![]() Latino drifter waxes on the merits of Mexican brews whilst sipping, and also supping on chicharones:īohemia Obscura: I’m always wary of dark beers that come from warm climates, and with good reason too. …excerpt culled from the Latin American Press Gazette written some time ago in the recent past. On first glance and first vibration I’m liking old Nicaragua, but maybe we’ll do some more investigations mañana… Nicaraguan beers taste like any other beer south of the border, like a Bud or Miller Lite. I’m drinking a Toña now behind locked doors, safe. The air was cool and the roads curvy and smooth, the CB purring beneath like a monarch groomed sex kitten. ![]() I even had my own seguro at my side, shooing away any potential trouble. Out of Honduras and into Nicaragua in 20 minutes with a smile and no need for tramitadores. Nicaragua: Steeled for the worst, I crossed into Nicaragua this very morn. Or do you? Manchild, come out and playyyyy. This is a legitamately dangerous place and you don’t belong here. Everything shuts down at 8pm and gorgeous hookers, packs of stray wild dogs, and gangs of chicos in colorful soccer jerseys roam the streets like it’s the Warriors or RoboCop 3. Tegucigalpa is the capital of this strange and forgotten land. No mind, I let the tramitadores handle everything…for a few kopeks of course. You get your passport stamped in some no name concrete shed with a broken door. The aduana, or customs building where you check out/in your bike, is a plywood shack in El Salvador and in Honduras it’s a bombed out open air concrete hulk of a building. They chase you in tuk-tuks and on foot from one nation to the next, and through the no man’s land between. They paw and yell, all in a mad desperate rush to “help” you across the border and get their grubby lil’ mits on your hard earned Lempiras. Hordes of tramitadores rush a man at once as he pulls up on his steed at the end of a country. The border crossing on the Panamerican Highway exiting El Salvadorable and entering Honduro is exactly what one dreams of when they dream midnight dreams of Central American border crossings, a perfect throbbing Jungian nightmare. Honduras: One night in Tegucigalpa makes a hard man humble. No one uses them there so they send them here, said the man at the border. They like the Sacajawea dollar coins too. Not Quetzales or Lempiras or Cordobas or Balboas. Oh, yea they also use good ol’ greenbacks here. I got it back eventually after checking out of Mexico, but c’mon, how sketchy is that? El Salvador is a small country and I would cross it in a couple of days. In Mexico I had to put down a $200 deposit on my 1975 motorcycle as a guarantee that I wouldn’t sell it. I like El Salvador because they don’t charge you anything to enter their country. Whatever, take it or leave it.Įl Salvador: Crossing the border again from Guatemala into El Salvador by old Antigua way was pretty painless I guess. I liked it because there are ancient relics, churches mostly, crumbling and half destroyed from the great earthquake 300 years ago. ![]() I hated it because I couldn’t find a cheap bar. I liked it because you can camp for free behind the police station and I still have my tent. I’m in old Nicaraguaville at the moment, coming to you live and laying low, riding out my visa for the CA-4, that blockbuster stronghold of nations instilling fear into the economic superpowers of Europe and Asia.Īntigua: Guatemala’s touristic gem, is alright I guess. They’re all old school now and old hat, left in my wake, like an American shark, gotta keep moving lest we die, and then to gobble things up before the end of days. It’s 2012 now and the world is crumbling all around us and yet…we venture on. It’s been some time, indeed several moons, since we left the bosom of Antonio’s casa in old Guadalajaratown. Old Mexico man, tienes mi corazon! Te extrano.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
Details
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories |