Border Crossings

There is always a slight sense of apprehension as borders are typically places filled with unsavoury types: money changers, scammers and schisters; looking to exploit you before you work out which way is up and how many tacos you can buy with $1 in the new country. Border towns are little better - they have never struck me as more than a place of lodging for the humourless immigration officers, industrial depots for the leviathan trucks rampaging across the country and hideouts for the above-mentioned swindlers. This all means that the process of getting an exit stamp (and as we are discovering to be in vogue in Central America, also charged a ‘departure’ tax - GBP11 in the case of Belize; and I thought that we had managed to dream up taxes on everything, but this shows some impressive imagination) and an entry stamp, whilst keeping an eye on our bikes and possessions, which obviously no self-respecting immigation hall would let you sully by wheeling through, can be quite a challenge.

However, this apprehension is seriously outweighed by the excitement of a new country. There are so many little things to notice and consider as we pedal those first few metres, some of which are confirmed, denied or expanded upon as those metres become kilometres and we start to feel we are getting a sense of what the new country, or at least this area of it, will be like.

Being cyclists with bottomless stomachs, hollow legs and a tendency to gluttony, the food by the side of the road is one thing that jumps out immediately. Upon crossing into Guatemala the other day we were very, perhaps too, excited by the return to more Mexican style food - tacos, pollo y arroz, and an abundance of pork. We immediately dispatched two empanadas each and shortly followed this up with a chicken and rice, both from road-side shacks - another trait that Belize had disappointingly lacked.

Pollo y Arroz

As well as the food and the frequency of its availability, the range and style of snack food in shops is important - that first foray into a decent sized shop is one of baited breath; are there any amazing, new snacks that are going to drag us out of the mental and physical troughs as we traverse this country? TBC for Guatemala…

The obvious flavour combo of pineapple, cactus and celery.
Very refreshing but it did just taste like pineapple

As we are more than just globe-trotting stomachs on bikes, the other key things we pay attention to are the people. Whilst stereotyping is a lazy trait, it is amazing how quickly you can get a feel for the people of the country as a rule of thumb - how quick they are to smile, how proud they are to tell you about their country, how ready they are to wave as you ride past or give you a friendly or supportive toot as they drive past (we usually opt for the possibly naive assumption that their hoots are intended in this good nature rather than “Get the *@%# out of the way you weirdo, I need space to drive my massive truck through!” alternative).

The houses, and their style, are also really interesting - whilst the vast majority of houses in Belize were brightly coloured slat boards on stilts, the Guatemalan houses sit firmly on the ground. Presumably, the border town in Belize has a similar selection of snakes, insects and rodents to keep at bay as the border town 500m away in Guatemala. We can only presume it is the effect of culture and history. Or the Guatemalans love snakes.

The landscape is not typically something that changes as a result of an abritrary manmade line on a map and this ebbs and flows far more generally as we ride. Two days before we left Belize, we were riding on flat land with parched vegetation - this slowly gave way to undulations and an increasingly verdant road side as we cycled along the delightfully but disappointingly unaptly named Hummingbird Highway; and that has continued into Guatemala. Our first day of riding we were rewarded with our first panoramic views from the top of a climb, with a beautiful sweeping landscape of lush green. Our one caveat to the fact that landscape doesn’t change with borders is that, sometimes, borders are a construct of landscape and not just two heads of state sat in a smoky room testing the straightness of their rulers. This was most clear at the Sudan/Ethiopia border (for so many reasons, one of the most stark border crossings in the world) which has the Simian Mountains acting as the border. Needless to say, being welcomed to a country by a mountain range is not something we wish to repeat any time soon...where are the Andes again? 

