The Two Gringas

2003 - A Gringa Drives to Belize

2008-03-11T12:00:00.003-06:00

This is the original Two Gringas adventure.

In 2003 Lena and Denise drove a somewhat modified Toyota Tercel from near Seattle, Washington, USA to near Dangriga in southern Belize, Central America.

This newly revised, full-photo version is published here for the first time.

For those interested, the pseudo-realtime original Belize Forum travelogue, with other folks' commentary, is still available.

Your encouragement keeps me writing; please leave a comment...

Galena Alyson Canada 11 March 2008 Vashon Island, Washington, USA

Day 1 — Thursday 16 October 2003 — Washington - Idaho - Montana

2008-03-01T13:00:00.002-06:00

[The very beginning of all things Two Gringas...]

"Are you sure this is the way to Belize?"

Mile 0 - Vashon Island, Washington

Pitch dark and pouring down rain at 5 AM; just a perfect time to be leaving western Washington State. The Belize Bomber** is packed; and when I say "packed" I mean she's riding pretty low in the water.

Catch the 5:45 AM ferry off the north end of Vashon Island, the last ferry I'll be riding for quite a while. Stop in West Seattle to pick up Denise — we contemplate the completely filled back seat.

"What about the trunk?" she inquires.

I laugh, "surely you're joking", and pop the lid to reveal a nondescript, compressed mass; roughly conforming to the inside of the trunk lid. I quickly close the lid before any of the contents have time to contemplate escape.

We use her portable air compressor to pump the tires up to 37 psi (rated max. 44 psi) and the wheels take on a more normal, rounded appearance — we may actually have a chance with this load...

Everything loaded (somehow), we venture back into the pouring rain.

. . .

Almost 300 miles later we have crossed the Cascade Mountains and the seemingly endless plateau of eastern Washington State nearly to its eastern border with Idaho, and it is still pouring rain.

Mile 304

We gas up at the east end of Spokane, WA — first time we've had the new auxiliary tank completely full. Our next fillup will allow us to calculate our gas mileage for the first time — but that won't be for another couple days — in Colorado!

. . .

We cross the Idaho panhandle and head up into the mountains which guard Montana's high plateau, snow dusting the hilltops. Finally, near the end of the climb, the rain diminishes to sprinkles and we break for lunch at the Montana Bar.

Moving on, we finally leave the rain for good as climb up into Montana heading east and, just before the city of Butte, turn south on 15 — finally for the first time heading in the direction of Central America — and cross the Contenintal Divide of the Montana Rocky Mountains. The plateau is so high, and the Rockies so low here, that the effect was more that of driving through a range of low hills — had there not been a sign at the Divide we would have driven right past, never the wiser.

. . .

Mile 659

A short time later (as we're learning to measure road time) dusk is falling as we pull into the Super 8 Motel at Dillon MT for the night (not recommended). A quick dinner at the Pizza Hut next door, and we're down for the night.

== End of Day 1, Mile 659, Dillon, MT ==

** "The Belize Bomber" is my old 1992 Toyota Tercel, bought it new in '91 but now the paint is chipped and faded and there are a few dents and dings. But only 77,000 original miles, good tires and well maintained and 35 MPG — in other words, the perfect Belize car. Well, perfect after we installed the after-market air conditioning and a 32 gallon auxiliary fuel tank — which is why it's now called the Belize Bomber... ;-)

Clic here to see all Day 1 pix...

Day 2 — Friday 17 October 2003 — Montana - Idaho - Utah - Colorado

2008-03-01T12:00:00.004-06:00

"Uh, if this is Friday then, uh, this must be Utah..."

Mile 659 - Dillon, Montana

Eight hours sleep and it felt like six. Probably the past few days and yesterday's early start catching up with me.

Straight south out of Montana and into Utah, pretty barren all in all. Straight on through Salt Lake City.

SLC scenic highpoints: three Home Depots, one Costco, six petroleum refineries, endless tract homes and malls (newly built or under construction), one backhoe half-fallen off truck on side of road — interesting enough to back traffic up for miles both ways on freeway — SLC: boring place to visit, wouldn't want to live there; looks like it was a pretty nice place before affluence got here (Belizeans, take heed ;-)...

Boring, endless freeway south and southward...finally hit the cutoff to Hwy 70 and we're heading east again through Utah canyon country [see photos]. The proverbial painted desert; difficult to photograph with any justice, impossible to describe in words. Go there yourself.

We pull in at one of many "viewpoints" for a potty break and a breathtaking view of a sheer canyon — one of many which form the watershed of the Colorado River — a grand canyon leading to The Grand Canyon... We hike down to the edge and take postcard photos and vanity photos.

At the parking, by the toilets, the official signs every 30 feet say "No Soliciting, No Vending". All along the parking strip, and underneath the signs, Navajo from Arizona have blankets spread out and covered with beadwork, jewelry and pottery, bought in AZ and brought up here for resale. I decide on a Navajo wedding vase as a "souvenir of Utah", priced at $25.

"I'd be interested in the small wedding vase there for $20, if that's acceptable."

I'm practising for Mexico... ;-)

As this is not, strictly speaking, a touristic road trip, we bypass Lake Powell (formerly Glen Canyon, where the real Painted Desert was) and Arches *sigh*, and tunnel off into the growing darkness following the painted lines in the headlights...

We pull into Grand Junction, Colorado, early enough to catch dinner and late enough to be exhausted — thirteen hours on the road, scenic view stops and all. The food in my belly immediately starts to put my lights out, right there in the restaurant. Denise drags my sorry ass back to the hotel, and we perk up enough to deal with email and photo uploading, and to make sure we don't get to bed till nearly midnight *sigh*.

