Chapter 8: Highlands, Heat, and the Heart of Central America
From Guatemala’s unrelenting climbs to Nicaragua’s parched lowlands, a chapter of resilience—crossing four nations, finding kinship, and reaching the edge of purpose.
Crossing into Guatemala at the Talismán–El Carmen border, the road tilted upward almost immediately. The humid lowlands of Chiapas disappeared behind me as the Sierra Madre de Chiapas took over. The climb was steep, the air thin, and the terrain unforgiving. Within three hours, I had barely managed 10 miles. My legs turned like cranks in molasses, cadence sinking to 25 RPM. It was the kind of day that tests everything: breath, resolve, the quiet logic of continuing.
By day's end I had climbed to nearly 10,000 feet—volcano country. Peaks like Tacaná and Tajumulco loomed like sky-piercing titans. I felt small, awed, and exhausted. At this altitude, the air was cool and clear. Every hour of progress was earned.
Day 112 brought what I can only describe as the hardest climbing of my life. The grades rarely let up, often rising above 18%. I focused on breath and rhythm. Trucks crawled beside me on steep, unrelenting climbs. Switchbacks were the exception, not the rule, and when they came, everyone celebrated. The pavement, like the infrastructure in general, was solid, but my body felt near breaking. I dismounted only to capture footage of my experience, never to walk.
Eventually, I crested the final ascent and descended into Quetzaltenango—Xela—a high mountain city ringed by volcanic giants. I stayed at Hostel Cho’Ja’, a quiet place with warm hosts, murals that inspired, and cool, quiet spaces to come down. Towering above the city were Volcán Santa María and the active cone of Santiaguito. I slept under their watch.
Before I arrived in San Pedro, I stashed my bike and gear behind a roadside building and followed a trail that I hoped would lead to a view of Lake Atitlán from above. I was aware that I'd arrived to the high places that framed the lake but just barely, and so when the view came of the epic lake below—blue like the pure sky above Eden—I was crushed by emotion. The weight of how I'd arrived, the distance and effort, the countless challenges—all of it collided as my senses absorbed the scene. To witness Lake Atitlán from that perspective was to behold something spectacular: a master sculpture shaped by time, chance, and geologic force. My eyes shed tears as I absorbed it all.
From there, I rolled on to San Pedro La Laguna, perched on the rim of Lake Atitlán. It was here I paused—two weeks to rest, recover, and study Spanish. I had traveled far in Latin America without the fluency to match the generosity I received. This was a conscious reset.
Each day began with a walk to the Lake Atitlán Language School, my path tracing cobbled streets and passing murals that told Mayan stories and modern struggles. My homestay, Casa de Luis, sat on the lake’s edge. Meals were delicious, the view profound. Here, I was not just a traveler—I was a student.
San Pedro hummed with life: tuk-tuks, children’s laughter, morning coffee brewed with volcanic water. I wandered markets and alleyways, filmed murals, and tasted the soft, warm rhythm of village life. I filmed some of my most creative work here, drawing from stillness instead of motion.
When it came time to leave, I loaded my bike onto a lancha—Captain Leo, as it turns out, would later follow my journey on social media all the way to Ushuaia—crossed the glassy waters of Atitlán, and began the climb to Antigua. Again, the road pitched steeply. Sun high, legs fresh, heart full. Along the way, I encountered a local cyclist who rode with me for a time, offering encouragement and insights. He, too, would follow my ride all the way to the end of the world.
Antigua welcomed me with ruined grandeur. Earthquakes long ago had toppled its colonial pride, but beauty remained—in broken stone, in market voices, in the hush of evening bells. It was here, on the crumbled remains of a 1773 church, that I recorded my GoFundMe video—a personal ask to help me plant 5,000 trees in Costa Rica. The campaign launched from the ruins, but its message took root. Within weeks, we reached the goal.
Soon, I was moving again—riding southeast toward Jalpatagua, the final overnight in Guatemala. A quiet border town, it offered a soft close to a country that had offered so much.
