while out riding

Downtown Mocoron. During the ten year, CIA-funded Nicaraguan Contra war in eighties, Mocoron was used as a Red Cross base, situated as it is close to the border. Ironically, this was a time of boom for the local economy.

One of the buildings at Norma's foundation, formerly a Honduran army barracks.

The school, which houses a bank of computers.

Anita, Norma's adopted daughter, who was house sitting between studies in Puerto Lempira.

Her precision axing technique, always with a smile, put us men to shame.

And her cousin Legia, who lives in Mocoron. These two amazing girls run the place when no one else is around.

Jason, a trainee nurse from Utah, arrived the same day as me to volunteer for a few months. We had a great time hanging out together.

Me, grating coconut, freshly loped off the tree. This was to make coconut and, you guessed it, yucca cake. Intense concentration is needed to avoid bloody knuckles.

Rebecca. She had something of a vicious streak, and bit Jason's foot. Apparently they still argue.

There were a few other smaller parrots amongst the feathered residents, one of whom was called Nancy. She loved nothing more than to scream out "Anita! Anita!" from across the compound, in the style of a cantankerous, overly-demanding grandmother. True to their stereotype, you can train parrots to repeat things. In fact, Jason heard one in Belen calling out from the treetops: Recarga con Clara! This translates to, Recharge your cellphone with Clara! It must have heard a salesman boating along the waterways, calling out on his loudspeaker as he sold pre paid cell phone units. Now that would make a great advert...

Also part of the clan, sweet Canela, always trying to ingratiate herself for scraps.

I wasn't about to give her any of my breakfast: fresh fish, fried yucca and beans. Absolutely delicious.

Washed down with a cup of the local brew, steeped from the plant above, which tasted very much like fresh lemon grass tea.

The girls cooked us up whatever they could get their hands on, like this fresh deer meat.

If ever we ran out of yucca, there was always a friendly neighbour to sell us more. Phew.

And the health clinic, readying itself for another busy day. It was formerly the Red Cross building during the Contra War.

Basic supplies, but a lifesaver for many of those living in these communities.

The Moskitian skyline...

Somewhere down there, there's some awesome singletrack...

This is my map to guide me onto the right trail out of Ahuas - my little moleskin notebook was often mistaken for a bible in these parts. With my head swirling with potential hazards, warnings and advice (watch out for the tigers/only stay with Christians/get yourself gun, or at least a decent sized machete) I pedalled off into the heart of La Moskitia...

It wasn't long before I was leaving the last of Ahuas' wonky, weatherstained houses behind.

Singletrack through the pines. If conditions continued to be so dry, the two day ride promised to be incredible.

Then I hit stretches like this... The mud is thick enough to hold the bike up by itself. I lost my sandals here, and delved around for a while with my hands to retrieve them.

And sank down right to my waist while looking for a route through this swampy section...

In Warunta, the pastor paddled across the river to pick me up, with the news that he'd been told to deliver anyone who looked 'different' to a nearby army checkpost - the area is rife with narcos and other insalubrious characters. Luckily formalities were quickly dealt with, and after feeding me a massive platter of wild pig, a soldier was assigned to guide me by horseback onto the correct trail out of town.

The collection of bizarre Meskitian names continue. I bumped into Jose Emeliano Alfred James, son of the late Rudigan James, as I was informed. As chance would have it, Emeliano was a resident of Coco, the next settlement on my route. He'd made the 2 1/2 hour walk to Warunta to make a phone call, where there was cell phone coverage, thanks to the solar powered towers mushrooming up all over the plains. It was just as well, as the route we took, via a muddy, jungly shortcut that I had to awkwardly drag my bike through, would have been tricky to navigate and manage alone.

The trail finally emerged onto this pebbly beach. It was too deep to wade across, so Emeliano kicked off his wellington boots and stripped down to his underwear, swam down river, and reappeared a little later with the village dugout.

Note to self: don't leave home without your shotgun.

We balanced the bike across the dugout, handlebars stirring the water as he paddled.

This is one of Coco's handful of houses, set above the shallow, meandering Rio Coo on the edge of the savannah. No electricity. No running water. And no cell phone coverage... Still, it didn't stop a rousing hymn singing session around the fire.

This is Emeliano's two month old baby, Kishnita, who was suffering from a fever. The remedy: wild garlic and some mysterious herbs, chopped up straight on the floorboards. Dinner was a bowl of rice mixed with milk power and sugar, and a few lumps of boiled yukka. His mother lamented, 'We are poor. We have no money. All we eat is yukka every day.'

The kitchen was on a raised platform, under a rusty, corrugated roof. In the morning, I was handed a bowl of fish and yukka for the ride/push ahead.

Again, the camera went down a treat with the children. With no glass or mirrows in the house, they took the opportunity to don a variety of guises, to general guffaws and amusement from the family.

All that's missing is the cell phone accessory. I heard this girl whispering words to her baby sister: So-ni Erik-son. Blac-be-ry.