The alarm's set for 7 AM...good night.

== End of Day 2, Mile 1356, Grand Jct, CO ==

Clic here to see all Day 2 pix...

Day 3 — Saturday 18 October 2003 — Colorado - New Mexico - Texas

2008-03-01T11:00:00.015-06:00

"(Still) too much scenery on too little time..."

Mile 1356 - Grand Junction, Colorado

Despite not getting to sleep until nearly midnight last night, and rising up at 7 AM, not too bad this morning — must be getting into the groove.

Gassed up the auxiliary tank (took 30 gallons, I think the original 11 gallon fuel tank is now a de facto reserve tank ;-) and ran our first mileage calculation.

If we got the tanks topped-off properly, it looks like we got 34 MPG out of the first tank — pretty amazing considering we're overloaded, crossed over mountains, ran at 70-80 MPH much of the time and ran the A/C through Utah. When the car was new 12 years ago it got 37 MPG at 70-80 MPH running empty with one person, no A/C. Seems suspicious, but possible...we'll see at the next fill-up in Texas...

Brunch in Aspen, Colorado (really!). Rich people in tee shirts and jeans, pretending to be normal, but the manicures and multiple face lifts give them away...

Aspen is interesting in a sort of fake-really-well-done kind of way. It's a manicured, story-book kind of place, all the landscaping perfect (especially the currently in-vogue "naturalized" landscaping), all the buildings new or perfectly maintained. There is no faded paint in Aspen. They probably have an ordinance against it...

The drive up out of Aspen to Independence Pass is spectacular, to say the least. Don't bring your mega-motorhome up here -- nothing over 35 feet long is permitted, and with good reason: steep, windey and narrow -- in places only one lane for both directions, blasted out of the bare cliff.

In spots you can look up and see the road switch-backing above you miles away and thousands of feet higher. You top the pass at over 12,000 feet. I got a headache and shortness of breath just getting out of the car to take a picture.

Now this leg ought to screw up our gas mileage!

Down and up and down and back up and back down over range after range and pass after pass (many at near 10,000 feet), so much darn scenery that I had to cut Denise off.

Denise: "Another 10,000 foot pass! Pull over here!"

Lena: "No. No more scenic overlooks, no photo, no."

Denise: "But..."

Lena: "There, I slowed down to 50, you can snap one out the window if you like..."

Denise doesn't seem to like my high-RPM, clutch-popping, power-shifting, pass-everyone-I-can style of two-way highway mountain driving. Myself, I don't get what her problem is, but whatever... She says:

"Quick, pull in at this 7-Eleven store!"

Reflexively, I do so — and watch every vehicle I've passed in the past half hour go snaking by. I think this is her way of saying she wants to drive for a while...

The convenience store is empty except for us and a clerk who's leaning on the counter poking listlessly at the computerized cash register as if trying to get a rise out of it. I rest against the counter while Denise gets whatever.

"Where y'all comin' from?"

"Seattle" I reply with a tired smile.

Her eyes widen as she shows some interest.

"Woah, that's quite a drive! Where ya headed?"

"Belize" I reply, before I can think better of it.

She looks at me like a goat staring at a new fence.**

"Where's that?"

"Central America, south of Mexico, next to Guatemala."

The clerk's face takes on an odd expression, and the conversation is over: she has determined that I'm trying to put one over on her.

From here on it's pretty much just a jog out to Colorado Springs, and then a long haul south on Hwy 25 into New Mexico, crossing over just as it's getting dark.

Now we pay for all the scenic stops in Colorado with a nighttime haul diagonally across the northeastern corner of New Mexico toward Texas. Stopping only for a quick bite and a change of drivers at a truck stop (I bought a fake Indian arrowhead as a souvenir — 99 cents — souvenir of New Mexico ;-), we're off like a coyote after a jackrabbit...

In the endless head-lit ruler-straight dotted line, we almost miss the crossing into Texas, a hard brake from 80 MPH to pull off onto the shoulder, and a long reverse at 20 back up to the sign. A quick snapshot, and we're off again into the bug spattered night...

I forgot about the time zone change going into Texas, so we're an hour later than I'd told the motel clerk over the phone -- but she waited up for us (10:30 PM, Texas time) — "it's just Texas hospitality" sez Denise.

Off to our room, email and photo upload and under the covers and...out.

== End of Day 3, Mile 1909, Dalhart, TX ==

** Apologies to the Red Green Show. ;-)

Clic here to see all Day 3 pix...

Days 4 & 5 — Sunday 19 & Monday 20 October 2003 — Texas & More Texas

2008-03-01T10:00:00.001-06:00

"Texas: Where dirt comes to die."

Now, I have to be careful what I say here, because I imagine that a lot of you are, in fact, Texan; and several of my business associates (on whose goodwill I depend) are Texan. So I'd better watch my mouth -er- fingers...

For starters, I need to tell you that that phrase up there about dirt is not mine — I just now got it off a genuine born and bred and livin' in Texas Texan — so you can't get me for that one.

Second, I'd like to point out that we were in three states on Day 1, four states on Day 2, three states on day 3, and Day 4 and Day 5 were spent crossing — that's right — Texas.