Belize

Belize is a surprisingly diverse country - whilst we were looking forward to a break from having to ply our average-to-poor Spanish, as English is the official language, we were also exposed to a huge range of languages: English, Spanish, Kriol, Cantonese (every shop or supermarket in Belize seemed to be owned by a Chinese family which made for some bizarrely contrasting roadside signs - next to ‘Jazzy J’s All Night Wonder Bar’ sat ‘Li’s Shop’, and next to ‘De Bangin’ High Life’ was ‘Chan’s Restaurant’) - apparently there is also Mayan, Mennonite German and Garifuna although we didn’t come across it. The Mennonite community surprisingly come from former Prussia, via Canada (which was not conservative enough), onto Mexico and then Belize - they therefore speak a form of German. Obvs.

Pub quiz fact: The barrier reef off the east coast of Belize is the second biggest in the world. In the 17th century, this made it a great safe haven for English and Scottish pirates who had a penchant for raiding Spanish galleons heading to their colonies to the North and South. The Spanish persuaded the English government to clamp down on this nefarious activity in 1670 turfing all the pirates out of gainful employment - so they set off to the Belize mainland and started to tap the plentiful supply of mahogany and create Belize’s first major industry. In doing so, they intermingled with the Garifuna population (effectively the slaves in the Carribean) and the result was the Kriol community - who speak a wonderful derivation of English: “How are you?” = “How de doody?” “Get out of here!” = “Haul your rass!” Hearing the Kriol people speak Spanish with a carribean accent is also a real joy. 

The other seemingly significant group is Americans - there seemed to be large swathes of US expats and tourists - there are direct flights from Florida, it offers warmth during the US winter and it’s comparitively affordable. The number of US estate agents’ signs by the side of the road was testament to the ongoing procession of American retirment homes being built in beautiful, lush Belizean countryside.  

Another character we met whilst riding was an English entrpreneur, who had bought up some jungle ten years ago, and following some dodgy experiences, was finally getting round to clearing the plot, planting all sorts of fruit trees and insect/bird friendly-flora, with the intention of eventually creating a yoga retreat. He let us camp in his recently cleared bit of jungle, where we were privy to a wonderful show of fireflies in the evening, as well as the pleasure of coming face to face with a snake and a scorpion in the ‘toilet’ (bunch of dried palm fronds over a long drop).  

Machete armed as we follow a stream up into the jungle

Sadly on the riding side, we didnt really get that 'yipeeeeee' feeling as we swooshed through Belize - the roads were awful; there was pretty much one paved road across the country and, as our previous blog attests to, some horrific off-road (we have since found out that hire cars are not allowed to drive on the unpaved stretch that we endured due to the risk of damage). 

The Belizean equivalent of the A3

One place we did visit that was akin to paradise on earth was Caye Caulker (pronounced ‘Key Corker’ in a carribean accent) - a beautiful island (or should we say islands - it was wrought in two by a hurricane in the 60s which split the island broadly in the middle, imaginatively named by the locals as ‘the Split’...). This is close to the aforementioned reef and so we did some wonderful snorkelling, seeing various rays, nurse sharks, barracuda and beautiful coral.

Law Enforcement Caye Caulker-Style

The nature throughout Belize was stunning - so many birds greeted us in the morning, bright butterflies joined our journey alongside us for fleeting moments and the Belize Zoo (focused on protecting a conservation corridor) was spectacular.

If all jaguars were like this, we had nothing to fear

One minor drawback of Belize was that, in spite of being at the same latitude as the Yucatan, it was an hour behind. This made for 3.45am alarms to be up and packed for first light, and therefore cooler riding, at 5am. Even by our standards, 3.45am is a pretty heroic wake-up call - it certainly reminds us that this isn’t a holiday!

Feeling the gap between expectations and reality

We are largely navigating with the use of Google maps. I don't know how anyone did anything before Google maps. (Obviously I do, and in other moments I lament the passing of that world, but for our purposes on this trip, I don't!). It helps us pick the most direct route, or a quieter back road, a scenic road, places where we might camp, villages where we can top up on water and food. It's brilliant. We do have paper maps too, and a cursory glance at one this morning sewed a profoundly important seed in setting our expectations for the journey ahead.

