To the Belize Border

Toll road is somewhat of an ambiguous thing, as most else in this country is, the toll that is. There seems to be a toll booth about every 40 miles or so, sometimes less. I can’t figure if these are controlled by the mafia or who exactly. There are billboards extolling the wonders of the government who have brought us this fine road, but they could mean anything and probably not what a body would think. The road is good, made of concrete rather than the 9 layers of half ass applied asphalt. Pot holes are few. A steady pace of 50 MPH can be maintained with all the maniacs passing to the left at 90. I am thankful to be out of the perpetual village phenomena with all their asshole bumps, road sharks and rip off pigs. There seems to be no pigs whatsoever out here, the toll deemed sufficient extortion.

Toll booths are confusing because I can count to ten and no higher. Even to ten I can’t understand what they are saying. So we just hand money out the window and hope for some change. On occasion, a number flashed on a marquee in front of us, giving us a clue what to pay. At every one is a big deal about how many axels we have always resulting in the booth person having to get off their ass lock the toll booth, come suspiciously around and look under the trailer. Each extra axel doubles the toll. Soon we catch on to this and proclaim Una to their quizzical look, but hey never believe us and have to get out and check. I’m sure this costs us extra. There are always some sort of para-military goons around. The hover attracts them like files to shit. The longer the inspection for axels, the more congregate and I can feel their minds working up infractions. A few times I drive off with out the change, before the mental cusp is reached with these marauders. I notice that when a particularly toll is charged, it doesn’t show on the lighted board. At one booth, the fellow speaks some English. 300 pesos he want’s. Not on the board. Paid and beyond, we conclude we’ve been fleeced again. Getting smarter now, we see that the fares are posted going into the toll booth. This allows us to only hand over exact amounts, like we knew what we were doing. Yeah, that’s better.

After the booth there is often a check point, military or federallies, but who really know who the hell they are except their mother. We are always pulled over without question. Then the questions. Transmigriantes, we plead, handing over the documentero’s. After some scrutiny we’re allowed to pass, unfleeced. Sometimes we have to get out of the truck as a young uniform hops into the back and rummages around a bit. Not sure why we have to get out and smell the machine gun oil, but it is un-nerving, it being the first step to being shoved up against the bullet ridden wall. On and on this goes, the road still good, the toll booths and check points frequent.

Both sides of the road are flooded in this long stretch to Villa Hermosa. People with their baggage on their heads walk along the roadside, going where is unknown. Flooded shacks can be seen everywhere. At times we cross mammoth rivers of swirling mud, their banks undefined, merging with drowned fields as far as we can see. I see scraggly abandoned horses, still tied to their roadside grazing places, chest deep in water. Why does no one cut them loose? I should feel pity for these inundated people, but I don’t. Somehow, I think if this whole country washed away, who could possibly miss it. Come on God, you have a fine start here, Just another 20 feet of water ought to do it.

Kim has found in the yuppie “RV camping in Mexico” guide another possible campground. It is vaguely described as being 40 or 60 miles this side of villa Hermosa. We haven’t seen a single RV anywhere. The detailed directions tell us the place is on the other side of the freeway and one must somehow see this, then take a returno, pull in at a gas station, go around behind it, park, bang on a gate, walk up a hill to the office, etc. etc. I miss the obvious motels of the west with some curry soaked East Indian grinning behind the desk. We’re out of the damn pesos again. The last one we had to dig through a pile of aluminum and brass coins to pay. I stop at a Permex gas station that advertises a bank. This is only a cash machine, which is no use to us, our credit being left in shambles back in the states. No, nobody will change yank money. Maybe try the gas jockeys. Yes .. one sharp looking fella will do it, at the rate of 1000 (a mil) pesos to the hundred. The rate is 1300 in an airport, 1250 on the street, so this guy is making about 30 bucks on a hundred. I change 200 US and get enough funny looking money to stuff the glove box again. There is 3 different kinds of hundred peso bills, some have clear cellophane windows in them. This must represent the national plant, which is a plastic bag stuck in the roadside brush.