Third, I'll just mention that we've been clicking off between one and two hundred digital pics per day, except for days 4 and 5 which have run about a dozen apiece. Mostly oil rigs, sorgum, and dirt. Texas is not scenic. At least not on the route we chose. Now Texas is BIG, and I'm told that there's some scenery a thousand or two miles the other way from where we've been, and I'm fully prepared to believe it. But we didn't see any... ;-)

Now the people — the people are another thing altogether. Strangers smile at you — strangers *talk* to you — for no special reason! Now coming from up north this can be very unsettling: first you assume they want something (they don't), then you guess that they're in need of help of some kind (they aren't), finally you conclude that they're insane, but harmless. Eventually, if you stay long enough, you start waving at strangers. Watch out for the symptoms.

Mile 1909 - Dalhart, Texas

Make coffee, pack up, check out, drive.

Driving, driving, driving, driving, driving, driving, driving, driving, ...

For some reason which (at least to my mind) defies explanation, Texas does not have "rest areas", they have "picnic areas". These are littered along the (endless) highways at roughly the intervals at which other states would place rest stops. Evidently roadside picnics are a very popular deal in Texas, though I never actually saw anyone with the fixins spread out...

Now the only significant difference between a rest area and a picnic area seems to be the omission of the public toilet. Picnic areas lack toilet facilities of any kind — well, let me amend that — there are always a couple trees planted, so I suppose it is just the women's facilities which have been overlooked.

Now, it does occur to me that the aforementioned oversight may, in fact, be a result of the political clout of the Texas convenience store lobby — these little gas/snack/potty stops are a regular and necessary feature of the Texan highway landscape.

We have stopped at one such establishment in Lelia Lake — or maybe it was Hedley? — I'm not sure, somewhere thereabouts between Amarillo and Childress, anyway. We've just availed ourselves of the facilities and are waiting to pay for some drinks. A local woman is at the counter, all dressed up for a trip up to Amarillo; she and the clerk are having an animated conversation.

Local Woman: "...and so the wedding rehearsal is tomorrow and I'm on my way up there just now... I'll be staying with Susie, you know..."

Store Clerk: "Well, I just wish I could be there myself, your Susie is just such a pretty little thing — why, I remember how my Jimmy used to be out in the front yard there, when he was maybe twelve or so, and your Susie would pass by and she so pretty and all, and my Jimmy, why he would be just beside himself when she smile at him so..."

This went on for some time as we waited. We didn't mind in the least — it was as if we'd just popped into the middle of a novel — quite entertaining really.

Mile 2451 - Temple, TX

We spot an off-brand motel just beyond Temple, Texas and pull off. The office counter is very high; at five foot ten the thing is well up at my chest level. Ensconced behind this edifice is the owner: a very short, portly, brown, soft-spoken and heavily accented east Indian fellow. I ask him about the counter, and he says most of his clients seem to be very tall.

I ask about the room, and yes, he has one available and it's sixty dollars. I ask if that's his best price and he can give it to me for fifty-five. I gaze out the office window, noting the rather large number of rooms (50?) and the rather small number of vehicles in the lot (7?).

"But I can give you the Senior Discount and make it fifty." I decide not to be offended — I'm not 50.

"We're on a corporate account; here's my business card. Does that help?"

"Ah! Corporate Discount — lowest price! — forty-five dollars."

Sounds good to me, Denise checks out the room, it's OK, a credit card appears.

(Just practicing for Mexico... ;-)

== End of Day 4, start of Day 5, Mile 2451, Temple, TX ==

Mile 2528 - Austin, Texas

We phone Texas Ron to let him know we're in town and to get directions. We subsequently disregard his directions and get most of the way into Austin before backtracking and following the directions. I think we've become too used to long-distance hauling and the mere 30 minute drive from our hotel confused us...

We meet with Ron and his boss Ron. These are some good folks — very Texas (see note above in re the people) — a lot of fun to be around and good to work with. But not as tall as I would have anticipated based on the counter height in the motel office. Of course, they weren't wearing their cowboy hats at the time, so they may actually be a bit taller...

Through the miracle of modern American warehouse retailing, we pull into a nearby Costco (Costco #1 is where we shop up in Seattle ;-) and gas up cheap and buy a couple things we need and several things we don't (the usual for Costco ;-).

Evidently the first mileage number (34.0 MPG, from WA to CO) was not, in fact, a mistake — this time, driving a 12,000 foot pass over the Rockies in Colorado and running at 75-80 MPH across New Mexico and Texas, still grossly overloaded and running the A/C all the way, we got ...drumroll... 33.5 MPG! I tell you, these little Toyotas are amazing...

Well, the time has come. While visiting with the Rons, Denise used the phone to book a rental car at a nearby agency. She will drive to Houston, spend a night and visit the Space Center (she's an aero- and astro-nut), and then fly back home to rainy Seattle. I, on the other hand, will proceed southward solo to McAllen for the night, and cross over into Mexico in the morning.

It has been an intense, wild, five-day odyssey, and we sit quietly in the Belize Bomber, temporarily shut off and silent, doors propped open, parked in the shade of the one lonely tree in the rental agency lot. It is hard to find things to say.

In my mind I am merely mid-journey, and already mentally pumping up for the haul through Mexico. Denise, on the other hand, is trying to look forward to her long-wished-for visit to the Johnson Space Center, but in her mind she is leaving the adventure part-way, and already having to return to the rain and her job.

It is pleasant in the shade with a warm breeze blowing through the car. Denise and I sit quietly, not saying much; about to part ways and just kind of taking in the moment.

== Not quite the end of Day 5, Mile 2528, Austin, TX ==

Clic here to see all Day 4-5 pix...

Day 5, Part 2 — Monday afternoon 20 October 2003 — Just a Little More Texas...

2008-03-01T09:00:00.003-06:00

"Why 'call in sick' when you can 'call in insane'?"

