché’s image stencilled on it. I feel another trip to the post office coming on.
Over the last 300 years there have been plenty of earthquakes. The major shake in 1773 destroyed much of the town, including the main cathedral. The ruin, like so many of the churches and public buildings that collapsed is preserved and open to the public. Soaring arches lead to the open sky. Stone angels and saints look down on us as we explore what was once an impressive house of worship.
The ruins, chocolate shops, coffee shops and trendy bars and eateries all make Antigua enchanting. We’re so pleased we spent some time here.
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In northern Guatemala are the ancient ruins of Tikal. To get there we go north to Rio Dolce, on an inlet near the Caribbean Sea. It’s a safe haven for yachties during the hurricane season. Shirl has read about a hotel right on the water and we head there for the night.
Shirley: The sign to the Tijax Jungle Resort directs us down a narrow gravel and stone road with arrows leading us to a small wooden shack a couple of kilometres into the jungle. A man meets us and writes down the bike rego, assuring us the hotel has rooms. We ride down a dirt road for another kilometre and get to a parking area. To get to the hotel we cross a 200 metre long wooden suspension walkway through the jungle that ends at a pool where some people are playing chess in the pool bar. This looks very inviting.
There’s a room available, an A-frame cabin right on the marina. The restaurant is built over the mangroves. It captures every zephyr of breeze from the water. There are plenty of mozzies to keep us company so we have to lather on the repellent.
Fresh lobster is the special of the day. A small one is only 160 quetzals, just under $20. It’s a meal to be savoured. Grilled and served with salad and chips, the lobsters are an oral delight. We relish every mouthful.
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The Mayan ruins at Tikal are another great reason to come to Guatemala. The road into the national park has signs warning us of jaguars, snakes, deer and monkeys. Our hotel is just outside the gate to the ruins, a perfect location for our pre-dawn walk tomorrow morning to watch the sunrise over the Mayan temples. It’s isolated and there are a few things we need to remember. There’s hot water for only three hours every morning and every evening. They shut the main generator down at night so there’s only enough power to run the lights and the fan. Easy.
There’s a fair bit of lightning about while we have dinner, but no rain. We need an early night after organising a wake-up knock on the door at 3.45 am. We’ve been asleep for a while when the rain comes, by the bucket load. The bike is parked right outside the room, but we can’t see it from the window, the rain is that heavy.
We’ve been listening for a while when we hear an almighty crash. We get dressed, sort of, with just T shirts and undies to check it out. The bike was on rock hard dirt when we parked it outside the room this afternoon. That dirt is now mud and the bike is lying on its side against a stone fence. The bike has rolled forward making it difficult to undo the front of the bike cover. Once we manage that, Brian balances the bike while I get the disc lock off so we can move the bike. We shift it onto the stone path at the side of our room. We can’t see if there’s any damage, it’s pitch black and it’s pissing down. We put the lock and cover back on and go back to bed, listening to the rain until we eventually fall asleep.
We’re dead to the world when the knock comes. The rain’s stopped but there are great puddles of water and mud everywhere. It’s too dark to see if the bike is okay.
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From about 700 BC until around 900 AD the Mayans lived in Tikal. They built temples and shrines to their gods and sacrificial altars. Scientific research and archaeological digs began in the area in the mid 19th century. Today the area is a UNESCO World Heritage Site.
It‘s eerie, walking through the silent jungle by torchlight. We’re heading to Temple number IV to watch the sun rise. We climb 190 steep steps to the top of the temple and sit and wait. After last night’s rain it’s too misty for a real sunrise but as the dawn breaks the jungle comes alive with screeching birds and animals.
As the mist lifts we see the top of another temple, high above the jungle, and then another. We can hear toucans and then see some in the trees, the largest of the toucans with huge yellow beaks. There are coatis in the trees. It’s like we’re looking down on the world.
When the area was surveyed from the air and with thermal imaging the scientists used a grid system and temples were named because of their location, names like Q 596. Throughout the area are hills that are actually temples that have yet to be excavated. Our guide tells us that they may remain buried forever as excavation will open them to the elements and deterioration.
The much more exotically named Grand Temple of the Lost World was the seat of government and religion of Tikal. At its prime 150,000 people lived here in thousands of buildings. There are three temples built behind the Grand Temple. They align on the spring and autumn solstice and the longest day of the year. Like the Incas in South America, the Mayans had it all worked out. With the sun guiding them they knew when to plant and when to harvest.
At the Grand Plaza we clamber up the steps of one temple to look out over the massive Jaguar Temple. You can’t climb it anymore because people have fallen to their death from the steep steps. Around the temples are sacrificial stones with the carvings of the ancient Mayans still visible.
After it was abandoned it was never really lost. While the jungle covered and protected it, the locals would come and worship here, but didn’t tell the Spanish about it. Today locals still come here to perform special ceremonies.