Now the dark panic again. The sun setting in an aura of menstrual mist. Gotta get off the road. On the far side of the road we see Wangderro’s RV sign. It is folded over, broken and crumbling, a wrecked car upside down in front of it, a fallen down barbed wire fence all covered in tendrils of vegetation. Immediately there is a returno. To quick to react from the far lane. Maybe there is another returno. I doubt it. The place looked abandoned to me, what about you. Looked bad alright. Well the hell with that anyway though. But now we’re charging straight into The city. It’s fleecing hour. It’s past fleecing hours, they’re all home pigging empadas. Never-the-less, we’ll be driving for an hour in darkness before we hit the big town, and that solves nothing. Only complicates. Have to get off the road. We’ll sleep in a gas station. Groan. Getting pretty dark now. The road worsening and we’re hitting some road craters at high speed, feeling the agony of the frame twisting underneath with the drubbing. There’s a Permex on our side. I’m getting off the now dark road. Pull into the far back corner. Stopped at last, but on a concrete slab that is remarkably unappealing. What to do? I piss the dog and tie her to the trailer. Walk with kim over to the gas station where she barges into the bathroom not asking if the traditional 3 peso fee is required. Inside the store is dark. Nobody ever turns the light on around here. A few senioritas are gossiping behind the counter who eye me witheringly, particularly my ragged shoes in which I have hidden gold bars. If only they knew. Buy some beer and back to the truck. The dog has been barking desperately, feeling abandoned in this no place. We sit behind the truck in the soaking bedroll, drinking the beers, which are a little comforting. What to do? 12 hours till dawn. Have to wait it out.

A concrete wall next to us is covered in lizards, attracted to the buggs under an erratic mini street lamp. That’s pretty cool. The air is thick and muggy. Mosquitoes take up 10% of the atmosphere. They are biting the hell out of us, injecting us with Malaria, Dengue, Elephantitus, and every other exotic tropical disease known and unknown. Ahead of us to the east, the sky flashes continuously with some massive storm headed our way. Blast after blast of white light, seeming to reveal our skeletons in their intensity. It’s as though we are trapped in the control room of a warp drive after a Klingon discinto ray has put it on a pulsating pattern to destruction. No mater how we cover ourselves, the little disease vectors continue to stab us mercilessly. It is incredibly hot. Has to be over a hundred something. We pack back into the truck, starting it and blasting the AC. Crammed in here, our spines pre-fused from endless hours on the road, upright seating only. Turn the truck off and it’s a foggy hundred in 4 minutes. We are relatively miserable. An hour has passed .. 11 to go. Suggest we set the tent up and fling the cats in, give us more room in the truck cab. This is a unanimous vote. We do so, putting the soggy cat box in there with them. The little crazy one escapes again, but is distracted long enough by the lizard wall to be recaptured. The furry creature seems to be intent on becoming a Mexican cat, or more realistically, a gato taco.

A little more room in the truck now. We share leg space, trying to straighten them for a brief time to return blood flow. Truck on. Truck off. The storm nears slowly, now with accompanying booming behind the flashes. 4 hours in and no sleep yet, just writhing. Sweltering inside with the truck off but we don’t dare let the blood sucking hoard in. already there are a few micro devils sucking us that have slipped in, who we thrash for. Truck on for a few moments of icy air. Truck off, can’t leave it running all night. About 1 AM the storm finally hits, with ear splitting blasting instantly on top of the blinding lighting. The dog erupts barking in terror. The rain pummels the truck as a thousand hammers would, each drop the size of a golf ball. This goes on for about an hour. Then stillness. The air a fog, the mosquito’s have all survived and are back to business. I sleep fitfully for a spell, in and out of odd dreams. When I awake, Kim is sitting stoically beside me. Not complaining. A resilient girl, although I see she suffers and does not sleep. At last the graying of dawn. 5:15. Not a lovely sunrise, just a slowly brightening of the grey.

We stagger outside to pull the program together. The cats are OK although not speaking to anyone. The hover trailer is only 2 inches off the ground in front. Too low to go anywhere. The hovercraft is full of 50,000 gallons of rain water. I try to bail it out, but it is an impossible task. With much reluctance, I take the big bar and stab two holes through the floor. This will do it. No point in hauling Lake Erie around. Soon our sodden crap is all packed away again. A lot of heavy things that were in the hover are put in the truck. Back out onto the road. No coffee, no food, just cigarettes.

