It's a sign, is it a sign?

If I were looking for a sign, if I were, then they all point in one very clear direction and it’s not south.

In order of occurrence and not necessary in order of annoyance. And I have to admit, generally self-inflicted although certainly not intestinally the following could be seen as signs.
I scratched the lens of my Oakley’s.
A designer sunglasses necessity have been a quarter century addiction of mine, each pair usually lasting long enough and providing enough pleasure to justify the cost. But weather scratched in a Viet cong tunnel or lost in a festival mosh frenzy, the disappointment and sadness is equal to that of the death of a pet, well a pet fish maybe, no disrespect to the recently departed family cat, although kittens are a lot cheaper than a new polarized lens.

So this first disaster happened when a drinking session passed from the afternoon into evening and eventually darkness. Now, drunken instincts should never be ignored. I could see I didn’t need my shades anymore and decided finding my glasses case was going to be too tricky and time consuming so the safety of my motorcycle top box would be good enough for the night. Locked away, safe from thief, or sitting on and most importantly no longer on top of my stupid head. That would have been fine, but for an impulsive emergency trip on the dirt road round the lake (which could have easily been walked) to get some more beer. With my concentration on other things, namely beer and balance (which although not talents necessarily associated with each other, are skills I can pull off better than beer and keeping my big mouth shut) 12 cold beers were placed in my top box and bounced all the way back to the camp ground on top of my super cool shades, which were now as captive and as venerable as a quadriplegic in a cage fight. Bollocks.
That was a bloody expensive drink. Not noticed until the next morning when I couldn’t clean off this particular obscurity from my vision.

Other things on lenses that obscure vision, my SLR that needed cleaning. So I went to the right shop (camera), bought the right stuff (lens cleaning fluid), sat in the right place (draft and dust free) in the right light (sun) to perform the simple procedure, but somehow managed to dislocate a tiny spring. No more quality controlled shots, a Canon specialist in a big town told me via a translator, that, in technical terms and that with all the information, tools, experience and technology available the diagnosis is basically, it’s fucked. And charged me for the privilege.

To continue, and this isn’t really a sign just a nagging loss, my toe ring of 14 years, custom made in a tiny Indian silversmiths workshop slipped off my foot in the pounding surf of the Pacific. I don’t expect much sympathy on that one. But a loss it remains. Sometimes the ocean wants a little gift for the pleasure of rolling around in its surf, it was suggested to me. Yeah? Next time, eat my shorts.
Too many condensation sunsets, I decided to move on.

The bike starts cutting out at over 4000rpm, blocked air filter? I stop and clean it but don’t get another chance to go that fast as it’s nearly dark now and the New Year throngs are crawling into town ahead of me, taking the last of the inflated priced hotel rooms.
One of my two least favourite aspects of motorcycle travel is getting into a new town in the dark, tired from a long ride, hot and looking out for, traffic, pedestrians, obstructions, cops, potholes, speed bumps, one way signs and on top of that, looking up high for a hotel sign. The other thing being the travelling through a tiny village turning every head not in the least bit inconspicuous and every turned head knows what I’m about to find out, 'he’ll be back, it’s a dead end’ and once again I’m faced with the stares only now with humiliation behind my bandanna.

So predictably the hotels are exorbitant and there has been nowhere to camp on route and now it’s dark and late, I opt for the cheapest I can find and the most expensive to date, it’s a cell,

cockroach infested, noisy and horrid, a fan that clicks and a control that buzzes but at least my bike is safe outside my door, undercover of the canopy. I check the chain oiler situation so as not to leave a black slippery puddle where I parked it. There is oil but it’s not coming from the chain oiler its coming from the engine. Bollocks.

Next morning after a sleepless night I strip off all I need to, to see the engine, rocker cover seepage, phew, that’s not a trip stopper. Loosen, retighten, back together, shower, hair wash put on bike cloths walk out from my canopy into sunlight to view the map; just as the cleaner on the floor above decides to sweep upstairs pile of dead cockroaches and general debris over the edge onto my shiny, wet, cleared with expensive product, hair.