Mile 2528 - Austin, Texas

It is pleasant in the shade with a warm breeze blowing through the car. Denise and I sit quietly, not saying much; about to part ways and just kind of taking in the moment. We take turns glancing towards the lot where her rental car awaits.

"Wow, this is it, I guess."

"Yep. What a ride, huh?"

"What a ride..."

"Well, you must be looking forward to Houston..."

"True, true... been meaning to go for years now."

"Pretty cool, I guess, for an astro-nut like you."

"Yep, pretty cool..."

Beyond the shade the parking lot is baking in the Texas sun. No one else is in the lot; the agency awaits its only customer.

"The Company will pay your return flight."

"Huh?"

"There's a line-item in the start-up budget for an extra flight, should that be necessary, so the Company can pay your return flight."

"From Belize."

"From Belize."

"You're joking, right?"

"Nope. Consider this: If something happens to me and/or the vehicle on the way down, the entire project and the future of the Company is at risk. With you along, the chances of something seriously bad happening are reduced, not by half, but by a much, much larger factor.** The Company pays for insurance; the Company will pay your return flight."

There is a confused pause. If "tug-o-war" could be a facial expression, it's on Denise's face right now.

"I already have a flight booked out of Houston tomorrow."

"It's changeable."

"There's a hundred dollar fee."

"OK."

Another pause. Now she looks like she's trying to pass a stone.

"How long does it take from here to Belize?"

"Three to five days, depending on weather, how early our starts are, and how often we get lost."

"Man, that'll use up all my remaining vacation."

"Isn't this a vacation?"

"Oh yeah, oh yeah... what a ride, huh?"

"Yep, quite a ride. And really, we're only half way. The other half of the Adventure is yet to come."

"I hate you."

"I know."

We both gaze off toward the rental office.

"Stuff is piling up at work."

"Yes, but one way or the other, two years from now all that stuff will be long done -- will you remember it then?"

We both gaze off toward the rental office.

"Well, I'd better go cancel the car, we're burning daylight."

Denise is gone and back within sixty seconds. There is something like a grin crossed with a scowl on her face. I'm still in the passenger seat. She starts the car, puts it in gear, punches on the A/C, and we're headed toward the on-ramp. She is glaring fiercely straight ahead.

"You always do this to me!"

"I can't make anyone do what they don't already want to do."

"I know, but you always do this to me!"

Mile 2855 - McAllen, Texas

It's a brand new Motel 6, but nothing special and only OK for the price. For some weird reason the room is chilled to 62 degrees F. We actually have to turn the heat on to make the room tolerable.

I get online and book D's Belize-to-Houston one-way for the following Sunday, while she gets on the phone and moves her Houston-Seattle flight out from Tuesday to Saturday — yes, she'll still get her precious day at the Space Center...

I take care of email and the last postings before Mexico. I head to bed at midnight. Denise stays up till 1 AM doing her timecard online and "explaining" her extended absence to her coworkers via email. (Earlier during the drive she'd phoned her boss and, to her annoyance, he said "go for it.") We need to be up with the sun to get insurance, top off the tanks, and start the Mexican customs and immigration rigmarole.

After traversing seven states in five days, tomorrow we finally cross our first international border...into Mexico...

== End of Day 5, Mile 2855, McAllen, TX ==

_________
** In addition to being an engineer, Denise is an expert mechanic. And five foot ten, with some serious muscles and the attitude to match. You don't mess with Neesie....

Clic here to see all Day 4-5 pix...

Day 6 — Preface — Mexico Leg

2008-03-01T08:00:00.000-06:00

-----------
PREFACE
-----------

I feel a need to preface this next segment by stating that different travelers' experiences in Mexico seem to be, well, different.

We have all heard the horror stories, and we've also heard from plenty of folks who had no difficulties whatsoever. This was our very first time in Mexico, and our experience was somewhere in between the two. And all I can say for sure, is that your experience will also be different.

Given that, I will venture a few general remarks:

1. Based on input from many folks more experienced than I, things are generally better now than they were in the "bad old days."

2. We were not there to visit Mexico, we spent very little time in Mexico, and we stuck to the major routes and made no side trips (well, no deliberate side-trips ;-). This limited our exposure: less time and fewer miles means less exposure to chance. At the other extreme, if one were to spend a year driving all over Mexico, or one made many trips through Mexico, one would eventually wind up with a horror story. Or the USA or even Canada probably.

3. We did not travel solo and, although female, we are both quite tall — taller than most Mexican men — and more-or-less middle aged. There were several minor "events" which might have gone differently had there been just one of us, or had we been, say, young men or petit young women.

4. We generally project a polite, friendly, accommodating demeanor. When required we can be firm to the point of stubborn. We are very capable of faking ignorance and even stupidity (sometimes we're not even faking ;-), and are not embarrassed to do so when called for. We understand just a little Spanish, but when convenient we understand no Spanish at all. As a last resort, we are able to become angry and even physical. Except for that last item, we used all the above on our journey through Mexico. Openness and attitude are key.

5. We are both very practiced, alert drivers, and not at all timid. Timid and hesitant do not work in Mexico (or Belize, for that matter). We quickly adopted a driving style based on observation of the drivers around us. As a result we did things and drove in ways we would never even consider in the States. We got crappy gas mileage. But within the Mexican context, we did not take undue risks. Had we driven by American rules and etiquette, we would have been at greater risk.

6. There were several times when safe passage meant applying the unwavering attention of both pilot and copilot for extended stretches. Another reason not to go it solo.

