Good days, bad days

Hmmm, have a safe trip. I certainly hope so.

A quick ride out of Belize, it's not a big country, and I'm at border control. According to the border official who stamps me out of Belize, I'm 'remarkable'. I'm a girl and I'm riding a large motorbike and I'm travelling by myself. Ok, I'd better get used to these kind of comments.

Arrive at the Mexican Border. Oh look, a girl, riding a motorbike, travelling by herself! At the sight of my name in my passport, a rather jolly border offical starts to sing, 'Michelle, my Belle' (The Beatles have alot to answer for). Not one of my favourite songs, but I bare it with a smile - he's being very helpful.
It's all going too well. I'm across the border and I gain an hour with Daylight saving and I'm further than where I thought I'd be by that time of day.

Yup, it WAS going too well. I cross from one state border to another getting stopped by a military checkpoint. Yep, I've got room in those panniers for drugs, weapons, and the people I'm smuggling. While getting searched I can feel the eyes of all the men (Where are the women in this country?) waiting in the cars behind me. The eyse of all the soldiers - do they have nothing better to do? - watching. I do my best to stand up tall and not let it bother me. Get kitted back up and out of there. I notice the truck behind me in the que at the checkpoint is still behind me. Can't really call it following as there isn't anywhere else to turn or go, it's one straight long boring road. But still. But still, I'm very glad its there, when my bike decides to alleviate itself of a rather important and necesary item - the chain. 75km from my chosen destination for the night, Escarcega.
Carlos, a weird looking, short little Mexican who was travelling in the truck behind, is kind enough to stop and make sure I'm OK. He speaks English with an Atlanta, Georgia accent, but at least I can communicate with him. He and his uncle drive me 26km further to find a mechanic who in turn, drives Carlos and I back to the bike. An hour later the chain is fixed, Carlos paying out $40 for the service as I have all of $4 on me and I'm now obliged to give Carlos a lift to Escarcega. God know's how he survived 75km sitting on my luggage rack with barely any padding, carrying my backpack, but we get in just before dark.
It causes a bit of a stir, riding into this one horse town. Carlos is a local restauranteur and seems to know everyone, he seems quite happy to wave at everyone and I of course feel very, very self conscious. There is at least a bank here so I can pay Carlos back, but when it comes to my choice accommodation for the night, the guide book recommends a cheap hotel, I end up in another dilema. Carlos insists its too dangerous to stay there, I can't afford the accommodation he is saying is safe. After 15 minutes of his insisting, I submit and he pays for my accommodation. I was desperate for a shower. But don't fret, he left me in piece and went home to his mum, it was Mother's Day of course.
The next morning, Carlos shows up to take me to his mate's motorcyle workshop, just to see how badly the bike was damaged in the 'Chain' incident. 'Muchas Gracias, Carlos', he's off to see his pregnant girlfriend in Merida.
Did I mention what a dump Escarcega is? No? Well it is! There is a gringo who is also trapped in Escarcega who just so happens to be working at the motorbike shop. He's a yachtie who lost his boat in Hurricane Katrina and has been a bit of a lost soul since. He's building himself a motorbike out of scraps to escape Escarcega. My good fortune is that he a) Speaks English b) is a very good mechanic and c) has no problem sorting out my bike. Unfortunately it takes a lot longer then the couple of hours I was hoping.

I could always escape on this CBR900, no?

So my rear sprocket is 'F'd. I should have taken a photo. The teeth are shaped like waves, caused by my chain being too loose this time and the chain took a couple of chunks out of the engine casing, damaged the chain guards. The chain is salvagble the sprocket not so. So I'm sent off to Campeche with another generous Mexican, an excruciatingly boring 5 hour return trip, and can only return with a rear sproket for a Suzuki. I'm stuck the night in Escarcega. Damn!
Gringo offers a patch of floor of his bodega which I readily accept. He's the kind of guy you wouldn't mess with, so I feel kind of safe.
Day Two and while waiting for the Suzuki sprocket teeth to be cut and welded onto the damaged Kawasaki sprocket inner (You gotta do whatever it takes to get going again) Gringo, his name was actually Raul, gives the KLR a bit of an overhaul. Carb cleaned, yet again, thanks to really bad Mexican fuel, its adjusted, my suspension is sorted and the bike grows back to its pre new shock absorber height, exhaust is cleaned, boy did it need it. And fingers crossed, it's liking for oil may be sorted. We'll have to wait and see on that one though. Downside, he thinnks the bike needs a new clutch set. It's never ending, this maintanance malarky!
I escape at 3pm, leaving Gringo to finish his own escape machine. In a foul mood, tired and hot as hell, I splurge, $15, on a hotel with my own shower. No hostals in the town of Oscinga. Quick emails, a quesadilla and I'm off to bed. It can only get better, surely!