The experience

El Salvador, Honduras, and Nicaragua by motorcycle.

My visit to El Salvador is largely an accident, but I love it. The people are friendly, I never feel remotely unsafe, the air is good, the architecture beautiful. I consider staying there forever, but after a week, the road plays its siren song and I know it’s time to proceed.

The bike hits the road, the adrenaline hits the veins. The leather jacket amplifies the high temperatures, and heatstroke becomes a serious concern. My only hope for survival is to twist the air conditioning knob in my right hand, hard — speed limits are unenforced in Central America. The winding pacific coast road becomes a blur, and I eventually reach my destination without issue. Salvadoran roads are surprisingly well maintained.

Sunday morning, I find myself at the border to Honduras. Four border posts today — exit El Salvador, enter Honduras, exit Honduras, enter Nicaragua. A marathon of bureaucracy, an almost greater test of grit than the ride itself. The Salvadoran customs guy watches, amused, as I swat away the swarm of would-be fixers.

He turns out to speak excellent English, an increasingly rare occurrence down here. He too has a motorcycle — a 250cc Italika cruiser from Mexico.

“One day, man, I want to do a trip like you! I will go all the way down to Patagonia!”

“Do it! Why not start tomorrow?”

I hope he goes.

Eventually, I head out. Entering Honduras is a now familiarly chaotic experience — brush off fixers, stand in line, clear customs, hit the photocopy shack, clear immigration, hand out money left and right, stamp stamp stamp, pleasantly discover that all the stuff I left on the bike hasn’t been stolen. At this point, people are starting to become impressed with the California plates.