7. We had two sets of maps and Sanborn's guides and all were inaccurate and out-of-date. One of the best, newest highways we drove didn't exist. We often used both maps and the guides to sort things out. If I find an accurate, up-to-date map or road guide I'll let you know. Ditto for you?

8. We never really got lost, but we were "temporarily misplaced" on many occasions. The only real angst I personally experienced was when I let this get to me. The trick to keeping your misplacements temporary is to (a) halt the minute you experience doubt; (b) double-back and re-cross and re-re-cross intersections until you've seen all possible signage (this solved the problem in more than half the instances); (c) ask someone who has real knowledge — cops and taxi drivers are my favorite; (d) be creative in a Mexican way -- we got unmisplaced by taking dirt back alleys, driving in circles on purpose, going up a one-way street the wrong way (the cop we asked said to!), and entering a controlled access road via the off-ramp when there was no on-ramp. And backtracking, backtracking, backtracking — DO NOT keep going if you don't know where you are — you might actually get lost. You too will become temporarily misplaced multiple times — have fun — be Mexican about it — get into it! ;-)

9. We went against the common advice (e.g., night driving) at several points, but did so with care and judgment. Just because we did something doesn't mean you should follow blindly in our tire-tracks. Use your best care and judgment.

Cheers,
'Lena

P.S. Yes, don't get your knickers in a knot, the actual Mexican segment is coming up next. Really. Trust me. ;-)

Day 6, Part 1 — Tuesday morning 21 October 2003 — Pharr, Texas - Reynosa, Tamaulipas

2008-03-01T07:00:00.005-06:00

"Bienvenidos a Mexico (but por favor, stay close to your own bordor)."

As a citizen of the USA or Canada, you are free to travel in and out of Mexico with nothing more than a passport or original birth certificate. Unless you want to go south more than 20 miles or so. *That* is another proposition altogether!

Mile 2855 - McAllen, Texas

Exhausted from staying up so late, we over-slept again, arrived late to Sanborn's for the Mexico auto insurance: we are not making the early start we need at the border.

Sanborn's is friendly and helpful and, for the four days' insurance we need, pretty much the same price as other numbers I've seen.

The best insurance they could offer us for my 11-year-old car was plenty adequate, and included collision and (the equivalent of) uninsured motorist coverage (but not non-collision loss like theft or vandalism), prepaid injury medical, accident-related jail bail and representation, and roadside assistance and towing; all with an in-Mexico toll-free number. Now, we didn't put any of this to the test, thankfully, but assuming all of it works, I found it more than worth the price of admission (which was somewhere around fifty bucks, I think).

. . .

Sanborn's has a long reputation for providing savvy guidance and route planning as well as the insurance, but I'm thinking that maybe this isn't quite up to the original standard that set the reputation. From our subsequent experience with their over-the-counter info and the Guides, I'd have to say that their general info is merely the generic advice that everyone offers, and the specific knowledge (like that the north end of highway 97 right across the border from them is CLOSED!) is no longer there.

In reviewing the dates on their documentation, it appears to me that they may have lost whomever the force was behind that route-planning reputation (and the Guides), maybe sometime around 1999, and it would seem prudent to consider the info as outdated. The folks at their office in McAllen are extremely nice, but do not, I think, have any knowledge beyond what feedback they get from their clients.

. . .

Insurance in hand, we zip over to a nearby gas station and top off the tanks (we had only clear Texas freeway from Austin: mileage = 37.8 MPG (!)), and over to the currency exchange next door.

Before attempting this trip I checked back through other folks' travelogues and made inquiries and the #2 problem (after #1: getting lost) was running out of pesos. Sanborn's recommended $250 to $400 USD, so I changed $500 at 11-point-something. We actually ended up burning about $300, but with very slight shifts in itinerary and/or "events" we could easily have used it all.

Gassed, financed and insured, we're off to the border! Based on many, many recommendations, we are traveling Mexico "turista" to Veracruz (which is a reasonable destination given our 4-day insurance, but nobody ever asked for the insurance), rather than "transmigrante" to Belize, which is, we understand, an entirely different headache altogether...

As turistas we are heading to the crossing at Pharr — a couple miles south of McAllen, with an ETF (Estimated Time for Formalities ;-) of about an hour — instead of McAllen with an ETF of 2+ hours.

It is already pushing 11:00 AM and our schedule is now seriously at risk.

Mile 2860 - Pharr, Texas

I am driving to cross the border (as it is legally my vehicle) and as we near the Mexican line in the center of the Rio Grande I am already beginning to suffer from encroaching gringmoronitis.

We stop at the toll booth on the US side of the bridge over the Rio. I look up at the uniformed gentleman with utterly no concept of his function.

"Where do we take care of our tourist and vehicle paperwork?"

There is a pause. He points south.

"At the border."

Denise leans over, speaking sotto-voce.

"Lena. It's a toll booth."

Finally there is an awareness of the large placard listing the tolls.

"Oh."

I hand the guy some money — pesos, dollars, I don't know and I don't know how much — I get a receipt which I hand to Denise and nearly kill it putting the car in gear. I guess I'm more nervous about this whole thing than I realized.

(OK Lena, get it together, try to remember to breathe evenly. You have been breathing, haven't you? Lena? Hello...)

The bridge is immaculate concrete, with beautiful pavement and tall, inwardly curved chainlink fencing to each side and a clear stripe between the lanes — right up to the very center — whereupon it all immediately goes to hell: the stripe disappears, large pavement flakes are lifting off, the resulting rubble scattered about, and the anti-jumper fences have mostly fallen off, in some places sagging on their supports, in others completely gone, with only the rust stains on the concrete left to testify to their former presence. As an engineer, it occurs to me that the bridge structure may, in fact, be one huge cantilever**, for all intents and purposes supported only on the US side...

