MADMAN SEEKING ADVENTURE

view across cathedral square


GRANADA, NICARAGUA: JANUARY 31
Staying with Gillian and Joe for ever isn't an option. The bike waits. Joe would enjoy riding the bike. He rode a Vespa all round Europe and the Middle East. He would garage the Vespa for a few years where ever his journeying took him, return when the bug next struck.
Gillian met Joe in Kenya. He was flying tourists over the game reserve in a hot air baloon. He retired from professional balooning aged 65. A couple of years ago he canoed down the San Juan river. Now he needs a new adventure. He would make great company for Ming and I when we ride across China. And he is younger than me by six months.

PERFECT URBAN ARCHITECTURE

GRANADA, NICARAGUA: JANUARY 30

I am a very privledged guest in Gillian's and Joe's home in Granada. No need for corridors, no need for air conditioning. All rooms open to patios or the road. Through-drafts keep the air moving and cooled by water in the patios. A big room on the first floor between the two patios is open front and rear to stupendou views of the cathedral and volcano. That New World meld of Islamic and Hispanic architecture has never been equalled, let alone surpassed.

SYBARITE

GRANADA, NICARAGUA: JANUARY 29
I am staying a few days in luxury. Gillian and Joe are my hosts. Gillian is a Brit. Joe is from Texas. They have resurected a colonial house a block from the Cathedral. The house has two patios. The rear patio has a pool. I swim sedate lengths between sips on a gin and tonic.

BYE-BYE COSTA RICA

NICARAGUA: JANUARY 28
The gale forced me off the road into La Cruz yesterday evening. This morning I suffer both the gale and continual rain. Great. I arrive soaked at the Nicaraguan frontier. No shelter for the bike. The rain becomes a downpour.
Costa Rican officials are self important and understaffed. Nicaraguan officials are pleasant and understaffed. Transiting a truck across the border wastes twelve hours.
My photocopies go to the man in charge of issuing vehicle import permits. I explain the loss of the originals in Argentina. Lunch hour and two of his staff take a break. The boss processes my paperwork himself, moving from desk to desk. A thirteen-year-old boy carries my briefcase and laptop and crash helmet. An elderly cop behind teases the boy in a kindly manner. Ninety minutes and I have my papers.
I chat with a US biker on a 650 trail bike. He and a band of brothers took the wrong road yesterday, more of a river bed than a track. He came off seven times. Heartening this further confirmation that I am not the only biker who ends on his butt.