In typical Central American fashion, everyone had tried to jockey for the best position, creating a hopeless gridlock that would take days to resolve. Four lanes had become nine abreast, with vehicles head-to-head in a hundred different confrontations. Thankfully, the bikes were able to maneuver between the worst of this, and take to the verge when the roadway was impassable. The verge presented it's own difficulty with a 2 metre slippery 45 degree slope down into a drainage culvert. Having got in, we splashed along merrily until it was time to climb the bikes back out. Wriggling them back and forth, we were able to get a 90 degree angle with the road and then gun the engines to make it up the slippery rock surface and back onto the tarmac.
The border post itself is a study in chaos. There seems to be very little reason in the myriad of required activities, and we dealt with no less than 7 different areas, each with their own paperwork requirements before we were finally clear to enter Nicaragua nearly 3 hours after arrival. In all the border crossings that we have undertaken on a multitude of trips, Nicaragua takes first prize for sheer inefficiency and tourist-unfriendliness.
Large signs warn people crossing the border of all manner of unpleasantness, including everything from child trafficking to organ harvesting.
The process was worsened by a steady downpour that soaked bikes, gear and riders; and created rivulets of mud everywhere.
Once we left the border post the rain increased in volume and velocity until we could barely see 30' in front of the bikes. Crawling along at 60kph, we noticed many villagers standing on bridges and watching the torrential river racing past. The waters were all muddy, and debris was broiling in the waters. Nicaragua is already the poorest country I'm CA, and it was horrible to see these poor people watching their houses either under 4' of water or swept away altogether. Climbing up into the mountains from the border post, it was easy to see why the river was in flood. An incredible amount of water was gushing down the mountain and often spilling across the roadway to create a treacherous road surface. This was the result of a severe tropical depression that we had noticed on the newspaper that morning.
It has been a long time since I have ridden in rain so heavy that each drop hurts from the impact. Ty was riding with a dri-rider jacket that was also covered by full wet weather gear. At the next stop, he opened the jacket to show that his shirt underneath was drenched. We were all in the same condition and bitterly cold. The dye from our gloves also ran so badly that black hands were the order of the day.
The people in the north of the Nicaragua look pretty grim and are not particularly welcoming. They have been battered by too many years of fighting with each other, their neighbors, and the communists. Most of this has arisen due to external interference, primarily from the US. FLNA posters are everywhere you look, and the countryside is a sea of red and black paint - everything from buildings to rock faces, even the posts on the side of the road are daubed.
The dislike for gringos manifested itself badly when a youth launched a rock at our lead bike. It missed Matthias, and I yelled 'ROCK' over the intercom. Bad call, as this just caused Ty and Gary to wash a bit of speed off and focus closely on the road surface. This gave the little bastard enough time to fire another baseball sized rock at the passing bikes. This salvo clipped the side of Gary's bike before striking him in the lower stomach, not a pleasant experience when the bike is traveling at nearly 100km/hr. Gary got a hell of a shock, but he stayed on the bike and we decided to just power on out of there.
As we descended onto the flatlands t4 hours later though, it was as if a switch was turned. The weather cleared miraculously, the architecture became more colonial than ghetto, and many signs of a developed economy became evident.
When we arrived in Granada, it was unanimously agreed that this would he our base for two days of R&R. The small city is absolutely stunning; reminiscent of Riga or Tallin, with perfectly preserved buildings and a thriving alfresco cafe culture. Once the bikes were parked and secured, we spent a delightful hour or so exploring before settled in to dinner on the sidewalk accompanied by two old guys on mandolin and maracas. Is this the same country? Is this the same century?
We are really ooking forward to not swinging a leg over the bike tomorrow, and to exploring this lovely city armed with nothing more than our cameras.
(the hotel we are staying in)
Location:Granada
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