The next morning, I crossed into El Salvador. The terrain changed again: lush hills, steeper climbs, and a ride into Suchitoto—a colonial town once marked by war, now known for peace. I stayed at the Art Center for Peace, a former convent with kind staff and warm food. I rested, walked the market, and repaired my gear. The town overlooked Lake Suchitlán, its waters still and reflective.
I met a Salvadoran man at the gate of the Art Center for Peace just after arriving in the dark. I was attempting to explain my presence to the maintenance worker when he appeared, speaking fluent English and offering assistance. He was visiting from San Salvador, the country’s largest city, and often used Suchitoto as a base for humanitarian efforts in remote villages.
Thanks to his help, I checked in for a two-night stay—a decision that came quickly once I was inside. That evening, we shared conversation and a simple meal. The next day, we walked the town together. He spoke openly about the country’s history, especially the wars that had shaped its people and terrain. His stories added layers to everything I saw.
One afternoon, he introduced me to an El Salvadoran staple: pupusas filled with beans, cheese, loroco, and more. The flavors, like the conversations, grounded me. They reminded me that nourishment comes in many forms.
Further south, I followed the Rio Lempa. War had scarred this region, but the land had softened with time. Stories lingered, shared in low voices, echoed in cracked buildings. Every road carried weight.
My final full day in El Salvador brought me to a guest house I nearly missed. The door was locked. I searched for help and found it—in a neighboring home, a relative of the innkeeper. Kindness again saved the day.
Then came Honduras. I crossed early and rode to Choluteca under brutal heat. Hotel Kali offered shade, quiet, and a place to mend.
The following morning began with the kind of mechanical hiccup that's to be expected on a long bicycle journey—a flat rear tire. I plugged it and reinflated quickly in the small room, sweat already starting to bead on my forehead as the heat rose. By 9 am, I was back on the road, pushing south through dry terrain. The land offered no shade. The horizon unraveled into a savannah-like tapestry of forest and grasslands peppered by volcanoes. On the worst stretches, trucks thundered by and the road shimmered with heat that seemed to radiate from within.
By late afternoon, I crossed the border into Nicaragua—legs a shell of their former selves, jersey soaked, the promise of rest tugging me forward. That night I landed in San Benito, a dusty crossroads between lakes and the notorious cities of the west such as Managua. I found a room behind a restaurant where barbecue smoke curled past my door. The food was excellent—cooked slow in the open air—but the room had no fan, poor ventilation, and no window screens. Heat clung to the concrete like a second skin. I lay naked, arms and legs splayed in surrender, the door and window open for breath. Mosquitoes answered the invitation. I slept, if it could be called that, in fits and misery.
The next day, I followed the eastern edge of Lake Nicaragua. The road rose and fell gently, the heat unrelenting. Forest closed in tightly now, dense with life. Tropical birds called through the canopy, their songs ricocheting between the village homes tucked into hills that drained toward the lake.
At a roadside stand, I sat to eat. A parrot perched near my feet, unfazed by my presence, while a child swung slowly in a hammock, watching with curiosity the strange man quietly eating at her family's stall. This wasn’t just a meal. It was a moment of communion—a pause from the relentless motion, a place to absorb and be absorbed.
I later reached Hospedaje Chiriquí, a modest inn seamlessly woven into the surrounding forest. The hosts welcomed me with a knife and cutting board so I could carve up a watermelon I’d carried since the last town. I rested there before the final push, through Nicaragua, to San Carlos, arriving just ahead of nightfall.
Lake Nicaragua shimmered nearby, but lodging near the shore proved too expensive. I backtracked to the edge of town and found a place with air conditioning. After days of cooking in the saddle, I adored it. The women who checked me in offered kindness without words. Their eyes spoke patience. I slept deeply that night.
Before crossing into Costa Rica the next morning, I paused at a roadside cluster of food stalls. Worn structures, rusted cookware, uneven tables—and yet the meal was rich with tradition. Meat and potatoes served simply, joyfully. The cook’s son played at my feet. My thoughts lingered on the region—on its people and the quiet strength they had shared. In that final moment before crossing a new border, I felt more connected than ever, as if I was leaving a place that had, through countless challenges, become home.
