Panajachel and KLaRa’s Best.

The English couple disappeared the day before to see some ruins in the countryside. I’d been hoping to fly with them because they were a delightful pair, but while they were gone, the wind improved and I finally got my flight. Two, actually. (This second pic is Christian packing up with the usual curious crowd) They were both spectacular. A pilot from Canada (Thanks Simon!!) loaned me a gopro holder that mounts in the canopy, and I put one on my helmet as well. It is perhaps one of the most scenic flights I’ve ever been on. I know I’ll be back here someday to relax, vacation and fly this place much, much more. It is a visual and soaring delight.. Check out some of the landscape and a bit of my first one in the video!

I finally took an antibiotic. You can get them over the counter here in Guatemala. It was a generic Cipro. I got ten pills for 20 Quetzales. 500Mg twice a day for 5 days. That’s what I settled on. I feel better today but I was worried I might have to call emergency services last night.. I was parked next to the ceramic bowl violently cramped, sweating and patently vile most of the night.

When I woke, I was exhausted from the ordeal… I freshened up with quick shower (this is what we call a suicide shower.. it’s how the water gets hot) and pack the bike.

The wind is predicted to be perfect today, but frankly, after my wreck in Colombia two years ago, I’m not willing to risk flying while feeling less than grand.  I’m still behind schedule and want to see Antigua.

I say goodbye to my new friends and plot a route on my iPhone. I shoot straight for Antigua…. Well, perhaps shoot isn’t exactly the right word. The road is rough. Really rough. I’ve been on dirt roads that were way better than this paved one. It has been patched in every place possible and potholed where it hadn’t been patched.. some of them more than a foot deep. Thankfully, there wasn’t a good deal of traffic on the road. An occasional truck struggling to get up the steep mess. I didn’t think about the smallness of the road or its condition much until I saw a sign diverting traffic onto a dirt path away from the main blacktop.

At some point, I think a long time ago, there was a flood. Or an earthquake. Or something major, because the road is gone. Gone and replaced with a fifteen foot ravine.. with a river. The river isn’t less than seventy five feet across. I park in front of it and stare. I get off the bike. Maybe I should throw a rock in and see how deep it is? As I consider my predicament, a red Dodge truck comes up behind me. There are three bronze men eyeballing me. They ask me (in Spanish) if I can cross. I tell them I don’t know, they shake their heads, squeeze past my parked moto and drive through. The water is above their tires.. but as they cross to the other side, a big white truck.. (one of the ones I’d passed fifteen minutes earlier) comes growling up behind me.

Crap.

I am in the sticks of Guatemala (exactly where everyone told me not to go) and I have to cross a river with my bike. Or go back to where I came from. Or make all the traffic stop for God-only-knows how long.

I remember what my friend told me. “Just go faster.” so I get back on and gun it.

The bike leaps into the water and bounces off the invisible rocks. I’m sure I’m going down, but I’m not letting off the throttle until I do. The fetid smelling water is over my knees, spraying a giant rooster tail over my windshield. I can feel my legs cooling in the river and the suspension getting worked as the bike nearly dances… or jumps maybe.. through the river. It has a life of its own.. it leaps forward and from side to side I can feel the rocks rolling and sliding under the tires.. I am jubilant as I reach the other side and roar up the dirt hill, pleased beyond anything at the ability of this motorcycle to carry me through that foul obstacle. I’m not sure the Beemer would have done as well.

Perhaps I should have spoken to someone earlier about my plan. I’m sure they would have chosen a different route. This is definitely the “back” way.

As I ride, I see men doing things I dont understand.. one fellow has a long pole.. maybe fifteen feet long and he is poking the low side of a sheer, white cliff. He is making a bit of a cave and as he pokes, a chunk of sand comes sliding down. He pokes again. More sand (I think it’s sand) It looks dangerous… like one poke in the wrong place would bring the whole face down and bury him.

Farther down, there is some kind of a mine.. Farther yet, there are five men doing something amidst large sized rocks in another river.. I can’t tell what they are doing? Panning for gold? Washing their trucks? I don’t know, but I don’t stop to inquire.. seems like a bad idea.

Nearly an hour later, I finally find the main highway and roll into Antigua.  Totally exhausted.