We've heard great things about a road in Belize called the Hummingbird Highway. Riding it meant going somewhat out of our way, but there is a Coastal Highway that loops down the east of the country which would give us two sides of a triangle in order to take in the Hummingbird Highway. What I noticed on the map just before we set off, but which hadn't been obvious on Google maps, was that this road was not as major as the alternative, and shorter, highway that we were foregoing. When we turned onto the detour after 3km yesterday morning, we discovered it wasn't actually paved.

We've ridden a lot of unpaved road before so we are pretty familiar with having to seriously readjust our expectations of how fast we might go and the knackering level of concentration required. We pushed to the back of our minds the jaguars, pumas and oceolots we’d admired in the Belize Zoo the evening before, and the work going on around this area, as a ‘conservation corridor’, to help these endangered species move between the north and south of the country. The absence of any other people, cars, building or any sign of life for several hours didn't help this.  But the road was beautiful, and we had it to ourselves so we savoured(ish) the moment and kept pushing.

We’ve not ridden roads like this fully loaded before, and as the unpaved section went on and on, our panniers bounced and our bikes shuddered. What small inkling the paper map had earlier provided that the road was unpaved also indicated that this might go on for 40 km; the unseen behind each corner promises the potential of something not yet known - yesterday, we filled that void with images of beautiful smooth tarmac.

We routinely lie to ourselves. We give ourselves certainty where we have no real evidence to presume. But we do. So when, with our tolerance for the bone jarring and wrist clenching at rock bottom, we hit upon the junction where we’d expected the blessed tarmac to appear and it didn't, we were outraged. Well, mostly we were exhausted, but there is no space for being exhausted when you still have another 40 km to ride, so it's better expressed as outrage!

We pushed on another 20km before the tarmac rose to meet us. We've ridden routes that were much tougher than this, but as we discover again and again, when we're hot, tired and hungry, managing our expectations of how tough it will be is so important. Yesterday it was the gulf between our expectation and reality that made it so hard. Until 5 minutes before we set off, we had no inkling we wouldn't be cruising along (probably bumpy) tarmac for the whole journey.

We finished the day tired, but we set up our tent with a fantastic view down a beautiful valley ready for a good night's sleep. We often underestimate how astonishing the rejuvenating impact of shade, rest, water and salt is. In many ways yesterday was great, and not just because it is over. We conceived of this trip knowing that it would be tough and challenging in moments. But you don't know when then those moments will emerge or will how they will manifest. These are the most satisfying and rewarding, that we know we’ll remember.

Finding our rhythm in Mexico

In deciding to start in Cancun, and focus on the Yucatan peninsular, we knew that we’d be using Mexico as a sort of ‘warm up’. This is very flat land, with long and remarkably straight roads that stretch out directly in front of you for many kilometers. The road surface is very good and petrol stations are accompanied by well stocked Seven Elevens (read: ice creams) or similar.  Any one of these qualities are individually things we are likely to crave in due course, but if we are honest, their combination has made cycing through the Yucatan a little bit boring.  

In its favour, the somewhat monotenous road has been punctuated by wonderful places to visit along the way - largely in the form of stunning places to swim (cenotes, the sea, Lake Bacalar) but also the impressive Mayan ruins at Chichen Itza.

The contrast between the road and our stop offs

In reality Mexico has mostly been about finding our rhythm.  

In the early days on the road we’ve observed ourselves wanting to be able to routinise (if that’s not a word then it should be) some of what we do, to make elements of this journey feel ‘normal’ and ‘the way we do things’. This is formed in our minds through (very limited) repetition, for example if Ali makes (lumpy) porridge on the stove whilst Lizzie (inefficiently) packs up the tent two days in a row - that, for now, is how mornings work.

