Sweltered by the Sun, Buoyed by the Beach

San Juan del Sur, NicaraguaSan Juan del Sur, Nicaragua
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San Juan del Sur, Nicaragua
 

I slipped out of the over-hyped grandiose of Granada in the early morning light, climbed a mellow grade out of town, and was flying along the Guatemalan countryside. Traffic intensified when I joined back up with the Pan-American, but never became a nuisance. A few hot hours later I swung west towards the Pacific coast. The slight 12 mile side-trip gave me a chance at relief in the cool Pacific waters and was worth its weight in gold. A mile or two down the road and I started to hear hoots, hollers, and whistles. Youth, hooligans, I thought; a typical encounter. No sooner had the thought crossed my mind than a cycling team from the capital pulled up alongside me. We shared a few moments of mutual admiration, me for their unhindered, lightweight racing bikes, them at my overburdened, self-sustained death march through Central America. I stuck to their back wheels for a brief moment, basking in my re-acquired strength, before they finally pulled away. After I found a cheap room in San Juan del Sur it was straight to the water for me. The cool water of the Pacific is a greater relief than can be described. Swayed by the idyllic setting on a horseshoe bay and the ambling surfer vibe I took a day off the bike to alternate dips in the water and strolls on the beach with cups of coffee at El Gato Negro.

Wind power in southern NicaraguaWind power in southern Nicaragua
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Wind power in southern Nicaragua
 

From San Juan del Sur it was three long days before I would step into the ocean once more. My routine was established, but offered little relief. I was out the door and on the bike before 6 on most days, but the process of getting out the door and on the bike usually resulted in the day’s first blanketing of sweat. I faced some intense head and side winds as I made my way along Nicaragua’s largest lake towards Costa Rica. A hatch was in process, so I was constantly riding through clouds of bugs (nats or the like). They covered my body, brushed off my clothes, but clotted up on my sweaty arms and legs. My spirits were boosted to see the Nicaraguans taking advantage of the lake affect winds with a smattering of wind-turbines standing stoutly on the land.

wide open Costa Rican countrysidewide open Costa Rican countryside
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wide open Costa Rican countryside
 

Borders on bikes are nice. Usually, about a mile out, I swing to the center of the road and ride by the waiting line of semis. How long it takes for them to get through is anyone’s guess. Once on the other side, in Costa Rica, I had a side of the road to myself while the other was backed up for 2 solid miles. I was being passed by vehicles going my direction about once every half hour. It was typically hot, but I was bolstered by ideas of air-conditioned gas station convenience stores and gatorade; this was Costa Rica, the most Americanized of the Central American countries. No luck came my way. I drank water out of the gas station hoses, usually used to top off radiators, and huddled next to the pumps for the shade provided by the canopies. With 75 miles to my day, I rolled into Liberia and found a dingy hostel room. It had a fan. Ten dollars at the local grocery store got me Gatorade, chocolate milk, bananas, apples, and water. I was back to western prices. Of note in Liberia, my first city of Costa Rica, was the starkly different aesthetic of the central church. Sharp angles and clean white paint stood out against the blue sky, but stood out even more from the churches I had become accustomed to seeing over the last 6 months.

A new aesthetic in Liberia, Costa RicaA new aesthetic in Liberia, Costa Rica
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A new aesthetic in Liberia, Costa Rica
 

Thirty miles down the road the following day and I was eager for a cold beverage, air-con, and a snickers. Two grocery stores and countless other tiendas in two days in Costa Rica and there was not a Snickers bar in sight. I was concocting crazy conspiracy theories about their absence. Was it perhaps tied to the revolt over the American banana empire? Later in the day, when I found an air-conditioned gas station, I too found a Snickers. Oh, the relief, the pure joy, the ecstatic taste of that bar. I can’t imagine what would happen to my life on the sweltering road if I was to not find Coke. In need of shade and shelter, I pushed 85 miles out of my melting body to reach Puntarenas and a cheap hotel. It was as hot in the room as it was outside, but with a fan moving air around the refrigerator-box size room, it offered some relief.