** A cantilever is a horizontal structure supported only at one end, like a tree branch.

Mile 2861 - Just east of Reynosa, Tamaulipas

And here, at last, is the Mexican border authority.

There are several non-descript buildings to the right, few signs and none of them in English — on the surface, it would appear that the Mexican government has little interest in the non-Spanish-speaking citizens of its neighbor to the north.

Directly ahead is what is clearly a customs inspection station with multiple pull-ins and inspection tables. Unsure exactly what to do, we pull up next to the nearest unoccupied official-looking person and inquire.

"Where do we go for visa and vehicle paperwork?"

—Long stream of staccato Spanish devoid of useful gestures or facial expressions.

It is at this point that we discover that we do not, in fact, speak Spanish.

Or comprehend much either, for that matter.

And evidently we're guilty of hubris to have thought that Mexican officials working the US border might have some ability to communicate (or at least have signs) in English. Silly us. This is a crucial juncture in our education: Mexico is showing us how it's going to be.

I point to myself, Denise, the vehicle, then southward.

"Turistas...auto...Veracruz..."

I make an exaggerated, questioning gesture and show him a passport.

The uniformed fellow gives me a sour look; he is realizing that I'm not going to simply go away. He points to a dirt lot past the customs area, then to one of the many tiny, nondescript buildings.

"You park...go!"

I hesitate; don't quite believe I'm supposed to just drive right past customs. The sour look is repeated.

"You park...now!"

The finger is now clearly jabbing at the entrance to the dirt lot. A sharp elbow from Denise acts as a spur in my side, and we trot off, right past customs, and park in the dirt in the beating sun.

We bail out of the Bomber and head over to the building which most closely approximated the official's gesture. There is a line of people inside, each grasping vehicle titles and such. We have vehicle titles and such. We take this as a good omen and join.

We wait. Others join the line. We wait. There are three "windows" open, but their occupants seem to have made little progress. Another fellow joins the line; he is speaking fluent Spanish to his next-in-line, and has an air of intelligence and long experience about him. Nice looking too.

"¿Habla Ingles?" I inquire meekly. I really don't do meek, and this is a good indicator of just how far I've devolved during my short tenure in Mexico.

"Certainly, how can I help you?" Perfect American-accented English.

He takes one glance at the paperwork I'm clutching and informs us that we're in the wrong line. Well, no, it's the right line, but at the wrong time.

He explains: first we walk 100 m. back north to Immigration, get a paper there, go to the next building south from there, pay something and get a stamp, go to the next building south of where we are right now, get a photocopy of that paper, come back to this building, give them all the papers, they will give us a paper, take it back to the photocopy guy, he'll stamp and sign it, bring it back here, pay something, sign twice, and you get a sticker to put inside your windshield. And make sure you get all your stuff back each time. He points to the nearest window: there are several forgotten drivers' licenses taped in the corners.

Profuse gratitude expressed, and with patience and sense of humor intact, we shuffle north to Immigration. There are no signs we can decipher, but we go in anyway.

It is a large, spacious room occupied only by a very young, cheerful pair of officials tucked behind a counter in the far corner.

"Hi. We're turistas, going to Veracruz?"

"Passport."

We hand them over.

"Here, make these paper."

English! (Well, sort of...) He hands us each a long strip of paper. And then smiles! We are nearly overcome.

He directs us to the kiosk in the center of the room where we are to make paper. We do so. Still we are the only customers.

We deliver the papers, all made.

"What you want?"

"To go to Veracruz."

"No — *what* you want?"

I am stupefied. I have spent the past forty-something years trying to answer this question for myself. I have no ready answer.

"You want one month...six month...what you want?"

"Oh! Just a week! We're just going down to Veracruz and back."

"Six month OK?"

"Oh, yes, certainly, perfecto, six months it is."

He stamps and writes and stamps and writes. We have our passports back and a new paper each. He smiles blankly. We're done.

"Where...now?"

My ability to form English sentences seems to have been reduced to the local common denominator.

He gestures vaguely south. We exit the air-conditioned edifice into the dusty sun and shuffle southward.

We have a new operating procedure: enter every building, no matter how small or obscure, stand in every line, repeat until somebody does something.

On the second try, in a cramped little hut, we find a woman under glass who will not only accept our papers, but wants money to go with them. We take this as a good omen.

"Thirty."

I nod my stupid grin and push 30 pesos under the glass. It pops back.

"Dollar."

I retrieve my pesos, momentarily confused. What country am I in?

Denise produces thirty dollars and saves the day, it disappears under the glass. Sounds of stamping. Papers come back plus a receipt. The glass woman smiles blandly. We're done.

"Where..."

"Copy." The vague gesture is southward.

"Copy." Denise repeats, dragging me out the door. She seems to be learning the drill faster than I; maybe because she works for a corporation...

We trudge further southward, pass by the vehicle building, knowing better this time, and in the next hut discover the Copy Guy. He's a happy, round sort of fellow, and cheerfully makes copies of our stamped and restamped papers, hands them back, no charge, and another smile! No English habla-ing, but the big smile more than compensates as he shoos us off northward to the vehicle hut. His optimism is contagious.

We are finally back where we started. There is only one person before us for three windows. We take this as a good omen. Two windows promptly close. We wait.

We approach the final window. The fellow reaches for our paperwork.

— Long stream of staccato Spanish devoid of useful gestures or facial expressions.

"Er, yo no hablo..."