These patterns are about making decision making easier so that we can save our energy for the good stuff.  For example, we are quickly establishing things like expectations about distance, times of day to cycle, the kinds of places we feel comfortable camping, the types of snacks we might buy.  None of these things actually dictate what any given day will look like; for example, who we might chat with whilst we munch on our (second) breakfast some place, some hours and some distance into the morning, but it means each decision isn’t exhausting to make.

These are all things which we know will change quickly and regularly along our way, but on a journey where it is possible for so much to feel uncertain, these sort of expectations give us some sense of stability from which to both be able to engage with and enjoy the constant stimulation we find around us. It sounds like a given, but something as simple as the fact that we know we are going to get up and cycle for the next x number of days, or until we get to y place, takes away a lot of emotional energy that would be required if we woke up each morning asking ourselves ‘do we feel like getting on our bikes today?’  

So this routine in one area (the riding) feels like it is really beginning to allow us to engage with the novelty, intrigue and stimulation we are finding by traversing through somewhere which, for a both of us, is a wholly new and foreign part of the world.  

So then what about Mexico?  It is a big old country, and we are very aware that we’ve seen only a small portion, but how has that matched up against the sterotypes we brought with us? Honestly, there has not been a sombrero in sight; we’ve not had even a whiff of Tequilla (although perhaps we weren’t trying hard enough); we have seen turtles (although no mice shouting ‘Ariba Ariba’); and we have seen a pretty high volume of well above average size and style mostaches. Oh, and we’ve eaten a LOT of tacos. Fairwell Mexico. Bring on Belize. 

Cenotes

One of Yucatan’s most spectacular and stunning attractions is the thousands of cenotes that litter the landscape - formed by the geological structure of the area, they are freshwater pools with a huge range of idiosyncrasies that invite our hot, tired and dusty bodies to plunge in and refresh ourselves.

A cenote is a natural pit, or sinkhole, resulting from the collapse of limestone bedrock that exposes groundwater underneath. This sometimes takes the form of big sinkholes in the ground, sometimes of large open pools and sometimes even in cave systems, which to dive instructors are a license to print money.

Our first encounter with these marvels was at Cenote Azul - we were cycling past at about 7.30am on a Sunday morning (as one does - a result of our desire to rise at stupid o’clock to beat the searing heat of the middle of the day). At first we were hesitant whether to stop - when, like a tortoise (moving into a new shell and shifting all its walking sticks and hare-related trophies), you are carrying your tent, your means of transport and all your gear, it is hard to trust a man you have only just met that it is safe to leave this all out of sight by the ticket office. However, we locked them up and took our key valuables (wallet, passport and chocolate) and had the enormous pleasure of finding the cenote completely deserted (see previous reference to ungodly hour on a Sunday morning). The water was absolutely crystal clear and took on a beautiful blue hue in several places; there were rocky overhangs with stalactites protruding downwards; there was a beautiful light show as the sunlight reflected off the water and danced on the overhanging rock. In short, it was stunning. We spent half an hour paddling, swimming, diving and watching brightly-coloured birds sweeping low over the water into their nests. And took loads of pictures to make sure we could Instagram them and make people at home jealous. Then we dried off, put our cycling gear back on and cycled on our merry way, before another soul had even turned up at the site - magic.

Cenote Azul

Our second cenote experience was a much more touristy affair - having been distracted by cycling and visiting a local Mayan ruin called Chichen Itza, we didn’t make it to Ik Kil until mid-afternoon, by which time the tourist buses were in full flow. Nevertheless, this was spectacular for an entirely different reason; whereas Cenote Azul was more of the open pool variety, Cenote Ik Kil is a huge sinkhole, where trees and plants have roots descending down through the void between the earth and the water 50m below. We had a brief swim here, marvelling at the view when you float on your back, surrounded by very tame catfish, gazing at the sky above; having not just jumped off our bikes, it didn’t have quite the same restorative effect but the visual impact more than made up for it.