Back at the hotel, in the light of day, we can see that the bike has survived its fall without a scratch or dent.
Brian and I take a walk at sunset and think we’re the only visitors at the Q complex of temples until a spider monkey swings through the trees. He’s not fazed by us as he moves from tree to tree, taking his time savouring the fruit. This is a wonderful way to end the day.
Brian: It’s six months to the day since we arrived in South America and we’ve done a lot but we’ve still got a long way to go to get to the Arctic Circle.
One thing we’re both sick of is the constant border crossings. We have two in the next two days: today into Belize, and tomorrow into Mexico. They’re a pain in the arse and stressful. You never know what you’ll encounter and you never know which official will want a bribe. We’re both looking forward to getting to the US at the end of the month and no more border crossings for a while.
I’m getting worried that we don’t have any US insurance for the bike yet and we need that to cross the border. Our Texan friend Ron DeLord is helping but we haven’t heard from him for a few days. When we try and organise it online the system won’t accept our zip code. Ron assures us it’s a technicality and all will be fine.
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I get talking to
a couple while I load up the bike. They say they’ve always wanted to do something similar to our journey but keep putting it off. Our advice is simple — life is too short so don’t wait to live your dream. The only thing holding you back is yourself.
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Getting into Belize is easy. Shirl forgets that Belize was once a British colony and most people speak English here. She gets a good laugh from one of the officials when she asks in her best Spanish if they have a map of Belize and gets an answer in perfect English complete with British accent. The insurance seller even has chilled spring water — a blessing on a hot day.
The road to Belize City, where we plan to spend the night, is pretty good except through the towns. To make sure the lunatic truck drivers slow down there are speed humps on the way in and out of the towns. They’re maddening. They’re mostly just concrete kerbing laid across the road. Some have signs, some don’t. Some are painted with yellow stripes, some aren’t. Hit one of these at anything over walking pace at your peril. I keep a sharp eye out.
We pass a road gang of prisoners weeding along the side of the road. I don’t see machetes which are used everywhere in Central America, just old fashioned hand hoes. Some of the prisoners wave. When I wave back others line us up with imaginary rifles and handguns. We’ve been told this is a dangerous place. A little further on a group of police are standing around a crumpled body in the scrub on the side of the road. We just keep going, trying to find a hotel.
We’ve got the name of one hotel but give up on that after riding around the sleazy suburbs for a couple of hours without finding it. Even the police don’t know where it is. This turns out to be a good thing. At the hotel we eventually find, there are two Americans who are in town for some serious fishing. They invite us to join them for dinner and we relish some mouth-watering snook they caught this morning. Half the platter has been grilled and half cooked in a light olive oil. It’s the best fish we’ve had for ages.
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Riding out of Belize City we pass the Caribbean Sea. It’s the most amazing turquoise and looks inviting. I hope I get to take a swim somewhere along the coast. I’ve swum in the Pacific Ocean, Antarctica, and the Atlantic Ocean. It would be a shame to get this close and not swim in the Caribbean.
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Crossing from Belize to Mexico is one of the most unusual and complicated borders we’ve encountered so far. On the Belize side we have to pay $15 each departure tax. We’re directed into the back of the building to get the bike’s paperwork sorted. We meander down the corridor past the female and male detention cells. They don’t look very inviting.
In no man’s land, between the two countries, there’s a casino and a huge duty free shopping area. I steer Shirl away from this trap.
At the Mexican border the immigration forms are in Spanish. Now, this is a first. A bit of patience and we manage to fill in most of the information. The immigration official helpfully fills in the missing information and stamps the passports.
Now — the bike. To temporarily import a motorcycle into Mexico we have to pay US $400. It will be refunded when we take the bike out of the country. It’s all a bit of rigmarole and it’s so hot today. This is the worst thing about border crossings — the heat and the time we stand about in it.
I use the credit card for the $400. We also have to pay $50 for the sticker that proves we’ve paid the $400 which isn’t refundable. The official advice is not to put the sticker on the bike, just in case it blows off. We also have to pay 290 pesos (about $25) for one visa. The official says she doesn’t think we should pay for the bike and two visas, but warns us that the immigration officers when we leave the country might not agree and we might have to pay for the second visa then.
Shirley: I’ve never been very good with maps or directions. Brian is very patient and asks me to point when I say go left because it could mean go right. We’re running out of time to get to Texas so we’ve changed our plan to ride around the Yucatan Peninsula, cruising along the Caribbean Sea. We’re going to have to cut across the base of the peninsula to Cuidad del Carmen on the Gulf of Mexico.
I go online to book a hotel for a couple of nights and can’t believe my luck when I find a hotel within walking distance of a beach. It looks lovely and is reasonably priced. I book it and pay using the credit card.