The paperwork screeches to a halt on its trip under the glass and reverses direction.

"No English."

He waves us perfunctorily off to one side and begins serving the next (Spanish speaking) person in line. No other window is open. I am at a complete loss.

But strangely, Denise seems calm and unconcerned. Well, she works for a corporation, so...

"I guess we wait for the English speaking person to get back."

And who knows when that might be. Another no-English client is helped, exits.

The guy who was helped before we weren't helped reappears with a paper and bellies up to the no-English window. After a minute he exits with a wad of documentation and a shiny new sticker. Denise is shrewdly observing from the sidelines; taking notes, her expression inscrutable.

For the moment we are the only customers in the hut — I take the matter in hand and boldly step back up to the only open window and resubmit my wad. This time the paperwork is accepted.

"Copies." It is a request (in English!).

"How many?" He actually looks up at me for the first time. It is a look of overwhelming forbearance.

"Two."

The number required seems to be somewhat variable — we had been advised to come equipped with up to four copies of everything. I peel off two copies of everything I have and hand them over. He sorts through for the ones he wants, shoves the rest back. He begins comparing each photocopy to the corresponding original, letter by letter as near as I can tell. He makes paper.

A document is pushed my way with a vague gesture southward. My passport, drivers' license, vehicle title and registration remain firmly in his custody. I have a momentary, disconnected feeling, as if this stranger who won't even look at me has my clothes.

Meanwhile, the wily Denise, who has figured out the drill, snatches the document.

"You stay here, don't leave this window, I'll be back."

In the absence of any coherent thought of my own, I do as bidden, blocking access to the one open window. Thankfully, my position goes unchallenged, as no one enters before Denise returns and shoves the document to the no-English guy, who's activity suddenly resumes as if Denise had popped in a fresh battery.

"Where'd you go?"

"Copy guy."

"He made a copy?"

"No, he signed it."

"He signed it..." I had no idea copy guys had such clout in Mexico.

"Yeah, twice."

We are interrupted by a request for money. This time pesos are the desired unit of exchange. We take this as a good omen.

A new, very fancy document appears.

"You. Sign. Here. Here."

I sign. I sign. There seems to be something magical about the number two here.

A portion of the document is torn on dotted line, the remainder turned over to reveal a very fancy sticker with holograms and some serious, imbedded electronics. I've never seen the like. And these people can't afford English signs...

He says something about the car window. I start to ask—

"Where..."

—but before I can cause any more trouble Denise hustles me out the door, across the customs inspection area, and toward the parking lot.

The car is roasting in the noon sun. The solar oven has been reinvented. We climb back into the Bomber and start the engine and A/C.

"Put it there." Denise points to the lower-left corner of the windscreen.

"How do you know?"

"That's where everyone puts it."

How my copilot has come by this rare information I do not know, but I've stopped caring. The magic sticker is applied.

"Now let's get out of here."

I try to comply with Denise's command but there is no exit to the dirt lot which will permit access to customs — the only way out is the way we came in, which is well beyond the checkpoint.

"Go."

I drive to the exit, poke my nose out into the road, wait for a customs official to indicate what I should do. Two uniforms look at us, then turn their backs.

"Go!!!"

Mile 2861 - Just east of Reynosa, Tamaulipas

We drive off into Mexico. It's a little after noon.

Lesson of the Day:

It takes two gringos to equal one Mexican. Every situation from route finding to ordering lunch seems to require both a pilot (doer) and a navigator (spotter); and the undivided attention of both at all times. No matter how smart you are, unless you're born Mexican, you can only do one or the other, not both. Don't leave home alone...

. . .

By the way, the whole border dance took just about an hour.

== End of Day 6, Part 1, Mile 2861 - Just east of Reynosa, Tamaulipas ==

Day 6, Part 2 — Tuesday afternoon 21 October 2003 — Tamaulipas, Mexico

2008-03-01T06:00:00.006-06:00

"Already Lost in Margarita Ville..."

Mile 2863 - Somewhere in Reynosa, Tamaulipas

Hardly more than a mile into Mexico and we're already lost. OK, not really lost, just "temporarily misplaced." The first of many such Temporary Misplacements or "TMs."

TMs are a way of life for the non-native in Mexico. A TM is relatively harmless — as long as it's still light, you have fuel, and can turn around or back up — and only becomes a TL (Totally Lost) when the imprudent non-native fails to turn around or back up once the TM has been identified.**

TM #1: We're hardly more than a mile into Mexico and we're already misplaced. We know this because we're in Reynosa. This might not seem unreasonable, were it not for the fact that we started out east of Reynosa and we want to go south on 97, which is also east of Reynosa, thus the determination that we've been TM'd. The reason for this becomes evident soon enough, once we turn around and backtrack (this will become SOP — Standard Operating Procedure).

Now, as I said, we were heading west on the major sort-of-freeway towards Reynosa when we discovered we were already in Reynosa. Now, as it turns out, on- and off-ramps are expensive and take up space, while intersections create traffic congestion — all of which the Mexican highway designer wishes to avoid — and successfully does so by omitting both. Further, the omission of ramps and intersections conveniently reduces the need for signage which, as we have already seen, is unpopular in Mexico, probably for reasons of aesthetics as well as expense.

Now, as I said, once TM'd, we back-tracked underneath the sort-of-freeway until we found 97. As it turns out, the accepted procedure (really!) for making such ramp-free connections is 1. to exit on the (psychically determined) previous ramp or intersection, 2. follow the service road or "lateral" parallel the arterial exited, until you pass by the desired intersection (often no left turn possible), 3. make the next U-turn under (or sometimes across) the arterial you've been paralleling (this is called a "Returno"; sometimes there is even a sign ;-), 4. backtrack to the desired intersection and turn right, 5. proceed on your merry way. I am dead serious: this is how it is actually supposed to be done. No kidding.