The road degrades as we approach Villa Hermosa in inverse proportion to the increase in traffic. I’m expecting a rip off station on the outskirts of town, but it is the morning rush hour. This place is huge, with some miles of industrial districts on the outskirts. Still the two lane highway plows into the city. Soon we are in the edge of downtown. Here the 3 lane road is mosh pitted with 6 cars abreast and multiple diagonal drivers too. Cars are less than inches away and are aggressively squeezing from one lane to the next. I see no lane lines, just this sea of frantic cars all trying to squish through. I can’t understand how we’re not hitting anyone, as if we were a clam in its shell but not touching it. The only saving grace is that everything is moving at 3 MPH. For a few miles we crawl along in this car constipation, until skyscrapers are all around us and the masses mob the off ramp to their office endeavourers. The road becomes less packed, almost drivable. Still the two lane toll (?) road with a boulevard down the middle. We pick up speed, happy to be through the city, on our way to the east. Nothing happens. No police fleecing blockades. We’re out in the country now and traveling fast. The usual toll booth at their frequency, now all followed by military check points. They are searching for revolutionaries, who are common to this area. One captain tries to trick us up in well spoken English, trying to get us to tell different stories about where we’re going, how long we’ll be there, what our purpose is. Anticipating this, we have rehearsed our intent and the fellow is unable to make headway on incarcerating us.

On and on we go, making good time. The road is improved and there is little traffic. We are out of the flooded areas now, traveling through lush fields. Now heading North, crossing in and out of the state of Chipias with associated military check points at every border crossing. At one check point, the road is a mass of chuck holes, dust seems to be on everything, the military are intense, having us get out while they rifle through everything. Bunkers on the road side have bullet holes sprayed in them. It would seem this was a site of a recent assault by the revolutionaries. But we are not they, and eventually pass. The blood pressure factor is much lower now, goons with guns being so commonplace. Hardly warranting a ceremonial cigarette after a scrutiny. The last town comes at last. Escarcega. From here it is due east to Chetumal the border town and entry into Belize. The road degrades to a one lane town road, right through the heart of the small city. This is the perfect arrangement for the fleecers. But something is different here. The town is gaily painted and strewn with banners and flags. This is the city closest to dozen of famous ruins all around, and they are apparently capitalizing on the tourist trade to those sites. El Tigre, Becan, Calakmul and many more rise their temples to the sky, wonders of a vast civilization come and gone. We pass through town without a hitch, not even a sideways glance from anyone. We are on the last stretch of the highway to Belize. The road is great, no traffic, and we’re stomping the gas.

We blaze across the Yucatan panhandle. No temple stops for us. Racing the clock as always. Coming into Chetmal we get into an argument about where Santa Elana is, the border crossing. Kim seems to think is down this dirt road that ends at the river some 40 miles south of the highway. I contend no way, that there is only one, the one in town. But I humor her and head down this road anyway. It is soon the usual village with topes every 3 miles, donkeys in the road, etc. No way, I say. Turn around. Argue back to the highway. Ok, we’ll ask. Pull onto a mechanic yard with 4 rough looking beer swilling types. Nobody speaks English. After they figure out how pathetic we are, there is much discussion, ending in directions to continue down the dirt road. Okaaa. Back down the road. Now 20 miles in. I say no way. Stop and ask some street people. Oh no, Santa Elans is out of Cetamal. Must go back to the highway and continue into town. Yeah. Figgured. Back again, on down the road. This double diversion took 2 hours. Follow some confusing signs, go through an abandoned looking gate, then up a lonely road straight into a military encampment. Not good. Soldiers surround us. Apparently this is an unused bridge across to Belize, but we ain’t getting through here. Much explaining why we’re trying to smuggle drugs through here in broken Spanish, then I have to back the trailer up for a ¼ mile before I can get turned around. Now getting dark. People driving here without lights, which multiplies the possible crash factor. We are sucked into the town. Shit. Pull into a gas station where we meet a Belizean who says he’s headed for the crossing and we can follow him. A gentleman. Now pitch black. We follow with difficulty, being the tortoise and him the hare. The roads are confusing, with ¾ roundabouts, odd ball left turns, nothing marked except one sign that says substitute route. Eventually a little town, money change booths, and then the border/military fortress. Ok what the hell, we pull in and are stopped. We’re identified as transmigrantes, cargo people. A higher official is called to explain to us. The office is closed. We are 3 hours too late. It is Friday and it doesn’t open until Monday morn. Screwed, basically. We are escorted out but have to pass through a military check post where we’re scrutinized, even though just making a U turn. I was given some abstract directions to a place where we could wait it out. A parking lot? A hotel? The road out threatens to suck us back into town, but I make a variety of blind left turns, go around a few roundabouts, a blind right, and somehow heading back toward the border. A hotel on the right with a huge fence around it. Into that. The proprietor is a Belizean, working for an Iraqi who owns the hotel, here in Mexico. Ishmael, a nice enough fellow, but some how distracted although the Iraqi was watching his every move. Allows us to have the pets. Directs us to park around the back. Stopped finally. Animals unloaded into the room, Ok by equatorial standards. Has an AC unit. We collapse. We’re here, but not here. Out of Mexico, but still in it. Safe, but not across the border. A few days rest will do us good.

