I am loved! (by Nicaragua) (and in a sick way)

Post date: Jun 28, 2010 10:32:14 PM

My first Nicaraguan morning started out nicely with the lightest sprinkles, cool air, green everywhere, and cows lazily munching away on the sides of the roads. The bike felt healthy and I was making some good time because the road was straight, flat, and virtually empty. When there are cars, they are typically slower than I, so I pass them. The road is two-laned, usually.

As I was passing a large truck on this two-laned highway, he started to drift over into my lane, the passing lane, even though there was nothing in front of us. After a two or three feet over the center line, I began to think that he wasn’t just not paying attention. At first I sped up, but either my bike had lost some oomph or the truck accelerated as well, because the speed at which he was drifting into me was better than the speed I had to get in front of him. So, I hit the brakes and pulled over to the edge of the pavement, but he pushed me further until I had no choice but to get off the pavement!

Bouncing along at 60mph over rough gravel Nicaraguan roadside, which steeply dropped into grass two feet from the pavement, I was attempting to brake to a stop while scanning the ground in front of me. And I noticed in front of a cement wall and a mound of dirt.

Unable to maintain the rough gravel traction, I slid off into the tall grass, thinking there was little chance I’d slow down enough before something popped up from inside the grass. The only thing that popped up was me, when I narrowly avoided the cement wall (the witness said my left box actually grazed it), in front of which was a one to two foot mound of earth. Me and the bike leaped from the mound, landed in such a wobble with all that cumbersome luggage, that the bike toppled into an immediate crunch. I skid and rolled, instantly feeling pressure in my left leg. The sound of your bike breaking is nauseating.

I leaped up, feeling somewhat victorious at being able to leap up, and I threw my hands up in the air as I stared at the disappearing truck as if to say, “What the heck was that? Where are you going? Thanks!”

Before I knew it there were two or three cars and over ten men, women, and school-aged children surrounding me. They, like me, were clearly concerned about me and my bike while simultaneously hating the driver of the truck. One of them spoke English and said he would drive after the truck driver. Another lady brought me a glass of water. The men helped me lift the bike. Everyone helped me collect the broken pieces. I examined the damages in exasperation. “This is the end,” I thought then and there. I was so heartbroken that I felt no heart for adventure any longer. After a couple minutes, I just looked at all my helpers and just laughed crazily.

A nice man by the name of Gerard, who lived in Miami for one year, used his truck to tow my bike to a Honda shop he felt was high quality. He tried to make me laugh, and I did when he talked about how I flew through the air when I hit the mound. He said he it happened right in front of him. Gerard declined money for his help and said, “God Bless!”

Re-inspecting the bike in a more secure environment, I concluded that the injuries were not life-threatening. The plastic was broken in several places, including the mounts for the dash that holds my speedometer, RPM meter, temperature gauge, and 12 volt outlet. The front right turn signal light disconnected, as did the dash wiring. The right foot peg was ripped off and the threads were stripped. The right aluminum luggage box came off in the crash, but it remained closed. The mounts were just bent. With some gluing, bending, reconnecting the wires, and drilling a couple holes, the bike could be fixed. Best of all, it started right up.

As for me, I was wearing 100% of my protective gear, but I still got some skin-opening scrapes on my forearm and belly from where the jacket slid up. The bike must have landed on my leg again. I’m walking with a limp due a deep bruise in the muscle just over my left knee.

The shop owner at first said, “Three days,” but after he examined it further and heard that I have a boat leaving for Columbia in four days, he said, “tomorrow.” His son drove me to my $10/night hotel, Hotel California. I was settled in my bedroom by 11am.

Looks like Nicaragua likes me, too, but not as much as Mexico. Mexico was like an insidious, demented lover who just won’t let you go because they just love to sink their claws into you and draw and poison your blood. The problem with such relationships is that they have their charming sides as well, and so you stick with them a little longer than you should. At some point you just have to say “enough is enough!” and get the heck out, like I did by gunning for Guatemala.

Now I’m in Nicaragua, going through the same old routine, waiting for my bike. Yesterday I explored the town some. Chinendega, I think is the name. Met a 19 year old young man at a shoe stand in the market where I bartered for sandals that I eventually paid $4 for. Also got some Nicaraguan honey down that street for peanut butter-honey-bread later. His only English were numbers. He likes America and American women. He wanted to know if I had any such women he could meet. I referred him to Couchsurfer.org. That evening he stopped by the hotel. We walked downtown, attempted to communicate, and got rained on. There was nothing to do, but I did see an amusing flyer draped over the downtown street. It is the type of flyer hung to advertise parades or community events. What I found amusing was that in the title it said, “Use a condom.” The event was some festival held earlier that day. Interesting reminder. I returned after I had had my fill of rain, nothing happening, and bad communication (this time I know the speaker just doesn’t pronounce his words. Accents vary by region also.

I’m too lazy to organize my journals by theme, so here are couple other things I want to put down for the record. First, some Nicaraguan police tried to extort some money from me before the accident. They failed. Second, my bike’s repairs in Guatemala City: the front and rear tire changes are pretty good, but the front tire I got from Garry looks to be wearing awfully fast. Better check the tire pressure. The spark plug was brushed and it’s tube blown out with compressed air, the carburetor got a new plunger and plastic connector (the choke now works), the carb’s regained its original main jet, which is bigger and should help the bike perform better in high altitudes, the bike is now getting 40-45 mpg like it used to, the vibration is improved but not gone (and the mechanic doesn’t know why), new front brake pads in spite of the slightly warped front brake disk, the turn signals, brights, and horn now work, and a couple missing bolts were replaced. The mechanic’s overall evaluation was that the bike would get me to Argentina, but that I should sell it after that. He said the wreck wasn’t nice and that the chassis/frame needing to be straightened is not good. Duh. I remind myself that the motorcycle is not a shelf piece but a tool by which I transport myself through exotic lands. Once that purpose is served, I do question whether or not I will retain it.

Now to research the boats heading to Columbia, then to see if my bike is ready at the shop.