I’m so thrilled. I tell Brian he will be able to swim in the Caribbean after all because, it seems to me, Cuidad del Carmen is on the Caribbean Sea. He can’t see how, so I go online and show him the hotel’s website.
He’s right. Cuidad del Carmen isn’t a beachside resort. And the hotel I’ve booked isn’t in Cuidad del Carmen. I’ve booked two nights in Playa del Carmen which is on the Yucatan Peninsula, quite near Cancun. Oh shit, it’s so far out of our way. I wait for the explosion but Brian’s taking it really well, even though we’ll need to ride around 500 kilometres every day to get to Texas in time. We’ll just enjoy our time at the beach.
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I’m more than a little relieved when the Reina Roja (Red Queen) turns out to be a comfortable, beautiful hotel. After the location stuff up, I was worried it would be a dump with a good website. Flicking through the television channels we find the ‘adult’ channels. This certainly isn’t a family hotel.
As well as a luxurious room we get a pass to one of the beach clubs. These exclusive clubs are right on the beach, under the palm trees, overlooking the Caribbean Sea. We hightail it to the Mosquito Club and are directed to a massive sun bed under the trees. It’s not a banana lounge or an airbed. It’s a massive double bed with a double thickness mattress.
Now, this is the life. We have a cold beer and a prawn salad then lie back and look out over the whitest of white sand and the deepest blue water. We have a dip and then go back to the sunbed and snooze the afternoon away. Ah, bliss.
We don’t really need dinner so we have two of the important food groups — ice cream and a cocktail. The Mojito Fresa, a mojito with fresh strawberries, is amazingly good.
Our second day is much the same: sleep, swim, eat.
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The warnings about this part of Mexico are extreme. The guidebooks and the travel websites all say the fights between warring druglords are rife here. They don’t target foreigners but you can get caught in the crossfire.
We take the toll road and end up spending nearly $30 to get to Cuidad del Carmen, 720 kilometres from the beach. There are plenty of heavily-armed police and soldiers at roadblocks along the highway. We get stopped a couple of times and they ask to see our permit. We’re getting used to this. We get the feeling some just want to check out the bike.
At one military checkpoint we’re waved into a lay-by where soldiers are searching two utilities. About 10 soldiers are standing around, fingers on the triggers of their automatic rifles. They don’t seem too interested in us when they find out we’re from Australia and not the US. After a very cursory search of one pannier and one of the sidebags on the tank we can go. It’s a bloody nuisance but it’s all about our safety.
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Brian is getting sick. He has an ear infection and a sore throat. It’s been a long six months on the road. We’ve had long days on the bike. The roads are not great, the maps are not great and the bike is heavy. All in all there’s a lot of pressure on him. Because of the weight in the bags I can’t help him repack the bike, so he ends up doing that everyday too.
After months of battling with the language, the bad roads and bad drivers, we‘re both looking forward to getting to the US. Just about every town in Mexico is guarded by speed bumps every 10 or 20 metres. They slow us down and they’re not good for the bike or Brian’s good humour. Each one seems to be a different size and design and they’re in different states of repair and disrepair.
While Brian sleeps I check out Monterrey, our destination for the final run to the border. On the Trip Advisor website there’s a travel warning. Foolishly I click on it. It’s a big mistake. The Australian Government warning is quite clear. Don’t go the
re. In August, 52 people were murdered in the casino. They also advise travellers to stick to the toll roads and keep doors locked while driving. Well, that’s helpful.
Brian: A day off the bike and I’m revitalised. I’m ready for anything the roads can throw at us as we head to the US border. I just wish Shirl wouldn’t look up the travel warnings. She’s panicking about our last couple of days on the road south of the US border.
We get to some roadworks where our side of the road is closed. We’re waved onto the nearside lane on the wrong side of the road. There are no bollards in between the lanes and no signs warning us to keep to the right lane.
One guy flashes his lights and I presume it’s because we have our lights on. They’re on all the time and other motorists flash at us a lot. Then we get to the scene of the crash. It’s been a head on and looks like someone didn’t realise there was two-way traffic on this side of the road. It’s a chilling sight.
There’s only half of the small red car on the road. The rest seems to have disintegrated. On the median strip I see a couple of shapes under blankets. The one closest is clearly the body of a man lying on his back with his arms sticking out the sides of the blanket. I can tell Shirl is shaken by this sight. It does nothing to alleviate her concerns for our safety.
The military and police presence is strong. They’re not on the roads pulling up cars but they’re on the move. We see them in their utes, sitting in the back behind machine guns, hands on the triggers. They’re ready for action. One has a gun facing the way they’re going and one facing the rear, both with men ready to move.
It’s our last night in Mexico. We go for an Italian meal rather than Mexican food. Pizza, a cold beer and Shirl tries another cocktail, a mango margarita. She’s getting the hang of reading the cocktail list in Spanish.
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