Colombia to Mexico (January 2004)
Colombia and Mexico
“Years from now, you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn’t
do than by the ones you did do. So, throw off the bowlines. Sail away from
the safe harbour. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.” � Mark Twain
If you want to XXXX the Aussies, use a Jonny
Sitting at anchor in Zihuatanejo (Mexico) in the gentle cool of early
morning sunlight I am watching pelicans and frigate birds cruise the skies.
The bay – almost a full circle – is lined with palm trees, beaches and
not-too-tasteless hotels. About 30 other yachts are spaced over the bay and
rocking gently. Scrubby hills stretch up past the bay looking inviting. It’s
a good thing that they look inviting for that is where I am headed tomorrow:
back on the road, back on the bike, back to the hills.
Between Colombia and Panama there lies 80km of jungle, sprawling from coast
to coast with not one road running through it: the notorious Darien Gap. I
had to hitch a ride on a yacht to skirt round “The Gap”. A few years ago I
cycled the length of Central America with a very good friend [Dave has now
sadly passed on: to the 'sweet lazy life' of fat cash, Toni'n'Guy hair
salons, shiny suits and "a dash more lemonade in my half pint of shandy
please" wimpishness rather than accept my invitation to cycle round the
world]. So when I was offered the chance to continue sailing on the yacht up
to Mexico (and then continue cycling from where I left off last time) with
very little sacrifice on my behalf except for doing the cooking, translating
Spanish, sitting around a lot while broken stuff got fixed, shuffling
bureaucratic paperwork, being lumbered with the graveyard watch (midnight to
4am) every night and reading atrocious novels (“…his eyes were cold flint as
the hot lead flew. But only he could save the world now. And maybe, just
maybe, the beautiful woman he loved”).
Leaving Colombia (with a tear in the eye) we hoisted the sails, I heaved
overboard, and we set course for Panama’s San Blas Islands. The San Blas are
a true tropical cliché – tiny islands no higher than a palm tree ringed by
sand and circled in coral reefs. By night, phosphorescence danced from your
fingers as you swam and saucers of moonlight spilled over the calm waters.
We anchored for a few days to repair some stuff: the true definition of
yacht cruising is “working on your boat in exotic locations”. Something is
always broken and yacht owners must feel like pelicans: whichever way they
look there is always an enormous bill in front of them.
The local Cuna Indian ladies wear beautiful outfits – beneath pudding bowl
fringes and rouged cheeks they wear a tight gold ring in their nose (like a
bull), bead bangles tight up their forearms and calves and beautiful
sarongs. The kids wore eclectic shorts and shirts. To my delight, one little
boy (Eric) was sporting a Leeds United shirt (fake, obviously, circa 1997).
He posed for a photo with me, smiling at my obvious excitement. The ladies
would regularly paddle out to the yacht in their dugout canoes to try and
sell their famous tapestries (molas). The highlight of traveling by bicycle
is that you do not create an immediate impression of your vast relative
wealth. But when you arrive by yacht it is impossible to conceal or deny!
Unfortunately, the obvious gulf then becomes too great for the bridging of
normal relationships. And so, after a day or two the friendly smiling
Indians realised that rather than selling us molas or coconuts or fish it
was far easier to just come and ask us for free stuff. I found becoming
little more than a mobile cash point (rather than a fellow human) sad yet
understandable. Come back, Rita, all is forgiven!
One’s man paradise is another’s purgatory. Wearing my homemade England Rugby
shirt my mind was as far from the snorkeling and fresh lobster as I was from
a TV or radio. What a torture to be in paradise during the Rugby World Cup
final! Not for another week did I hear the glorious result. So
at least four people now owe some cash to Hope and Homes and I am spared
having to carry a brick on the bike.