Back on singletrack through more pine forest.

And across open savannah.

Past weird, stumpy outcrops. Emeliano and his cousin Joram had insisted on guiding me thorough to a spot where the trail would become more distinct.

In the jungle once more, dragging the bike along a rough, muddy trail cut through the undergrowth, and fording chest high rivers.

One last river crossing, this one in a dugout.

On the other side, I was relived to see the muddy forest had given way to expansive plains. From here, I was told vehicle markings through the grass would lead me all the way to Mocoron, my destination.

After a couple of days of riding singletrack and dragging my bike through swamp and mud, the hardpack road I emerged onto felt like a super highway. Now I was rolling!

I was met by a warm welcome in the first grocery store I came across. Lem, an ex lobster diver, took me on a tour of the village, a dozen men and boys in tow... I'd planned to stop here a couple of days, as Mocoron was also the home of Gigi's mother Norma Love, who runsa health clinic in the village. The relief of having arrived is always a moment to be savoured...

The gang.

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And the faithful hound, El Amor.

Bye bye road…

The faithful Mongoose had found another owner! Chicagan Spanish teacher Elana, a keen cycle commuter back home, took up the challenge of riding it to the the Moskitia. I lent her a front bag and she roped down her rucksack to the rear rack. Alena planned to backtrack to Trujillo, and either continue cycling or sell her steed on again before returning to the Yucatan. 

Pre ride morning feed. Egg, chicken and sweet, soft fried platanos maduros. My favourite.

Out on the road, pavement soon gave way to dirt. Only jeeps piled high with people and cargo, and the odd dusty chicken bus, plied the road. 

Decapitated palm trees – collecting their oil is one of the main industries here, and has resulted in violent land rights disputes. 

Wispy moss hanging like an old men’s beards.

Dusty conditions make for interesting tan lines. We washed off in the sea at the end of each day. 

In Limon, we were invited in to stay for the night by a local garifuna family, and fed simple yet delicious fresh fish. Garifunas speak both Spanish and their own creole-derived language, Women are called Mama, men are called Papa, and little girls Madrecita. Little Mama!

Fording the odd murky stream…

Passing beautiful, unspoilt white sand beaches.

The Garifuna settlement of Punta Piedra. 

A small, quiet fishing village.

Where, appropriately enough, we stopped for one of the tastiest fish meals I’ve had in a long time. 

With views like this, you’d expect the area to be have become a little tourist haven. But Punta Piedra was a strictly local hangout.

A little further down the road, these poor creatures were destined for the pot, carried home from the beach by kids cycling by on broken, beat up bikes.

One of the cool cats I rode with. A side note for my football-obssessed brother. This remote and sparely populated stretch of the coast is famous for producing top class players, several of whom play internationally  and in the Premiership – like Wilson Palacios, for Tottenham, and Henry Thomas, for Wigan. I later met Wilson’s cousin! 

In seedy Iriona, the road came to an abrupt end, so we hopped in a passing ‘collectivo’ boat for the short ride to the village of Cocolito. 

There, we were quickly descended upon by a mob of Garifuna kids who vied for our attention. 

With little encouragement, they set about braiding Elana’s hair with great zeal in the local church. 

I’d planned to catch a boat along this section of the coast, but nowadays, it’s only linked by 4WD jeeps who tear up and down the coastline through chicanes of mangroves. They churn up ankle deep sand,  turning any efforts at cycling into a slow, sweaty trudge. 

Hm. Not as rideable as I’d hoped…

A bemused local watches as I toil onwards. Upturned dugouts lined the beach, and families waded through the shallow waters fishing. 

‘Balsas’, floating jetties, transport the daily run of modified jeeps across bridgeless rivers. As payment, the owner of this human powered raft asked me for only the equivalent of a can of coke to enjoy when the day was done. 

Oops. This one didn’t quite make it. It took an hour to dig it out. 

The riverside settlement of Nuevo Puerto wasn’t much more than a few houses and an enormous mango tree. Under its shade, a dozen boats were pulled up along the sandy shore. A few sinewy fishermen, in string vests supping bears, swung in hammocks. Surly Mama Patty, who vigourously upheld a reputation for shortchanging her customers, seemed none too impressed with Madrecita Elena’s braids.

Then it was time for anther collectivo boat ride to Belen (once Bethlehem, as it was named by the church missionaries), with magnificent views across the expanse of the laguna. The fabled Moskitia at last!

It’s not all idyllic though. The quiet communities here are squeezed along an elongated finger of land, between the lagoon and the Caribbean, stretches of which are heaped with sea junk. They’re also slap bang on the international drug smuggling route. Bags of cocaine are regularly washed ashore from abandoned speed boats, escaping US-funded helicopter patrols. Just a week earlier, the local kids had found a clutch of jettisoned guns. 

That aside, these forgotten settlements are the perfect places to relax and catch up on some reading, before the next push through the waterways further into La Moskitia proper, and on to Nicaragua…

Moskitian smiles...