6 miles to the next stop and it’s seeped again, no, engine breather is not blocked, so why is it doing this all of a sudden? Take it all apart again and this time remove rocker cover, reseal with instant gasket and reassemble, somehow loosing, despite my frightening methodical way, an 8mm socket, not as distressful as the toe ring unless that is its inside the engine somehow.
Being alcohol free, and more in need of spirituality than sprit. I conceived with a clear mind a devious and deceitful plan. I’d sneak into the Mayan ruins after dark to see in the New Year alone, under the stars, distant and peaceful, but for the howling monkeys and all the other things I don’t know about. So I unpacked my pack of clothing, and loaded it with mozzie net and remaining photographic equipment, poncho for stealth and bandana for effect. I crept off down the road to ruin sweating with the excitement and the humidity of dense jungle. I’d already spotted the hole in the fence I was going to crawl under like a 90’s Glastonbury festival goer. But first I had to pass the police, who I figured, would be participating in some New Years Eve festivities and my dark shadowy figure would be more likely smelt that seen. A gust of wind blew from nowhere, leaves tumbled down over me, they bought moisture, the leaves stopped falling but ithe moisture continued. It got heavier, it was rain, rain? In a rain forest? surely not. Time for a decision.
Should I stay or should I go? An almost daily dilemma in my life lately. Ancient ruins not being known for their weather proofing, I decided to turn around and dived into my tent of scattered cloths as the rain fell with waterfall magnitude. I tried to take off some of my sweaty, wet, rain soaked garments, but wait, the bike and tent need attention, so back out I go and place some strategic tent pegs into the already saturated ground and covered electrical components, monklet wont malfunction from a saturation, I had to have priorities, then back into my tent, now wet with sweat, exertion, and the tropical storm. I try to gather up stuff so nothing is up against the tent walls; I make a space and lay down, the hard rain drops like ball bearings, batter, not pitter-patter the sagging roof. It’s deafening, but thankfully not penetrating, my shoes are in the canopy outside the fly screen, the floor of which is now mud and under an inch of water.
My body loses its glow; the heat has not gone though and there is no air due to closed vents. I lay, it’s all I can do, periodically I turn on my head light to look for seepage but I seem to be ok. Sleep then I suppose; and neither the New Year nor the storm infiltrate my night, they just pass by.

At 6am I get up to try again, no point in sneaking in, it’s free on Sundays and national holidays today being both I expect to get paid for the experience. But I'm not a Mexican and I have to pay just like they don’t, should they come to see the great museums of my country’s capital city. I'm turned away back to the coach loads queuing at the ticket office. I go, out of principle through the hole I spotted yesterday

and pass through new streams

and cobwebs, clamber up slippery embankments, through moist foliage up into the grounds, all to save £2.50 and to keep my principles and sense of adventure intact.

I view sunbeams and shadows before the hordes infest the structures like ants over bread, (an analogy I have recent experience with) weather the free viewing public would have bitten me too if I had tried to remove them is still unknown. I wished I’d have tried harder last night.

Where was I? Oh yes signs
So the parting of ways, a new plan, a New Year and new feeling, contentment, at last. With a shortened itinerary and what to me looks like a good compromise, some new territory, new sites but a destination closer and closely resembling the departure point. I stop in a typical boarder town for one last Mexican afternoon. Not being sure if this insignificant crossing to Guatemala will even be open on this national holiday, even on weekdays its only open 9 till 5. I get a room by a mighty country dividing river and when awareness that all things are good and it’s a moment to capture, being Billy-no-mates I had to put my compact camera on self timer to record the occasion. I turned around to sit back in my chair and grin at the camera which wasn’t there, simultaneously noticing its absents with the sound of it crashing to the concrete one floor below the balcony it was balanced on. No more cameras left. Just as I was about to cross into Guatemala for some sites of bigger more dramatic and no doubt even more crowded ancient Mayan ruins.

Undeterred by events but not oblivious to their possible significance, I spent a night where rain pounded on the balcony of photographic doom, but safe inside my room on my corrugated mattress I was unbothered buy the fear of penetration, although, I did spot a wet patch on the ceiling. The following morning is cloudy, then rainy, then very rainy, then torrential. I'm not meant to cross that boarder am I? No one spends a second night in this town, no gringo comes and stays, I do.

Getting money out of an ATM has been a kind or Russian roulette in Mexico. They have HSBC branches here but they don’t accept my card, the world’s local bank is quite selective to who is actually a local. I pass a Mexican bank that regularly refuses to despatch money to me, but has the kind of ATM’s that don’t completely swallow your card only lick it, so there is never a risk or losing it inside its impenetrable depths, there’s an equally small chance of actually getting money out either. But this time it obliged. It’s a sign, look at all this currency I have that isn’t Guatemalan.

Where shall I go tomorrow?

I saw some signs whilst out walking today I’ll look up the place names I read on the map and maybe I’ll go that way tomorrow; if the signs are right.
I recently read in a fellow rider’s blog something about us all being animals and having instincts that should not be ignored. Instincts like alcohol can be the excuse for a lot of behaviours that often defy logic. I have instincts; they helped me navigate my way through Mongolia. I'm not afraid of Guatemala any more than I'm afraid of hangovers but perhaps the sensible finger of sobriety is pointing me in a different direction.
I love Mexico and I've only seen a fraction of what’s in the big fat guide book I don’t have a guide book for Guatemala just a piece of paper with some destinations and routes I scribbled down. That’s a sticker I'm not going to get, actually that 2501 stickers I'm not going to get. Because I'm supposed to pick up a load of stickers promoting my book and website in Guatemala City, 3 month bike trip, ‘where did you go?’ only Mexico, it’s a long story, but not one I can write about.