Day 8, Part 1 — Thursday 23 October 2003 — Tabasco - Chiapas - Tabasco - Campeche - Quintana Roo - Belize

"The Vast Yucatan: Mexico's answer to Texas."



The run from Villahermosa up to Escarcega and across the waist of the Yucatan Peninsula to Chetumal is rather anticlimactic compared to the preceding Mexican journey. Once out of Tabasco the waypoints are few and far between. The road is generally straight and generally in good condition and generally well-marked with real painted lines and both directional and warning signs. Sometimes there are even signs to tell you how far it is to various destinations. You'd almost think you were in Texas.



Unlike Texas, the geology has some relief to it (yes, pun intended ;-); there are a few hills and curves to break things up, and in some areas the bush is starting to regrow and shades the roadway, though for the most part the landscape has been stripped (at least within sight of the highway).



Also unlike Texas, and very much like the rest of Mexico, you will never be bored for long, as you pass through occasional towns and villages with the obligatory potholes and secret topes, scenic natives and their livestock and other transportation, surprise blockages, and, of course, the occasional military checkpoint, replete with machinegun nests.

Mile 3821 - Villahermosa, Tabasco, Mexico



We awake with the sun, in our Pink Love Nest #2. Lena grinds the beans as Denise repacks the Belize Bomber. Entropy has really begun to set in after a week of car-living, and with each morning it is getting increasingly difficult to compress our lives into the modest space available.



Obligatory morning-after Love Hotel photo-shoot (careful not to catch any other clients!), then across the street to the Pemex.

Now, one of the reasons for adding the 32 gallon long-range tank to the Bomber (and thus the name) — in addition to convenience and being able to economize on cheap fuel before entering first Mexico and then Belize — was to have the luxury of not having to buy gas in Mexico at all. Nevertheless, although we were pretty sure we had enough fuel to reach the duty-free zone at the Belize border, we decided to hedge our bets before the long haul across the Yucatan by adding a few Mexican liters — our first gas since McAllen, TX.

And, yes, we've all heard the horror stories of getting ripped-off by attendants failing to fully reset the pump meter**, and getting served leaded fuel by mistake, thus ruining the catalytic converter. But I would venture to say that these concerns may be somewhat out-of-date — at least on our route (though do note that we hardly put the matter to the test). All fuel in Mexico now seems to be unleaded (sin, meaning "without"), and our attendant forgot to cheat us even though we didn't bother to watch him. Operations at the Pemex stations all seem pretty shiny and western, with modern pumps, attendants in uniform, convenience mini-stores, and clean washrooms.

[**This did happen to us in Xpujil on Two Gringas #2. Beware when they wave you to a specific pump! —Lena]

As we head out of Villahermosa, on the outskirts of town we notice a Love Hotel of a different stripe: this one has abandoned vehicles and rubbish for landscaping, mud for pavement, and blue plastic tarps hanging in place of automatic garage doors. Now, on a budget, I suspect one could economize significantly here — nevertheless, I think I'd strongly recommend choosing one's Love Nest by the quality of its landscaping and pavement and the freshness of its paint...

. . .

Two hours out of Villahermosa we encounter our first rain since driving out of the Pacific-Northwestern drool somewhere in western Montana. But it is a brief, intermittent late-season series of little tropical showers (only occasionally completely blinding), and soon the sun god resumes his blessing of our endeavor.

It is in this stretch after Villahermosa that the main route dips from the state of Tabasco, down into the infamous state of Chiapas, before briefly returning to Tabasco on its way to Campeche. Chiapas is the Mexican state which borders on western Guatemala and in which occurred the famous Mayan militant uprising, and in which continues the more-or-less ongoing (but quieter since the change in government) guerrilla war with the Mexican army. Of course, you're a long way from the action (if any), but you can now soberly inform your friends that you've "been through Chiapas."

It is also somewhere in this stretch that we first became consciously aware of the Milk Bugs. They're everywhere. At first we thought somebody was playing cat-and-mouse with us, but soon realized that what we were running into was a series of individual-but-identical Milk Bugs. Shiny, new, old-style VW Beetles, apparently available only in pure-white. Maybe the last of the production (which I believe has ended) — grab 'em while you can? Or maybe a Henry Ford thing: "Any color the customer wants, so long as it's white."

. . .

As in Texas, we pretty much just charged across the Yucatan at 60-80 mph. Back on schedule, nothing but open road, the villages few and far between, and practically smelling the aroma of rice-and-beans wafting across the Belizean border... Well, there just wasn't really any reason to slow down...

OK, but now when I say "open road" I do, of course, mean this in the Mexican sense...

In Mexico, "open road" means the following: (1) relatively few craters, (2) relatively few villages, thus relatively few topes, (3) lanes wide enough to miss both the on-coming truck and the fellow sleeping on the pavement-edge, (4) fairly light traffic and plenty of more-or-less straight sections with good visibility to permit the passing of busses, breakdowns and burros without the inconvenience of having to slow or reset the cruise-control, and (5) an ample supply of blockers.

———————————————————
Interlude: The proper use of blockers.

Anyone who has ever deliberately followed (at some distance) in the wake of a speeding vehicle — thereby intending to avoid being caught by speed traps or police cruisers — already knows the proper use of blockers. Though, in Mexico, the use of blockers has nothing whatsoever to do with police — in fact, we never saw anything resembling a speed trap and (although *we* never tried such a thing) several times we witnessed cars passing police vehicles at speeds vastly over (like double!) the speed limit, apparently without consequence.