to bike one needs Snickers and Gatoradeto bike one needs Snickers and Gatorade
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to bike one needs Snickers and Gatorade
 

The long days left me with a nice 45 mile cruise down to my next beach stop of Jaco, Costa Rica. Oh, how often the short, easy days blow up on your face and make you eat your every word. It was hot. There were hills. I outdid myself, and had some severe knee pain. While creeping up the last hill before town I passed a Japanese gentleman pushing his loaded touring rig up the hill. We couldn’t really communicate. When the words left your mouth they were swallowed up by the heat and humidity. I pushed on, desperate to finish the day. With the exception of a day or two since leaving Xela, every day ends with a bout of chills that sweep over my body. I consume anywhere from 8-10 liters of water while on the bike, but still have the onset chills of heat exhaustion, or worse. I crawled through a fierce headwind to the resort town of Jaco, then pulled straight into a hostel and booked a room. It was shit, but I assumed I had no other choice, this place was known to be overblown expensive. After a swim and a shower, I walked into town and found a little oasis of a hostel for a few dollars more, and made the easy decision to switch places and waste away a few days in Jaco.

ContemplativeContemplative
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Contemplative
 

One Week: Guatemala to Nicaragua

Lunch breakLunch break
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Lunch break
 

Guatemala:
I have become somewhat unexpectedly adept at starting out on a bike. Four different times I have pushed the first pedal down, swayed with the foreignness of the loaded panniers, and aimed my bike south. One would think I would be good at it, yet each time posses new challenges, and puts me on a new road. My body is familiar with the bike, but it starts out as punishment. Each new restart trims about a week off the adjustment period, so I have another week before realizing my rhythm. Guatemala became a home, and leaving was as charged as my first departure 18 months before, in the tundra of the north. I spent two days in San Pedro looking out at the sun reflecting on Lago de Atitlan and the volcanoes that surround the lake. It went right through me. Getting there was a battle I almost lost, and it was two days of stunned, sedated relaxation to set me right again. The road, this trip, is mine; that is liberating, large, and frightening all at the same time. In San Pedro I was sifting through these emotions (a complex coupling of fear for the road ahead, and sorrow for leaving good behind in Xela) and readjusting my view of the trip.

Aboard the ferry for SantiagoAboard the ferry for Santiago
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Aboard the ferry for Santiago
 

When my head seemed squarely back on my sore shoulders and pointed in the right direction I caught a boat for Santiago and began the descent out of the Guatemalan Highlands. That drop lasted until my bike computer was reading 100 degrees and I was my own waterfall, which just happened to coincide with when I met up with the Pacific Coast Highway running through the southern lowlands of Guatemala about 50-100 km from the coast. Soon I was careening along filtering the black death of tailpipes and reacquainting myself with semis (which I have decided I prefer to most other road traffic, they spit blackness into the air 10 ft above my head and away from my lungs). Two hot, but uneventful days later, and I was in route to leave Guatemala the same way I initially entered 4 1/2 months previous; by bike.