That evening, by then several hours riding into Costa Rica, I stayed at Cabinas Piedra Luna in Alajuela Province—beneath the gaze of a national park and a distant volcano. The traffic earlier that day had been moderate, but the proximity was worse—often leaving me hugging the white line rather than enjoying the comfort of a shoulder, forcing me through a gauntlet of tight, noisy corridors better suited to trucks than bicycles.
The next morning, craving a different experience, I ignored local advice to stay on pavement and instead rerouted through a network of dirt roads that threaded their way between scattered villages and fields. Once a forest, this region had long since been reshaped into a patchwork of pineapple and banana plantations. Riding through it stirred mixed emotions—grief for what was lost, and resolve to be part of something better. Forced here by the uncomfortable proximity to fast-moving traffic, I had serendipitously arrived at the heart of the problem I’d come to confront.
Whilst embedded in that landscape, somewhere between asphalt and La Suerte, I arrived at a small tienda and stopped for food and drink, and to absorb the last few hours of the journey. I sat on a log close to the window so common at these little shops—clients look into the space and ask for items to be purchased. The attendant brings them to the counter. Mostly men on motos, patched together by master mechanics working with almost nothing at all, came and went. Some spoke to me and smiled. All of them were curious and friendly, and wore the standard shoes for workers tending to crops in the region: knee-high rubber boots, despite the heat and humidity.
Before I began my exit, the owners appeared with a hot plate of boiled yuca and other local foods, free of charge, and asked me to return. I promised I would. From there, I passed more villages, more motorbikes, and continued on to my destination.
I arrived at La Suerte Biological Field Station and found a stranger who would quickly become my greatest ally waiting patiently by the gate. Ernesto opened the gate and then joined me on his own bicycle and we rode the quarter mile of rough, dirt track to the big house where Erica and others were also awaiting my arrival.
Once again, I was overwhelmed with quiet awe. Who could have predicted any of it, given my gamble when I rolled out of Cartwright months before? This was the beginning of what I hoped would lead to 5,000 trees in the ground. A chance to erase my carbon footprint. A dream, at last, about to begin.
"Begin, and you will have your dream." — André Breton
By day's end I had climbed to nearly 10,000 feet—volcano country. Peaks like Tacaná and Tajumulco loomed like sky-piercing titans. I felt small, awed, and exhausted. At this altitude, the air was cool and clear. Every hour of progress was earned.
Day 112 brought what I can only describe as the hardest climbing of my life. The grades rarely let up, often rising above 18%. I focused on breath and rhythm. Trucks crawled beside me on steep, unrelenting climbs. Switchbacks were the exception, not the rule, and when they came, everyone celebrated. The pavement, like the infrastructure in general, was solid, but my body felt near breaking. I dismounted only to capture footage of my experience, never to walk.
Eventually, I crested the final ascent and descended into Quetzaltenango—Xela—a high mountain city ringed by volcanic giants. I stayed at Hostel Cho’Ja’, a quiet place with warm hosts, murals that inspired, and cool, quiet spaces to come down. Towering above the city were Volcán Santa María and the active cone of Santiaguito. I slept under their watch.
Before I arrived in San Pedro, I stashed my bike and gear behind a roadside building and followed a trail that I hoped would lead to a view of Lake Atitlán from above. I was aware that I'd arrived to the high places that framed the lake but just barely, and so when the view came of the epic lake below—blue like the pure sky above Eden—I was crushed by emotion. The weight of how I'd arrived, the distance and effort, the countless challenges—all of it collided as my senses absorbed the scene. To witness Lake Atitlán from that perspective was to behold something spectacular: a master sculpture shaped by time, chance, and geologic force. My eyes shed tears as I absorbed it all.
From there, I rolled on to San Pedro La Laguna, perched on the rim of Lake Atitlán. It was here I paused—two weeks to rest, recover, and study Spanish. I had traveled far in Latin America without the fluency to match the generosity I received. This was a conscious reset.
Each day began with a walk to the Lake Atitlán Language School, my path tracing cobbled streets and passing murals that told Mayan stories and modern struggles. My homestay, Casa de Luis, sat on the lake’s edge. Meals were delicious, the view profound. Here, I was not just a traveler—I was a student.
San Pedro hummed with life: tuk-tuks, children’s laughter, morning coffee brewed with volcanic water. I wandered markets and alleyways, filmed murals, and tasted the soft, warm rhythm of village life. I filmed some of my most creative work here, drawing from stillness instead of motion.
When it came time to leave, I loaded my bike onto a lancha—Captain Leo, as it turns out, would later follow my journey on social media all the way to Ushuaia—crossed the glassy waters of Atitlán, and began the climb to Antigua. Again, the road pitched steeply. Sun high, legs fresh, heart full. Along the way, I encountered a local cyclist who rode with me for a time, offering encouragement and insights. He, too, would follow my ride all the way to the end of the world.
Antigua welcomed me with ruined grandeur. Earthquakes long ago had toppled its colonial pride, but beauty remained—in broken stone, in market voices, in the hush of evening bells. It was here, on the crumbled remains of a 1773 church, that I recorded my GoFundMe video—a personal ask to help me plant 5,000 trees in Costa Rica. The campaign launched from the ruins, but its message took root. Within weeks, we reached the goal.
Soon, I was moving again—riding southeast toward Jalpatagua, the final overnight in Guatemala. A quiet border town, it offered a soft close to a country that had offered so much.
The next morning, I crossed into El Salvador. The terrain changed again: lush hills, steeper climbs, and a ride into Suchitoto—a colonial town once marked by war, now known for peace. I stayed at the Art Center for Peace, a former convent with kind staff and warm food. I rested, walked the market, and repaired my gear. The town overlooked Lake Suchitlán, its waters still and reflective.
I met a Salvadoran man at the gate of the Art Center for Peace just after arriving in the dark. I was attempting to explain my presence to the maintenance worker when he appeared, speaking fluent English and offering assistance. He was visiting from San Salvador, the country’s largest city, and often used Suchitoto as a base for humanitarian efforts in remote villages.
Thanks to his help, I checked in for a two-night stay—a decision that came quickly once I was inside. That evening, we shared conversation and a simple meal. The next day, we walked the town together. He spoke openly about the country’s history, especially the wars that had shaped its people and terrain. His stories added layers to everything I saw.
One afternoon, he introduced me to an El Salvadoran staple: pupusas filled with beans, cheese, loroco, and more. The flavors, like the conversations, grounded me. They reminded me that nourishment comes in many forms.
Further south, I followed the Rio Lempa. War had scarred this region, but the land had softened with time. Stories lingered, shared in low voices, echoed in cracked buildings. Every road carried weight.
My final full day in El Salvador brought me to a guest house I nearly missed. The door was locked. I searched for help and found it—in a neighboring home, a relative of the innkeeper. Kindness again saved the day.
Then came Honduras. I crossed early and rode to Choluteca under brutal heat. Hotel Kali offered shade, quiet, and a place to mend.
The following morning began with the kind of mechanical hiccup that's to be expected on a long bicycle journey—a flat rear tire. I plugged it and reinflated quickly in the small room, sweat already starting to bead on my forehead as the heat rose. By 9 am, I was back on the road, pushing south through dry terrain. The land offered no shade. The horizon unraveled into a savannah-like tapestry of forest and grasslands peppered by volcanoes. On the worst stretches, trucks thundered by and the road shimmered with heat that seemed to radiate from within.
