Antigua provided us with the rest we desperately needed and allowed us to recharge our old batteries.

That said, despite the hardships, heartaches and frustrations we have experienced in our journey to date we wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

It’s not a journey for those who want to travel sanitised and pampered and, as Anthony Bourdain said ‘do we really want to travel in hermetically sealed popemobiles’ (thanks to the excellent ‘Trawlercat Chronicles’ blog for referencing this quote).

We’re all different. This is who we are and this is what we do. These are the best times of our lives.

Leaving Antigua, we journeyed 100 miles over mountain roads to Quetzaltenango. It took us over four hours.

There’s nothing special about this city, it was merely a stop point before the border with Mexico.

The evening rush hour gave us an indication of what the morning traffic would be like.

That’s the queue out of town and I would estimate it’s at least two hours before you reach a point where you’re not in a jam.

You can’t lane split with our motorcycle in these lines of traffic because there’s not enough room and, like this photo shows, there’s inevitably a guy pushing his old mother in a wheelchair begging.

So, with that in mind, we left our hotel at 0545hrs to successfully beat the morning traffic and get through the border in reasonable time.

We stopped for coffee and pancakes after a couple of hours.

At the border we sailed through chaos and checked out of Guatemala. At the immigration desk I have to kneel on the ground to look through the tiny opening in the black glass where you hand over the passports. After a brief conversation we’re stamped out of Guatemala. Nice.

We cross a bridge and we’re into Mexico. This is going well. Nice.

Susan gets off the bike and I ride through a garage spraying insecticide. It certainly tastes like it will be effective.

We speak to Mexican immigration and are told we can’t enter Mexico at this border because the bank is closed.

In Mexico, they have the ‘Banjercito’, a military bank that processes import permits for vehicles and fleeces the traveller with tariffs. Once again I’ve written a special letter to Mr Trump to make sure he’s aware of the hassle I’m having with tariffs.

So the Banjercito is closed and we can’t get an import permit.

Let me now summarise our experience. It’s a painful log of events but I feel I need to share my pain rather than bottle it up. Sorry.

The immigration lady imforms us we need to re-enter Guatemala and travel an hour south to another border at Hidalgo where they have a ‘Banjercito’.

She says Guatemala will let us back through without going through the processing.

We’re searched by the paramilitary guard as we leave Mexico.

We return across the bridge into Guatemala.

Inevitably, they wont let us in without a re- entry stamp in our passports so I again kneel on the ground at the immigration counter and we are officially back in Guatemala.

I tried to ignore Guatemala customs and ‘persuade’ them to let us through the barrier but they’re having none of it. They wont let the bike back into Guatemala.

They send us back to Mexico.

To do that we need to exit Guatemala. I kneel at Guatemala immigration and ask for a second exit stamp to match our two entry stamps. We’re told one exit stamp is enough.

We return across the bridge into Mexico. Thankfully, I don’t have to ingest more insecticide.

Mexico immigration lady says she’s surprised Guatemala won’t let us back though. I smile and keep calm.

It’s now explained we can actually get a temporary seven day visa at this counter and enter Mexico to travel to the other border.

I’m boiling inside and it’s got nothing to do with the heat. I smile and keep calm.

We fill in their forms and get our seven day visa.

We get on the bike, leave immigration and are stopped by the guys with guns at the security barrier. Where’s the import permit for the bike they ask?

We explain and after some persuasion they let us through.

We ride southwards to Hidalgo and into town.

We’ve got no idea where to go. Google doesn’t know where to go. The locals don’t know where to go. The police officer doesn’t know where to go.

I know where to go. By this time we’re quite exhausted and dehydrated and I go for drinks and ice cream. We sit on the kerb to recover and attract the attention of a local. Nice guy and he actually knows where to go. Good bit of luck. We were just about to return 20 minutes up the road to the freight terminal.

We ride to the huge customs building which is one minute away. Thankfully it’s very quiet – that’s obviously because nobody knows where it is!

We enter, get our passports stamped to extend our 7 day visa to a 30 day visa. Their tourist tariff is $95.

We ask the Banjercito for temporary import permit for the bike. We have some major issues with who actually owns the bike but after 20 minutes we establish its mine.

They now ask me for photocopies of my passport, driving licence, V5 and the form the immigration counter (10 metres away) gave us.

This is when I lose my pleasant, cool, calm and collected manner. F*ck the keeping calm Clif, f*ck the keeping calm!

Susan will want me to edit the swearing out. She will tell me that ‘people’ don’t like the swearing in my story. But I’ve got to convey my frustration. So hopefully you’re reading a good lot of swearing and I’ve managed to get it passed ‘Censor Susan’.

I do carry photocopies but the recent border crossings throughout Central America have exhausted my supply. I’m told to take my documents to a copy shop in the local neighbourhood.

I point out to a ‘banjo’ man, there’s a photocopy machine beside him. He says he can’t. I express my feelings. He said I have to go and get my own photocopies.

I sit down beside ‘censor Susan’ and take a long drink of water. Susan is calm and tells me I’m not going to achieve anything by shouting at the the ‘banjo’ people.

I know she’s right. You see she’s not just my censor when I’m writing the blog, she’s a real live censor that moderates my language and behaviour. Everyone should have one.

I do listen but I have one last shout – just like a dog having one last bark when it’s told to stop barking

Then I start walking the 15 minutes to the copy shop.

I get my photocopies. The guys in the shop are nice enough. They take my photocopy tariff and I leave. I’m writing to Mr Trump about that shop too! They’re obviously part of the tarrif scheme!

It’s a longer walk back to the customs hall because the entry gate is further away than the exit gate. Yes I do try to re-enter the exit gate but as we all know, the rules are the rules.

I hand the ‘banjo’ guy the photocopies and he photocopies them on his machine. He hands me back my new photocopies.

I remain calm. ‘Censor Susan’ is sitting behind me and I can feel her staring at me with one of those looks.

I pay $460 dollars to get the bike into Mexico. I believe I get most of this back.

We leave the customs hall and get on the bike.

We wait in a queue of cars and are stopped by guys with guns who want us to produce the papers we’ve just been issued.

We leave 10 minutes later.

We’re officially in Mexico.

We arrive at our hotel an hour later. Exhausted. If you think that was our day it wasn’t – I haven’t told you half of what happened but I’ve already used up too much of your patience.

C’est la vie.

We will fondly reminisce about this border crossing for the rest of our lives. This is who we are.

Viva Mexico.

• Adventure motorcycle
• BMW 1250 GSA
• Central America