El Salvador:
The most densely populated country in Central America came with a proportionate amount of roadside trash and a return to the smell of rotting flesh – pushed along by searing heat it permeates straight to your gut, which knots up and makes you gag. Temperatures maintained a demonic brutality, but that led me to a new first for my trip: an auto hotel, or love hotel. My day had begun at 5; I was on the road by 6. I spent an hour negotiating the border and deciphering the multitude of Guatemalan entry and exit stamps (6 by the time I finally rode out of the country), when I finally made it to Acajutla in look of respite from the heat. It was 1 in the afternoon, over 100 degrees, and the sun was blazing with all its might. The port town had nothing to offer. Dry-mouthed, I back-tracked to the intersection with the highway and rolled into the auto-hotel. I was playing with heat-exhaustion, and didn’t want to experience anything worse. I had to stop, and this was my only option. This was a classy establishment, not a by-the-hour kind of place, just a joyous 12 hrs. They pondered my predicament, maxed out their math knowledge in calculating a new rate for a longer duration of stay, and soon I found myself in my own private love shack. Clean white sheets and mirrors everywhere. Weak air-conditioning and love making music (if I was interested). Cheap plug-in air-fresheners and a TV (complete with un-dubbed american porn). I was not given a key; I entered through my own garage. Soon a knock came from a box hanging on the wall. It was large enough to hold a serving tray and had a hinged top but no random holes for peeping or other perverse purposes. When I opened the top I found a fresh towel, soap, and my remote. A voice spoke through the box asking me for payment, for the room. The scent of the air-freshener in the room was both too strong and too cheap, but it was what it was meant to cover up that had me on edge. Abruptly, I took off my shoes to replace the stench of air-freshener with something I was familiar with. I cleaned up, and soon found the experience rather entertaining, with the exception that the mosquitos also had a secret entrance to the room. Annoying, but also funny to picture heaving white asses getting attacked my mozies. The thought had crossed my mind that I may need a day off to avoid injuries to the poor legs (4 months of near slothliness), maybe laying on the beach, but that dream was shattered when I found myself in this love shack. So the routine continued. Alarm at 5, on the road by 6. My day to the capital, San Salvador, was everything the challenge I had expected. Leaving the coast meant adding hills.

A lovely couple at the love hotelA lovely couple at the love hotel
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A lovely couple at the love hotel
 
Plaza Barrio, San SalvadorPlaza Barrio, San Salvador
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Plaza Barrio, San Salvador
 

San Salvador sounded threatening and challenging, but was rather easy to negotiate. I lodged up in the old historic part of town. It is a bit more decrepit than some of the newer westernized neighborhoods, but felt familiar to me. The blocks and blocks of market stalls kept me amused for the evening, and introduced me to traditional Salvadoran papusas. A papusa is like two doughy tortillas packed together around a mystery meat filling and then fried. My meal consisted of two papusas and a cold bottle of coke for the staggering price of one US dollar (the currency of choice in El Salvador).

Plaza Barrio, San SalvadorPlaza Barrio, San Salvador
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Plaza Barrio, San Salvador
 

Here we get to the shocking part of the story, so please read while sitting comfortably. The morning after I arrived in San Salvador I boarded a bus and zipped through two separate borders on my way to Managua, Nicaragua. Plans are laid to meet a friend in Panama for the boat journey to Colombia, and then after that I have plans to visit a cousin in Ecuador by a certain date. None of that needed to include a bus with my original calculations from Guatemala, but once on the road and the real calculations began, I realized I had made a significant error. I had converted the distance from kilometers to miles twice, unaware that I had already made the conversion. So, a 1200 mile journey was always an easy 750 miles; something that seems ridiculous now, but didn’t give me second thought at the time. Anyway, decision made, a week of hot and generally monotonous and boring riding was saved. I don’t regret the decision a bit.

A hot looking Honduras as seen from the bus - No regretsA hot looking Honduras as seen from the bus - No regrets
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A hot looking Honduras as seen from the bus - No regrets
 

Nicaragua:
I skipped out of the Nicaraguan capital the following morning. A process made all the more challenging by a complete lack of road signs. I had a mental map of what roads I was looking for, but had to stop at every intersection to inquire if I was indeed headed towards Granada. Signs finally appeared when I was on the 6 lane highway linking the two cities. My short 30 mile ride to Granada has introduced me to a few Nicaraguan habits. First, 1 out of every 10 cars will pass you and then immediately pull over and stop in front of you. This applies to trucks, buses, taxis, cars, bikes, mopeds, airplanes, horse-drawn carriages, dog-sled teams, etc. Second, when people are crossing an empty road they will time their pace to land directly in front of you when you come along, and then look shocked that you are there. Third, I spent the morning riding into a decent headwind which was more or less like riding straight at the world’s largest hair dryer. That will probably be the theme for Central America, and since I have a planned sailing trip to Colombia representing my carrot on the end of a stick I have a hard time really focusing on it because of the hair dryer that is positioned between it and myself. I also feel inclined to add my opinion to the debate about the two colonial gems of Central America; Granada, Nicaragua is pretty, but Antigua, Guatemala is majestic.

