August 2nd - 5th, 2004

August 2nd

We leave San Cristobal in the afternoon at loooong last and bike up, even though our altitude is already quite high. We pass a giant military base in front of which grows a beautiful red flower with yellow specks. The altitude lowers the temperature somewhat; this we conclude is the cause for the local hairy variety of piglet. We see one of these mates and stop to take a picture. The rain wet and then an amazing Chiapaneco mole moved us into the afternoon. We procure peaches from a roadside vendor and invest in the essential roll of toilet paper. A bit warmer and drier we head off. The rain has turned the countryside into an effervescent green, which I love. Around four, we’re pooped so we scoot down a dirt track, toilet paper and all, and set up in a thorny humid spot.

August 3rd

We’re not quite early risers after our three-week ‘vacation’. About 15 men and women have walked down the track talking amongst themselves in a language I cannot place before we rise. We catch a glimpse of another person who was up way before us, wizzing down the road not far off, on a wooden go-kart. The day is temperate and we venture to accustom ourselves to the road again. After a substantial amount of uphill accustoming we zoom down and down into Comitan, which is 20kms sooner than our map had indicated.

On our way through a little green grassy valley an oncoming van is pulled over by an unmarked pickup. Four men jump out of the cab and surround the van. One of them shows an id to the driver. I can’t help but notice the holsterless pistol sticking out of his belt in the small of his back. I have no idea what this means but we conjecture that it’s some sort of border patrol or something.
In Comitan we coast the wrong way down several one-way streets, stop by the market for some food supplies, and rent a little room for the night. It’s really early to stop but we need to take it easy until our muscles are ready for more.

August 4th

A bird shits on my arm for the first time of the trip as we navigate the city streets out of Comitan. The same thing had happened to Johanne yesterday. We must be lucky. Two easyish days from the border, we bike on through flat and rolling terrain. To our surprise we pass a bridge with a sign saying Puente Quita Calzon. This translates to “Take off your underwear bridge”. All the bridges in Mexico have names but this one is by far the best. We continue with our repetitive motion until nightfall. We trespass looking for a campsite because we’re tired and it’s getting dark. The gate closed behind us, we set up our tent beside an empty concrete shack with a tin roof. Later, after dinner, as we begin to doze off into naked slumber we are awoken by an intrusive sound. A truck, revving its engine extremely hard, is approaching the gate. As we scramble through a panicky 30 seconds of dressing, they open the gate. The truck approaches to within five feet of our tent with its high beams shining directly on her. Five men in cowboy hats step out of the cab and we step out of the tent to explain. Needless to say we are scared to death but they soon assure us that everything is cool and that they are the owners who have come to check the level of the water tank. All five men verify the water level and they head off. Their engine seems to have fixed itself now that there’s no one else to scare. We head back to bed with a seriously increased amount of adrenalin in our bloodstreams.

August 5th, 2004

The road winds through the woods and we wind with it. We have lunch at a roadside restaurant and head off towards the border town of Ciudad Cuautemoc. The city turns out to not exist so our plans for internet are put on hold. Although sizable on the map Ciudad Cuautemoc consists of a bus stop, an immigration checkpoint, and ten houses. Closed pickup trucks full of deportees pass us bringing illegal immigrants back into Guatemala. The afternoon begins to scorch as we climb a serious hill. We pass corn plantations and a vast open valley stretches out on our right followed by mountains whose peaks are stuffed into pillows of cloud. A garbage dump on the roadside seems to be in immediate juxtaposition to beside someone’s cornfield whose tortillas I don’t want to eat.

Guatemala

After some serious hard work we arrive in Guatemala at the border town of La Mesilla. We pay 30 pesos for a visa even though all the tourists we’d talked to had paid 40 and drag our tired butts up and down the hill four times looking for a hotel that suits our needs. In the late evening we step outside the hotel two minutes looking for a meal. It looks like a war zone. Not a soul in site and everything is locked down tight. We run back to our room glad to not have met the unsavory character who would choose to be out in a place like this.