Cenote Ik Kil

In spite of the thousands of unique cenotes across the area, somehow we conspired to visit two with the same name - fear of change perhaps? Cenote Azul the Second was a beautiful, large open sinkhole some ninety terrifying metres deep. We dived down about to about 50cm as we were feeling particularly brave. 

Cenote Azul The Second

As well as being tourist draws and elixir for cyclist, cenotes have historically been a key part of the Mayan culture. Yucatan has very few rivers and freshwater sources and so cenotes offered a life-giving supply of water to early civilisations. Lots of settlements were built around cenotes, much like towns are built around rivers in Europe. This meant that Mayans deified and worshipped them - in order to ensure they continued to provide, they were the regular site of human sacrifices. The Sacred Cenote at Chichen Itza, out of bounds to layfolk like us, has produced several sets of human remains - as well as the more well known method of sacrifice (I won’t paint you a picture but watch Apocalypto to get an idea), Mayan elders used to tie up the hands and feet of the poor, helpless victim and push them off a platform 50m up to double backflip with a 360-side rotation and crash into the water, promptly drowning but ensuring the supply of, now slightly polluted, water would continue. I’m glad we didn’t cool off in that cenote..

The Sacred Cenote, Chichen Itza

Are We Ready?

Actually, yes, it feels like we probably are. In a way we have been preparing for this trip for months. What started as a frivolous conversation, where we goad each other with what we might do in our lives, seems to have gathered pace and turned into something very (slightly terrifyingly) real. And now it's here.

So what is it? We think we are cycling from Cancun to Quito. We say ‘think’ because really we don't know what will happen. And we're happy about that; for once, we think we've bought space for a bit of spontaneity.  If we manage something like 70km a day for 3 days in 4, we've got enough time to ride 4,000 miles. We've gone for a low estimate on our daily distance because if you take a look at a topographical map of the region it is mind blowingly mountainous. Think the Alps, on stilts, with enormous sombreros on.  Actually, that sounds pretty cool, I bet we’ll get some good views from up there. If we can hold our heads high enough to see them as we lug what amounts to (bikes and panniers all in) 45kg each.  We actually stuck our heads in the sand about this bit until we were forced by Thomas Cook at check-in to see exactly how heavy the load will be (and paid for it).

Now you see it...How to make 90kg disappear

So, are we physically ready? If that involves lots of cycling, then no. Ali has been being put through his paces by a physio building up his core and basically trying to help him stop being so wonky (nose aside). Lizzie has been being put through her paces by ex-military hard nuts, lighting up Shoreditch Park with her blindingly glowing cheeks as she sought to ‘win’ what wasn't a competition. We did go on one bike ride with all our gear, which we cut down in length substantially due to ferociously inclement weather and went home for tea instead. It's not going to rain in central america though is it, so it wouldn't have helped prepare us anyway…

As an alternative Ali's opted for a shave to reduce wind resistance.

Scratching an Itch

Last year, as we debated whether or not to buy a car, we used to joke (i.e. Lizzie believed and Ali rolled his eyes) that owning a car would make us soft. Hopping into your own warm, mobile room which you can use to get easily from A to B, closets you from interaction with the world around you - good and bad.  Not having to work out how to navigate public transport, enduring irritating delays, waiting with the masses for for the bus in the rain. There is, of course, an argument that we lead busy lives and a car would allow us to move between places quicker and pack even more in; but keeping an eye on the principle of allowing ourselves to become soft is an important one.  In this case, the efficiency argument won out.

In the end, we bought a car because we bought a kayak, and the kayak needed transporting.  We spent last winter speeding along in our private saloon (or, tin box) three times a week to Barking, where we routinely, and often in the dark, plunged into the filthy and freezing waters of the River Roding.  This car wasn't making us soft, it was a facilitator of something akin (but more humiliating) to waiting for the bus in the rain.

Right now, life feels quite comfortable. Don't get me wrong, there is plenty that is challenging, work can be hard, relationships difficult, health complicated, but the structure that we have is simple and effective (a brilliant group of friends nearby, good, interesting jobs, a cosy flat that we love) it feels safe, and known.  It facilitates a propensity for softness.

So it seems obvious to want to disrupt it (Lizzie believes, Ali rolls his eyes).

We're not brave, or stupid, enough to totally rock the boat. We don't want to churlishly throw away what we have, but we do want to challenge ourselves, to put ourselves out in the world and see what happens. Like our kayaking activities, which were intense, ‘character building’ and short lived (because it frankly wasn't that fun!) we are have a bounded, manageable, intimidating and hugely exciting plan to cycle through Central America. We leave in a month.

Uncomfrotable (having just dragged ourselves out of the river)

Comfortable

Modern day explorer, and strong advocate of adventuring for all, Alastair Humphreys writes about the compulsion that we have tried to describe in a much more eloquent way in There Are Other Rivers. Here’s how he describes it:

There are three stages of flabbiness in life.  Each is more restricting and stifling than the one before. They creep insidiously over me like vines until it takes one hell of a struggle to escape their snuffling up my life then I know it is time to hit the road.

The first stage of flabbiness, and the easiest to fix, is physical flabbiness.  It begins when busy schedules, dark winter days and eating too much win the devil’s foot race against the part of me that knows that exercise isn’t a waste of time but actually makes me more efficient, alert and happy.  Despite knowing this I am still at times sufficiently idle to let my standards slip and my fitness slide away.  Fitness is like chasing a shoal of fish; difficult to master and get on top off, easy to lose.  If I don’t go running for a few days, I feel cooped up and ratty.  Leave it a few more and the habit is broken.  I know I need to run.  I want to run.  But I just can’t be bothered.  Flabbiness had begun to set in, slowly, invasively, like cataracts.  Before I know it I am easing out my belt buckle and blaming my sloth on the effects of my age.

The second stage is mental flabbiness.  Give up exercising, stop forcing myself out the front door for a run and inevitably my mind starts to sag too. I used to feel alert and inquisitive.  I read lots of books.  But one evening I came home tired.  Flopping down onto the sofa I reached for the television remote instead.  Suddenly I am gripped by light entertainment.  I realise how pleasant life can be if I stop thinking about it.  Is it much simpler to exist than to live. I’ve got a dishwasher and a coffee percolator and I drink at home most nights with the TV on.  I sit slumped in front of the telly flicking around channels until I have frittered away enough of my life that it’s time to go to bed.  

Finally I start forgetting any of these things, then I know I am on a slippery slope towards the third, terminal, stage of flabbiness; moral flabbiness!

• Each day I am one day closer to my death.  No matter how aware I am of this, it is still sometimes pretty difficult to believe in my own death.
• I don’t know when I will die, so putting things off to an indeterminate date in an un-guaranteed future is pretty daft.
• I am happiest when I have a sense of purpose.
• There are so many places I would still like to see, so many interesting people to meet, so much to do.  And there is so little time.  Before I know it I’ll be dead and what a bloody waste of that will be if I’ve just been arsing around.

By the time I have succumbed to the debilitating onslaught of physical and mental flabbiness I am already well on the primrose path to moral flabbiness.  Not only have I conceded my physical health and settled for candy floss in place of a brain, I have accepted that this is good enough for my life.  I have become comfortably numb.  I have decided that Friends repeats and a Chinese takeaway are sufficient return for the privilege of being born, healthy and intelligent enough, in one of the richest, most free countries on the planet.  I have  a passport to explore the world.  I will always be able to find some sort of work.  I will never starve to death.  It's hard really for me to come up with any decent excuses.  The choice is all mine.

Life is too brief and too rich to tiptoe through half-heartedly, rather than galloping at it with whooping excitement and ambition. And so I explode in rage just in time. It's time to go prowling in the wilderness. It is time to live violently again. It is time to sort my life out. This can be done in two ways. I either jump in the nearest cold river for a bracing swim, or I plan a trip, set a start date and, come what may, begin.