Loaded up and ready to leave Mocoron, where I’d been resting up for a couple of days. A huge thank you to Anita and Legia for teaching me how to open a coconut like a man, wash my clothes (properly) in a river, and all their laughter and smiles.

The girls saw me off with a few slabs of energy rich yukka coconut cake we’d made the day before.

Initially, the countryside felt strangely reminiscent of the forest trails in Montana. Crossing from Leimus into Nicaragua was straight forward – just a dollar for the crossing in a dugout – albeit under a heavy downpour.

Welcome to Nicaragua.

Not long into the ride, I met Stefan, a Romanian motorbiker who’d travelled down from Canada. We’d first bumped into each other in La Ceiba, from where he’d taken a cargo boat to Puerto Lempira. We ended camping out together and staying in the same cheap digs for the next few days.

Stopping for a food in a Nicaraguan comedor as I entered RAAN.

The meal was one of the best I’ve had in a while – chicken, yucca, beans, rice and chopped tomatoes. It was all grown locally and tasted incredibly fresh. As I worked my way through the bowl hungrily, the owner of the comedor joined me, a farmer who ran the restaurant to help supplement his income. He’d seen a couple of touring cyclists pass by before and having chatted to them, had clearly been cogitating about bike touring. ‘Rare is the man who really knows the world. You can’t understand life from a car or plane. But on your bicycle, you see and experience everything,’ he said.

Local rural transport in Northern Nicaragua. A long way from Montgomery County, Maryland…

Red dirt. The road from Waspan to Puerto Lempira was mined with puddly potholes, thanks to the storms that kept rolling in above the vast, far reaching savannah.

On the road, and loving it. (photo taken by Stephan from his Kawasaki)

For several kilometres, I was joined by a local cyclist. We climbed an observation tower for an epic view of this part of La Moskitia. Compared to the singletracks I’d been negotiating in La Moskitia, these dirt roads felt like freeways.

Repairing a puncture by knotting it off – a technique I hadn’t seen before.

I kept playing tag with Stephan and his Kawasaki. Although he’d easily outpace me, he had some welding he needed to deal with, and his customs paperwork took longer to process.

My biking buddy’s home. I like the way it was partitioned for different members of the family. Very sensible if you’re living under one roof!

The approach to Puerto Cabezas – known as Bilwi in Moskitian – a sketchy port home to Moskitians, Colombian cocaine smugglers and only the most tenacious of Mormon missionaries.

A leatherback chopped up and swarming with flies in the market – not a particularly heart warming sight for a turtle lover, like me. Apparently, turtles that aren’t fully grown have to be thrown back in by law.

No shortage of bananas in these parts. The five stubs are the one I had for breakfast.

This local guy offered to show me around town, and we spent the afternoon together exploring some the backroads that linked Puerto Cabezas with nearby villages.

From Puerto Cabezas, I’d been told it was a rough and remote 560kms to the capital, Managua – and dirt all the way to Rio Blanco. To give you some idea how slow going it can be, it takes the bus 24 hours to cover that distance… That’s an average of around 23 kilometres an hour.

And here’s one such bus. Fast and Furious, reads the livery. That must be a relative term round here… We crossed one of the rivers together (on a boat tugged by a chain) and everyone on aboard gathered round to find out what I was up to, and wish me luck for the road ahead.

No wonder, with extended parts like this. If I put in some long days in the saddle, I figured I could make it in six days to colonial Granada, quieter and safer than the capital, and a little under 600kms away. It would mean some long (and painful) hours in the saddle.

This surface was some of the worst I’ve ridden over, with thousands of small yet jagged rocks embedded into the earth.

Every once in a while, the road rippled with short yet steep stunted hills that afforded views over the pine forest and savannah.

One night I slept on the floor of this cheerful, Evangelical pastor. I was too tired too be kept up by the rousing nighttime singalong.

Civilisation, in the form of the bustling metropolis of La Rosita, bringing with it the promise of a good meal and some fresh fruit other than bananas…

La Rosita was also home to some cool utility bikes concocted with motorbike parts.

Check out that fork used to brace the rear triangle. These cost around $200 and are made locally.

Hanging out at the local bike shop.

The road alternated from bad to really bad. This particular stretch rattled my brains and loosed my fillings. Not to mention giving me a sore backside. Sometimes I could seek rattling sanctuary from slivers of smoothish trail along the very edge of the road, riding faster than the transport trucks that deliver supplies to Puerto Cabezas.

The area felt settled in the daytime, but I was told to be off the road before nightfall. I didn’t run into any trouble, but I did pass through a small community close to Rio Blanco where three men had been held up killed just five days before, at three in the afternoon. ‘Are you worried about travelling along?’ was a question I was often asked. In fact, while I always received a warm welcome whether I went, the constant barrage of warnings crept into my subconscious and became unsettling.

The fine line between pleasure and pain. The odd kilometre or two was paved. But it was just that. One or two kilometres.

Try finding a way of pushing a fully loaded bike across this bridge… It’s like playing a game of Tetris.

I’d been told security on this part of Nicaragua can be an issue, so I either slept in cheap truck stop guesthouses, at 2 dollars a pop, or camped in villages and army check points.

Cowboy country.

Kids selling oranges by the roadside, which I gratefully guzzled down. When I went to leave, they gave me a handful for the journey.

The buses got to know me as they plied the route, and unleashed ear bleeding hoots of their horns to greet me. It’s the thought that counts…

In Rio Blanco, I saw this custom rack for carrying a gas bottle on the streets of Rio Blanco.

Adjustable in size too, depending on the brand of bottle.

NGO handywork – one of the many water pumps in RAAN. This area took a big hit in the Contra War, and there was evidence of bygone foreign aid programs all around.

Yep, one muddy bike…

And then, from Rio Blanco, the road was paved! Woohoo! As a dirt road enthusiast, for once I was actually glad to be rolling on pavement.

Blossoming trees by the roadside. These are called Guayacan.

I stopped off at this little hole-in-the-wall shop, and got chatting to Nora, who took a real interest in the journey. I asked to take a photo of her, and after accepting, she surprised me by asking if I had any photos of me and my bike. ‘Very few people will make a journey like this. It would be nice to remember our meeting.’

She got her daughter to climb the orange tree and pick me a bunch.

Nora’s pooches, lazing by her roadside shop.

Honey, sold by the roadside in Fleur de Cana recyled rum bottles.

Enormous avocados – perfect bike food.

After negotiating all the Mosquito Coast, culminating in this last six days of hard riding, I was less than an hour from my destination. It was with elation that I greeted this roadsign…

And Granada, less than an hour later… My Moskitian adventure was finally over. Epic is a world that’s thrown around a lot these days. This journey definitely felt like it justified it.