So, OK, you're tooling along the open highway at whatever maximal speed you feel will allow you sufficient opportunity to dodge any possible upcoming craters, topes, breakdowns, or machinegun nests. Suddenly, to your delight, a vehicle comes roaring up behind you flashing its headlights! You demurely edge right and allow the creature to fly past.

Then you stomp on it! — keeping the vehicle ahead in sight to the best of your (and your vehicle's) ability — secure in the knowledge that if there's anything in or on the road ahead, he'll hit it first, giving you ample warning to slow down and negotiate the obstacle.

Eventually, of course, you will lose him (you are not, after all, a native Mexican driver) and return to your former pace until your next blocker arrives.

End of Interlude
———————————————————

As mentioned, once out of Tabasco, the waypoints are few and far between. You pretty much just follow the signs to Escarcega for an eternity or so, then follow the signs to Xpujil for a few epochs, then finally, for the last millennium, the signs say Chetumal. (Don't forget to stop and turn right before Chetumal, or you'll drive into the sea.)



Ah, but the indigenous names have finally defeated us.

Up till now our tongues have struggled and overcome the likes of "Tamaulipas" and "Tuxpan", our lips have braved "Papantla" and "Xalapa", and we have even choked our way through the terrible syllables of "Cosamaloapan" and "Coatzacoalcos." But now, at the last, weakened as we are, "Escarcega" has pinned us to the ropes and "Xpujil" has sucker-punched us into abject humiliation. No western tongue stands a chance against the likes of "Xpujil." [Pronounced, I think, something like "Shpoo-CHeel" where the CH is a guttural, choking sound like that used to clear phlegm.]

And so we have adopted the traditional white-man's solution to indigenous nomenclature, and replaced it altogether with our own. Thus, today's route starts out in Herman Town, dips into the state of Cowpies, then back up into Camp Itch, via Escargot-gaga and Poo Hill, to our destination at the Real Honda in Kangaroo near Cheat-em-all.




Mile 4168 - Rio Hondo, Quintana Roo, Mexico

We are helpless in the grip of an irresistible force which draws us towards Belize, we can't help it. We ought to have stopped for (a very overdue) lunch in Chetumal, we'd like to have, but somehow here we are, at the Mexican side of the Rio Hondo, the narrow bit of water which separates Mexico from Belize. We can actually see the crest of the bridge, where Mexico ends and Belize begins.



But we're not there yet! No, we still have paper to make. Or rather, we need to clear our tourist visas and our tourist vehicle permit if we ever hope to be allowed back into Mexico.

There are vehicles scattered about, but no apparent attempt to provide parking for those who might have paper to make. We pull into a spot which looks as likely (or unlikely) as any other, and it's in the shade.

With just a touch of trepidation, I peel the Magic Technology Sticker off the windscreen and get out, leaving Denise to deal with any parking infractions, and enter the nearest dusty, unsigned building.

The wrong one, of course.

Well, no, it's the right one — just in the wrong order. SOP. At least there are no queues this time. And no fees. I trudge on to the next dusty building, enter its air-conditioned bliss, and try to hand the nearest official-looking fellow my Magic Sticker, which, alas, holds no interest for him. I fan out documents — passport, drivers license, all the paper we made at the last border — and he picks and chooses, stamps and writes, and makes a new paper.

I trudge back to the first dusty building and hand my new paper to the nice lady, who also wants my Magic Sticker and takes it out of view to perform some mysterious operation on it. She then issues a receipt, which she hands to me as if it were the most precious of things — which it clearly is, as it's my ticket back into Mexico should there ever be any question regarding the Bomber's legal exodus from that country.

Please note that no one ever actually went to see if I really had the vehicle in question with me.

Which, apparently, I don't.

It has gone. But a distant honk from across a dusty, sun-scorched expanse alerts me as to its new, remote location. Thankfully, Denise has the A/C running as I arrive, dripping. (Evidently, a uniform had made her move out of the shade, back into the sun where we belong.)



But we are moving, south, up and over the Rio Hondo, and we've made it! We are in Belize!

Almost.

But rather than heading to the right, towards Belizean Immigration and Customs, we take the left road, toward the official opening in the huge cyclone fence which surrounds Belize's Corozal Free Trade Zone/Zona Libre — which exists for the sole purpose of exchanging Belizean and duty-free imported stuff for Mexican Pesos. Including gasoline.

We pull to a stop at the checkpoint. The uniform makes a deliberate circuit of the vehicle, looking for any evidence of Belizean identity; finally makes it to my driver's window.

"Where are you going?"

"Uh, the Zona Libre?"

The uniform's speech slows deliberately as he realizes he's dealing with a complete idiot.

"And-af-ter-that-where-are-you-go-ing?"

"Chetumal."

"And where are you coming from?"

"Chetumal."

"Five pesos."

I exchange a coin for a ticket, and we are waved onward, into the land of duty-free gas and other sins.

A hundred metres later we're at the first of several expansive gas depots, and we begin the process of taking on fuel. 89.2 liters at $5.50 pesos per — that's 23.5 gallons for $491 pesos, or about $43 USD — about $1.82 USD per gallon. [The cheapest gas inside Belize at this writing is $7.28 BzD/gal — that's USD $3.64/gallon!]

[Adding everything up, the total, border-to-border, was 1314 miles using 45.4 gallons and working out to 28.9 miles-per-gallon — a significant drop from our formerly thrifty 34 MPG average, probably due mostly to excessive braking for craters, topes and other rude surprises.]

Fully-loaded, we about-face, drive right back out past the checkpoint, and onward to Belize.

Well, onward to Belizean Customs and Immigration anyway — but that's another chapter all by itself... ;-)



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