Читать книгу From the city of angels to the land of fire. Danny Beer, gringo on tour - Danny Beer - Страница 69

You move out, having a look around town and in search of breakfast. People here call out to you but they are angry and aggressive. Hey gringo. They shout. And when you don’t respond immediately it’s like who the fuck do you think you are? No hablo Ingles. You respond. Hablas Espaniol?

“Hello amigo. Give me five dollars.” Some guy shouts at you. You keep riding. Up ahead you find something to buy. You are half way through sorting your money when the guy catches up to you, still asking for money. No. No. You say. The guy stays. Eventually he leaves, about a meter. You wait for a little while and just go, business unfinished. Perhaps the store owners told him to go away until you finished the transaction. Or maybe he just told him to go away. Either way he cost the guy business. And you still need to go elsewhere to buy the things that you need.

You leave town. Hungry. Five km up the road is the turnoff to the capital. Here you find something to eat. There are also a couple hotels here. A few short km further is San Lorenzo which almost resembles a resort town. You immediately get a strange sensation to buy fried fish and a milkshake and sit on a pier. There is even a bike path along side the road.

The thing about bike paths though is that they guilt you into using them no matter what condition or obstacles are about. The same replies for the shoulder along the road. Sometimes it is fine. Sometimes they are crap. Often cars park there. Usually buses and vans overtake just to pull up directly ahead of you to let passengers on or off. This one isn’t so bad though, except when pedestrians use it to walk on with scarce concern for the cyclist behind them.

As you have just eaten and don’t really have any interest in hanging about you move on. It’s a long hot ride to Choluteca. The town doesn’t look like much but they have a selection of restaurants and a few nice looking hotels leaving town. After lunch it is only 45 km to the border. You miss the turnoff due to lack of signage and it is another kilometer of so before you turn back.

You start to miss El Salvador. The traffic is a little nastier here. The shoulders aren’t so good. And the people are less than friendly. Children are trained to hold out there hand and say ‘dollar’ at you. You patience wears thin. Some girl says “I love you.” You say “How much?” Time to leave this country.

You get to the border. A swarm of money changers engulf you. “No gracias.” You repeat but the chance of a fresh fish is just too great. There is a hotel on the Hondouran side and you check it out. One of the money changers lingers, trying to corner the market. “Solo cambio.” He proclaims. “No solo.” You shout back.