Panama is famous for her canal. (In fact, were it not for the canal then the
nation itself would not exist and it would still be part of Colombia. But
that’s another story and just another small chapter in the interesting
history of the USA). A palindrome sums up the country – “a man, a plan, a
canal: Panama!” I spent my birthday sat in the immigration offices and then
several days waiting our turn to transit the canal. I was looking forward to
the prospect of seeing one of mankind’s most impressive accomplishments
first hand. The world of shipping converges at this oceanic cross-roads and
ships of every size and shape were patiently waiting out in the bay. The
wait and the expense are small in comparison to the alternative of sailing
all the way around South America and the perilous (and alluring) Cape Horn.
The day my father transited the Panama Canal was the day JFK was shot. I
rather hoped history might repeat itself as we entered the canal. Our little
37 foot boat crept up behind the impressive towering butt of a massive
freight ship as the enormous, riveted metal gates of the first lock eased
closed behind us and I waved farewell to the Atlantic Ocean. Three
impressive locks later and we motored out into man-made Lake Gatun, 85 feet
above sea-level. Scores of tiny islands (formerly known as hill-tops) dot
the lake and it was odd to see large ships emerging slowly from behind a
forested hillside. The transit took all day, ending with three downward locks
and the lock doors edging open to release us into the Pacific Ocean.
Impressive.
After a tedious week of bureaucracy and repairs in Panama City we eventually
set sail for Mexico. I learned to use a sextant (how amazing to be able to
pinpoint your position on earth by looking at the sun!) and relished being
on the move 24 hours a day. As Thom Gunn wrote in the poem ‘On the Move’ -
“At worse, one is in motion; and at best, reaching no absolute, in which to
rest, One is always nearer by not keeping still”. I am edging ever closer to
home.
With only three people on board I was on watch alone each night from
midnight to 4am. I enjoyed the responsibility, the glowing green radar
screen, the cycle of the moon and re-acquainting myself with the stars of
the Northern hemisphere. My favourite Southern cross is still just visible
above the horizon but not for much longer. One night the GPS ticked past 90
degrees West: I am a quarter of the way round the world now.
The ocean is full of life – rays leaping and splashing, glowing
phosphorescence at night, swirling bait balls of tiny fish herded together
by larger ones, birds trying (with admirable perseverance and little common
sense) to land atop the wildly swaying mast. Gormless turtles asleep on the
surface until, woken confused by our approach, they paw at the surface and
try their best to dive quickly. A neat gliding formation of the Mexican air
force (pelicans) welcomed us into Mexican waters in front of an enormous
pink sunset. Whales broached occasionally and, best of all, dolphins would
race in our bow wave, leaping high out of the water, spinning and flipping
spectacularly. And then one morning we pulled into a small bay to refill our
water tanks and were told that Saddam Hussein had been captured. What a
crazy world there is out there!
The Gulf of Tehuantepec is notorious for gales and storms. We hugged the
coast tightly, moving like guilty kids who are sure that trouble is about to
catch up with them. It hit us in the night. The whetted wind shrieked and
ropes cracked and we dropped all the sails. The foredeck lights were casting
wild shadows from the thrashing American and Mexican flags flying from the
mast as I clawed my way up to the bow to help pack a sail with the boat
heeling and the salt spray stinging, holding on very tight and feeling very
alive. The storm peaked at 56 knots of wind. The grey waves spat cold spray
across the marble-streaked waters. When I was helming, soaked by the waves
we were crashing into, I was singing at the top of my voice the Foo Fighters
song “it’s times like these you learn to live again”. Unfortunately I only
knew that one line but it was a spectacular Christmas Eve.
And now it is time to ride again, first of all to Mexico City to complete
the chain from my past ride and then up towards the USA. 2002 began
anxiously for me, with Africa lying frightening and unknown in front of me.
2003 started nervously with an ocean crossing and the enormity of South
America ahead of me. But 2004 looks pretty relaxed: a few weeks up Mexico,
then a mere 8000km of North America which I am really looking forward to.
I hope that you had a wonderful Christmas and best wishes for 2004. I
apologise to all my fans who have emailed me eagerly wondering why there has
been so long between updates: you are both very kind.
Interested in Mexico? See it by bike: www.bikemexico.com. Or depress yourself by reading the fascinating “Endangered Mexico“.