GranadaGranada
Main square, AntiguaMain square, Antigua
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Main square, Antigua
 

With my extended stay in Guatemala, and my future plans, I am forced to simply be in transit through the remainder of Central America. I am generally on a bike, which allows me a closer proximity to the climate, smells, tastes and textures of this part of the world, but I am simply not trying to do much exploring. I plan to put the head down and ignore the hair dryer to the best of my abilities and zip quickly on down to Panama. Then, I will be just a sailing trip away from a new continent, from the Andes, and the relief of cooler climates.

A Return to the Road

Lago de Atitlan, Guatemala

Four months is either a blip of time or an eternity. I experienced both in Xela. When I rode away on Monday I was leaving behind another transitional destination on my trip, a simple pause along my path. Yet, it was also enough time to develop real and lasting relationships that I am saddened to ride away from. Waiting for my package to arrive made the time seem like an eternity, but new friends made the time seem too brief. My bike was loaded down and my heart was heavy with emotion when I said my final goodbye to my new family and friends and weaved my way out of town. It was a testing days ride up and over to Lago de Atitlan with the burden of weakened legs and a heavy load. Hard or not, it also meant that I was back in action.


Loaded and ready. Saying goodbye to my new parents and our playful dog, Timmy.


At the beginning of the ascent up to the high point of the Pan-American Highway I was all smiles. But, the 50 mile day and close to 5,000ft of climbing left me with a different expression by the end.


After a few days rest in beautiful San Pedro, I am excited to be back on the road.

Maps Paint Poor Pictures

What could be described as an adventurous looking line across Guatemala on our maps has turned out to be a full blown leg-burning, bike-pushing, cross-section of this diverse country. Starting near sea level in Rio Dulce and finding ourselves now at 8,000 ft in Xela we were anticipating some of the hard work that would be involved, but the way it unfolded caught us a bit by surprise. Neither of us were very eager to pound out some miles after leaving Rio Dulce, so we committed to a mellow day along easy paved roads to the lakeside settlement of El Estor, and along the way we took in the delights of a nearby boiling river. This was soon a good decision, as shorter days became the norm as we made our way across the country and up into the highlands.

Agua Caliente, Finca El Paraiso, GuatemalaAgua Caliente, Finca El Paraiso, Guatemala

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Agua Caliente, Finca El Paraiso, Guatemala

 

Paved roads kept cropping up in our path, and eventually contributed to over half our 270 miles from Rio Dulce to Xela; something we had thought our route would avoid. If all that were dirt we would not have made it to Xela in time for Xmas. Our chosen side roads often turned out to be the direct paved route to our next destination, and a long stretch of road up to Santa Cruz del Quiche that we had assumed was dirt, was in fact all decently paved – perhaps for the better, as some of the descents and ascents at river crossing were insanely steep. But, when we did find ourselves bouncing along some dirt and gravel track it was pure magic.

La Tinta to TacticLa Tinta to Tactic

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La Tinta to Tactic

 

Going from low farmland slowly, very slowly, up into the ever increasing heights of the western highlands near Tactic was a ride through many ecosystems. The first few hours of climbing to Tactic were a pleasure and had me relishing in the smallness of life amongst the vast mountains. It feels much better and more appropriate to be moving so slowly amongst such a huge landscape of dominant peaks, ridges and valleys. However, when the steep climbing continued after a late roadside lunch, it was beginning to show its effects on my weary body. 5,800 ft of climbing in the day and we were deposited in Tactic at 6,800 ft of elevation. It had been a drizzly day on squirmy clay climbs and the drop in temperature had us chilled to the core for the first time in a while. Tactic was also where we began to see the Christmas markets in full swing. With the cold weather and the holiday atmosphere it was quite intoxicating. This festive vibe has followed us through the mountains with each city packed for blocks and blocks with vendors selling holiday goods and all assortment of fried foods. We wonder what rural Guatemala will feel like when we leave Xela in a month and the holiday festivities are a distant memory.

