I quickly learned to give Chicken Buses plenty of space. These heavily decorated buses are notorious for their aggressive driving. They speed down winding roads, swerve into oncoming traffic to overtake slower vehicles, and stop abruptly to pick up passengers without signaling. Packed so tightly with people, they store luggage on the roof, wrapping everything in trash bags before tossing it up there for protection. Named for their original purpose of transporting farm animals, these buses now carry people across the country. As the roads have narrowed again and potholes become more frequent, passing even the slowest three-wheeled tuk-tuks has become much more difficult.

After miles of stop and slow traffic, I was ready to get off the main road. I followed a sign pointing towards Laguna de Ayarza down a dirt road. The lake, which is a caldera—a volcanic crater that has filled with water—is surrounded by a dozen small homes. I found an isolated spot along the lake's edge that appeared to have been used as a campsite before. The ground was scattered with cold ash from a fire and a few plastic soda bottles. I began setting up my camper for the night when a loud dirt bike pulled up beside me. The rider turned off the bike and gestured for me to come closer. Skeptical, I walked towards him and greeted him with, "Buenas noches." He replied, "Good evening." Victor invited me to his cabin for a cup of coffee. While we waited for the campfire to boil the water, he showed me around the cabin. It was one large room still under construction, with exposed cinder block walls. A pile of rebar and concrete mix sat in the corner next to an army cot. "No terminada," he said. Not finished. We stepped outside to check on the coffee, which was ready. Victor, who was studying to be an engineer, was excited to practice his English with someone. We talked about how he and his father used to fish on the lake when he was a child. He asked what I had seen in Guatemala so far, but since I had only been in the country for a day, I didn’t have much to share. I finished my coffee and headed back to my truck for the night.

Before leaving the U.S., I had been in contact with Alejandro from Overland Embassy, a travel logistics company based in Panama City, Panama. To travel from North America to South America, I would need to navigate around the Darién Gap. Locally known as El Tapón (The Stopper), the Darién Gap is a densely jungled region home to Indigenous communities and criminal gangs. When you ask Panamanians why there is no road through it, the answers typically focus on preventing migrants, diseases, and drugs from entering the country. Thousands of migrants attempt to cross the Gap every month, but no formal road exists. My plan was to ship my vehicle to Colombia. My truck would be placed in a shipping container, loaded onto a boat, and sent to Cartagena. To begin the paperwork process, I needed to be in Panama City by February 1st. With only half of January left, I still had to cross four more borders to make it on time.

I was focused on being on time for my shipping date, so I didn’t linger much. I got up early, and spent most of the daylight hours driving.

I arrived at Aduana El Florido, the Honduras Customs office, right as it opened. Each time I got in line, I’d receive a new stamp and be told I needed copies of that document. To get them, I had to step outside, cross the street to a small convenience store packed with cigarettes, chips, and cold drinks, where a dusty HP inkjet printer sat. I paid for the copies with my Guatemalan Quetzales, then exchanged the rest for Honduran Lempira. After a few rounds of this, I finally got a thumbs up. "¿Todo bien?" I asked. "Sí. Bienvenidos a Honduras."

I was absolutely set on being on time for my shipping date, so I didn’t linger much. Without any alarm, I got up early each day and spent most of the daylight hours driving. When the sun began to set, I would stop to fuel up and find a hotel for the night. In just a few days, I crossed through Honduras, then Nicaragua, and into Costa Rica. I had put a lot of miles on the truck, and it was in need of some attention. In San Jose, I found a garage that could rotate my tires and change the oil. But really, it was an excuse to get out of the truck. The Panama border was only half a day away.

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