The border town of Santa Elena is pretty cute. Only a few blocks long but packed with corner grocery stores and cubby hole cafes. We walk the half mile down there in the morning and have some odd food at a tiny table halfway into the sidewalk. The café is about 6 feet wide, disappearing into the interior of the building, with an open window in front. There are a half dozen hot bowls with towels over them and an ample supply of flies flitting about. We discuss at length how we want a vegimintero something for Kim. This is not easy. Everything is geared to chicken. All the fly slop has chicken in it. At last we convey beans, salad, avocado etc., ultimately by pointing and trying to grope some wayward vegetable on the counter. I am satisfied with chicken/fly goop. Our repast is served in a bread bun, fresh and recently made locally. What ever the hell it is, it is food, the likes of which we have not seen since time began. We slather everything with various hot sauces, from green chili mild to the peel paint stuff. It’s the best thing we’ve ever eaten. I could eat 6 more, but my stomach has shrunken to the size of a walnut. I’ve lost over 20 pounds on the trip down here. A fair start. I’d say this is a fairly guaranteed weight loss program … stress and starvation. I should start a fatty clinic. Here’s 200 bucks US, a battered car with Iowa plates, no instructions, start here in El Paso and email me when you hit the Guatemalan border. We’ll try to get your thin traumatized ass out of there.

Then over to a little park, buying some fruit off a wooden box vendor. Oranges, bananas, and I stupidly get a half a watermelon wrapped in cellophane. It’s decidedly overripe, and I can just about see the micro organisms seething under the plastic, but I eat it anyway, have to get all these intestinal parasites a-tuned to my gut chemistry. Some belly boil afterwards but all part of the process I figure. We lounge. The hotel is nice, with a huge lawn for the dog to crap in, palm trees all over, flowers everywhere. I find a 4 inch green grasshopper on a stick who kicks lie a mule when I try to pick it up. There are land snails as big as lemons in the grass, in the evening fireflies play everywhere. The cats constantly try to escape the room, the dog barks excessively when we leave. But nobody cares. The small crazy cat finds a 2 inch lizard in the room that affords hours of chasing and hunting for it. The water system goes off for 8 hours. The power for 5. We find an internet shop and it is hard to connect out of Mexican Google. The @ symbol is a matter of big discussion, finally revealed by another customer as alt-Q. I spend my time writing, writing, Kim reading and puttering. It is nice to relax, the pressure of night situating not upon us. Now the only worry is getting into Belize, the animals, the vehicles, the sodden crap.

Monday morning eventually comes. Again the reluctance to leave this sanctuary, Ishmael and his ghost like gliding along the halls, the brief peace. Now there we are, the first in line waiting for the official to review our cargo. Over the line actually, which excites many, and we are instructed to back the mess up to the proper place. A lot of payments to various officials, a sign off with a quarantine agent, a lot of palaver with “custom brokers”, a guy named Lester designating him self as ours. The inspector for our cargo looks like “Doc” in “Back to the Future” on a bad New York heroin addiction. He is indifferent about all the crap. The stolen vehicle permit never comes up and I don’t mention it. Just wants the paymento. Bunch of hundreds of pesos, who can keep count? Then, the moment of glory, across the river into Belize. We’re in, never to cross back into this a-cursed country again.