Fun roads and river crossings, Tactic to Salama, GuatemalaFun roads and river crossings, Tactic to Salama, Guatemala

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Fun roads and river crossings, Tactic to Salama, Guatemala

 

Our route south of Tactic deviated from the main highway following dirt roads to the west of the Quetzal Sanctuary up and over a few mountains and across a few rivers along the way. As we were settled into a nice climbing rhythm on a mellow grade, Nathan suffered a flat. First inspection also revealed a broken spoke, his first of the trip. While the repair process was underway there was a bit of concern over our water supply and the distance left to Salama. With the bike back together we rolled the final bit to the summit of the climb and were stunned by the expansive views of the Salama valley that opened up before us. Neither of us expected to be this near the city, or to have such and awe-inspiring view from such heights. It certainly lifted any dour spirits that may have lingered from the mechanical issues.

Salama valleySalama valley

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Salama valley

 

We left Salama with the intent of riding west until we reached Cubulco and the end of pavement, at which point we would make a gamble at tackling any local track that would get us up and over the mountains south of town. It would be a short cut of sorts, in distance but not effort, and one that would surely thrust us into the bowels of Guatemalan mountain living and the limits of our own abilities. No sooner had we left the hotel in Salama than Nathan suffered another flat, fortunately this time it was a front tire. Quickly patched up and praying that two flats and a broken spoke would suffice for problems coming in sets of three we rode west only to have another broken spoke as we ascended into San Miguel Chicaj. It was possibly a result of the broken spoke the day before and so extra care was put into properly sorting through the wheel rebuild. Consequently, we rolled into Cubulco late in the day and with little knowledge of our outgoing route. We spent a bit of time inquiring about paths over the mountains and felt confident that one existed, so we retired to the local hotel. In reality, it would best be described as what most people envision the inside of a Central American prison to look like; little more than a Cockroach infested cement bunker with a gracious host. Neither of us take much notice of these places any more, as they have become somewhat frequent, but they still do inspire amusement and laughs.

More proofMore proof

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More proof

 

We got an early jump on our day as we anticipated lots of grueling bike pushing to get up and over the 6,500 foot mountains (starting at 3,200 ft) in less than 8 miles. It did not disappoint. We perhaps rode 4 miles of the ascent of rough jeep track that is frequented only by locals hauling firewood and 4-wheel drive Toyotas hauling people. The rest of the climb was a push-the-bike effort, and at times a you-help-me-push-the-bike and I will help you push yours. Sure there was a route out and around these mountains, but what is a bike adventure if you don’t thrust yourself upon crazy, possibly unmanageable, roads? We endured, laughed, and more-or-less enjoyed the struggle. Again it provided a good laugh to all the locals that saw some crazy gringos pushing their loaded bikes up to the top of a mountain, and then flying down the other side. It wasn’t uncommon to see the grades climb into the high teens, all on dirt or sand (an exception occurred when it was too steep and they paved the brief hill climb). The short 17 miles in 10 hours of effort left us a bit worse for wear as we hit pavement at the valley bottom on the other side. We ducked up alongside a river at the approval of the nearby home-owner and pitched a camp to rest our weary bodies.

St. Cruz del Quiche, GuatemalaSt. Cruz del Quiche, Guatemala

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St. Cruz del Quiche, Guatemala

 

We climbed a total of 5,500 ft the following day as we made our way along the highway to Santa Cruz del Quiche. With our previous day’s exploits and the climbs often pushing grades in the low teens, it was a punishing day that caught us very much by surprise. We were also starting to deal with the effects of higher altitude; less oxygen for those legs, and a hot-hot sun. Quiche, as it is known locally, was awash in Christmas spirit and the cooler mountain air made the proximity to the holiday suddenly very real. We left town following my maps backroad route, but in reality it was the main highway to Xela. It also included a climb over a 9,500 ft pass, and another flat rear tire for Nathan, before dropping us into the Totonicapan valley for another nights rest.

last of 3 rear flats, one front flat, and two rear broken spokeslast of 3 rear flats, one front flat, and two rear broken spokes

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last of 3 rear flats, one front flat, and two rear broken spokes

 

Just for the thrill of the roadside repair, he had an additional rear flat tire on our way into Xela yesterday as we approached the junction with the Pan-Am highway. Once we made it to Xela and somehow found our way through the bustling city and into a hostel, we spent some time dissecting mechanical issues and gear choices over coffee; our favorite past-time.