By late afternoon, I crossed the border into Nicaragua—legs a shell of their former selves, jersey soaked, the promise of rest tugging me forward. That night I landed in San Benito, a dusty crossroads between lakes and the notorious cities of the west such as Managua. I found a room behind a restaurant where barbecue smoke curled past my door. The food was excellent—cooked slow in the open air—but the room had no fan, poor ventilation, and no window screens. Heat clung to the concrete like a second skin. I lay naked, arms and legs splayed in surrender, the door and window open for breath. Mosquitoes answered the invitation. I slept, if it could be called that, in fits and misery.
The next day, I followed the eastern edge of Lake Nicaragua. The road rose and fell gently, the heat unrelenting. Forest closed in tightly now, dense with life. Tropical birds called through the canopy, their songs ricocheting between the village homes tucked into hills that drained toward the lake.
At a roadside stand, I sat to eat. A parrot perched near my feet, unfazed by my presence, while a child swung slowly in a hammock, watching with curiosity the strange man quietly eating at her family's stall. This wasn’t just a meal. It was a moment of communion—a pause from the relentless motion, a place to absorb and be absorbed.
I later reached Hospedaje Chiriquí, a modest inn seamlessly woven into the surrounding forest. The hosts welcomed me with a knife and cutting board so I could carve up a watermelon I’d carried since the last town. I rested there before the final push, through Nicaragua, to San Carlos, arriving just ahead of nightfall.
Lake Nicaragua shimmered nearby, but lodging near the shore proved too expensive. I backtracked to the edge of town and found a place with air conditioning. After days of cooking in the saddle, I adored it. The women who checked me in offered kindness without words. Their eyes spoke patience. I slept deeply that night.
Before crossing into Costa Rica the next morning, I paused at a roadside cluster of food stalls. Worn structures, rusted cookware, uneven tables—and yet the meal was rich with tradition. Meat and potatoes served simply, joyfully. The cook’s son played at my feet. My thoughts lingered on the region—on its people and the quiet strength they had shared. In that final moment before crossing a new border, I felt more connected than ever, as if I was leaving a place that had, through countless challenges, become home.
That evening, by then several hours riding into Costa Rica, I stayed at Cabinas Piedra Luna in Alajuela Province—beneath the gaze of a national park and a distant volcano. The traffic earlier that day had been moderate, but the proximity was worse—often leaving me hugging the white line rather than enjoying the comfort of a shoulder, forcing me through a gauntlet of tight, noisy corridors better suited to trucks than bicycles.
The next morning, craving a different experience, I ignored local advice to stay on pavement and instead rerouted through a network of dirt roads that threaded their way between scattered villages and fields. Once a forest, this region had long since been reshaped into a patchwork of pineapple and banana plantations. Riding through it stirred mixed emotions—grief for what was lost, and resolve to be part of something better. Forced here by the uncomfortable proximity to fast-moving traffic, I had serendipitously arrived at the heart of the problem I’d come to confront.
Whilst embedded in that landscape, somewhere between asphalt and La Suerte, I arrived at a small tienda and stopped for food and drink, and to absorb the last few hours of the journey. I sat on a log close to the window so common at these little shops—clients look into the space and ask for items to be purchased. The attendant brings them to the counter. Mostly men on motos, patched together by master mechanics working with almost nothing at all, came and went. Some spoke to me and smiled. All of them were curious and friendly, and wore the standard shoes for workers tending to crops in the region: knee-high rubber boots, despite the heat and humidity.
Before I began my exit, the owners appeared with a hot plate of boiled yuca and other local foods, free of charge, and asked me to return. I promised I would. From there, I passed more villages, more motorbikes, and continued on to my destination.
I arrived at La Suerte Biological Field Station and found a stranger who would quickly become my greatest ally waiting patiently by the gate. Ernesto opened the gate and then joined me on his own bicycle and we rode the quarter mile of rough, dirt track to the big house where Erica and others were also awaiting my arrival.
Once again, I was overwhelmed with quiet awe. Who could have predicted any of it, given my gamble when I rolled out of Cartwright months before? This was the beginning of what I hoped would lead to 5,000 trees in the ground. A chance to erase my carbon footprint. A dream, at last, about to begin.
"Begin, and you will have your dream." — André Breton