There is something in the thin air that makes people all the more friendly; the world is full of joksters. I am sure I adhere to this change as much as everyone else, so maybe it is just a perception that attitudes have changed since the oppressive lowlands. For a brief while on our dirt road route west of Lago de Izabel and Rio Dulce we sensed a bit of oddness to the air, and perceived a bit of danger around the corner. Actually, Nathan sensed it, worried about it, informed me to worry, and then we hatched battle plans (I would inform them I was American and trained by Chuck Norris, no fighting would even be necessary). I doubt there was ever malice in the air, but once the thought is lodged in your head it is hard to shake. Which, is all the more reason why it feels so damn friendly up here.

The Black Cat Hostel, xmas home in XelaThe Black Cat Hostel, xmas home in Xela

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The Black Cat Hostel, xmas home in Xela

 

Following unknown festivities this holiday weekend (maybe just movies at the hostel) we are picking up a month of intensive Spanish lessons and staying with local families. I am thrilled with the ride we just had, the strength that I found in my legs, the blissfully cooler mountain air to breath and sleep in; all of it makes me just feel pretty damn good. And, I can only imagine that riding away from here in a month with some ability to carry on a conversation with a local will only add to the thrill. Happy Holidays to All!

Route Info

East to West:
Rio Dulce to El Estor (30 miles) – easy paved road along the lake with a worthwhile stop at the hot water fall at Finca El Paraiso. Hotels and food in both towns.
El Estor to La Tinta (46 miles, 2200 ft) – decent dirt road riding with sections that were very dusty, last section into La Tinta is being paved. Hotels and food in both towns.
La Tinta to Tactic (37 miles, 5800 ft) – steady climbing on decent dirt roads. Initial climb was followed by a bit of valley riding before the real push began. Sections of steep grades (potentially difficult if wet). Easy downhill highway into Tactic with all services.
Tactic to Salama via Hwy 5 (25 miles, 2400 ft) – steep ascents and descents on dirt road that begins about 9 miles from Tactic. Pushing was required for brief stretches. A few different river crossings. Last long and gentle climb to Salama leads to a steeper and more challenging rocky road descent into the Salama valley.
Salama to Cubulco (29 miles, 3000 ft) – all on paved roads, all services in Salama and Rabinal with limited services in Cubulco (one hotel and some tiendas).
Cubulco to river camp 4 miles east of Joyabaj (17.66 miles, 3800 ft)- two routes seems to climb south out of Cubulco, one appears to follow the ridge west of town following the road straight past the gas station. The other one we took goes south from the church and 8 hard, steep, dirt track miles later joins a better road (take a left at junction) along the ridge to Tres Cruces (water source 5 miles in, coke source at tienda a few miles in – we followed dirt road to the right at junction, left climbed a paved hill, shortly above the tienda). In Tres Cruces you can venture straight down to Pachalum, or take a right and meet up with the highway 8 miles east of Joyabaj. Lots of climbing to be done along the highway to Joyabaj making it hard to reach in a day.
Camp to Santa Cruz del Quiche (38 miles, 5400 ft) – All on paved roads with steep grades to and from river crossings. Plenty of services along route.
Quiche to Totonicapan (26 miles, 3800 ft) – All on newly paved highway. Summit of pass at mile 22.5 going south (9,500 ft).
Totonicapan to Xela (19 miles, 900 ft) – Easy ride into Xela. Without mechanical problems we would have made Xela from Quiche in a day.