OK, now, as I said, we'd back-tracked underneath the sort-of-freeway until we found 97, whereupon we were immediately presented with our next challenge: it was partially dug up and access was blocked off by a parked piece of heavy equipment; no signs, no cones, utterly no evidence of any detour, and absolutely nobody around. (And Hwy. 97 is the major north-south arterial, bear in mind.) The absence of any workers and the absence of a huge snarl of honking vehicles leads us to conclude that it must be siesta time. Either that or a national strike is under way...

Now, although we did technically know where we were, since we really couldn't "get there from here", I've taken the liberty of declaring this TM #2.

TM #2: We are stopped, staring stupidly at the enormous pavement roller blocking our advance. We look to one side where there is actually a sign, and it actually says that this is Hwy. 97. We look back to the roller. There is no way around it, over it, or under it; there is no one on it, and it is definitely not moving.

The only options are back the way we came, north towards the US border (doesn't seem like such a bad option at this point ;-), and off to one side following a narrow, muddy alley which squeezes between buildings on its way into the local shanty town. Stunningly, there are actually vehicles taking this latter route. We follow.

What ensues is a vigorous 1/4 mile of urban off-roading and mud-bogging leading to, yes, Hwy. 97! somewhat past the non-rolling barricade. Still hardly believing what has just transpired, we roll down a window to consult with a fellow off-road enthusiast.

—¿Cd. Victoria para...? (Relevant finger-pointing.)

—¡Si, si! (Vigorous nodding w/ similar finger-pointing.)

A sharp, cautious drop into the unfinished roadbed and we're off, heading southward on Hwy. 97...

Hwy. 97 to 101 and on toward Cd. Victoria, passes easily and uneventfully. The scenery is more-or-less Mexico's answer to Texas, sans oil. Based on every recommendation and trip report we've come across, we choose to give the Soto la Marina / Hwy. 180 route a miss — a large percentage of the complaints in re road conditions seem to relate to this route.

Tooling happily along 101 toward Cd. Victoria at 70+ MPH, we come to, and pass, an intersection with a nice new highway which doesn't exist on any of our maps. And there's even a sign which optimistically declares "Tampico" with an arrow pointing south. We grind to a halt and reverse back to the now-familiar pull-off-right-and-U-turn-left ramp. Yes, there really is a sign to Tampico — in both directions! — the road appears real enough, and there is no heavy equipment blocking it.

We take a meeting. Denise's position: it looks like a nice, brand new road, it says "to Tampico", it goes in the proper direction, and it even looks like a logical extension of a highway which *is* shown on our maps and connects with the main route to Tampico. My position: It's a honey-trap and will land us in a mudbog. Denise's motion carries. We head south on what now calls itself Hwy. 83.

What follows is a logical series of connections involving Hwys. 83, 81, and 80, none of which has the slightest connection to the lines and numbers on either of our two maps. Fortunately, Denise is still navigating, and we eventually connect up with the toll road to Tampico.

I use the toll as an opportunity to break a large bill, hand the change and receipt to Denise, and pull forward — only to be waved off to the shoulder by a police officer who was waiting for us just beyond the toll gate.

I roll down the driver's side window and he leans on the frame, shoving his head into the car, smiles like a welcoming committee, reaches into the vehicle to shake, first my hand, then Denise's. This is not a good sign.

—Long stream of staccato Spanish devoid of useful gestures or facial expressions.

Followed by what is no doubt intended as a friendly smile, but falls somewhat short, and ends up somewhere between comical and predatory. He is still leaning on the window frame, his face about six inches from mine. Oddly, I almost think I pick out a reference to "cold drinks" (refrescos) and "tips" (the actual English word).

Sometimes it is very handy to be an idiot. If you can manage to pull off foreign female idiot, so much the better (though if you are not female, you might leave that part out, just to avoid misunderstandings).

I stare blankly (innocently, I hope fervently) at the sweaty face just inches from mine, and deliver a deliberate, earnest, random mix of Spanish and English syllables.

—Long stream of staccato Spanish, this time accompanied by a hungry smile and a vague gesture toward the change Denise is still holding.

We follow his gaze; there is no doubt what this is about. Denise hands me the change, I take it but palm the one large (200 peso) note back to her. I hold up my handful of pocket change and look inquiring. We waves it away, gestures enthusiastically toward the $200 which, unfortunately, he's caught sight of. He makes the mistake of holding his hand open, palm up.

Smiling and looking directly at the man as if speaking to him, I say—

"Denise, put that away right now, this instant."

—and dump my handful of change into the officer's open palm. He tries to give it back, but my hands are folded demurely in my lap. He has to stand up from my window to use his remaining hand to indicate the now vanished $200 peso note.

—¡Short burst of rather annoyed-sounding Spanish!

"Yes, I know sir, and you can ask Spanish and I can reply English until we're both blue in the face, don't you know?" I am exceeding careful to preserve a sweet, confused, inquiring tone.

—Increasingly frustrated-sounding Spanish.

"Yep, I sure do know what you want, but it's not gonna happen today Senior, not with this Gringa," and I throw in a troubled —No comprende... shaking my head for good measure.

—Spanish monosyllable with perfunctory gesture toward Denise and the missing $200 note.

Unfortunately for him, his gesture also includes the glove box. I reach purposefully into the glove box. A look of hopeful anticipation passes briefly across my victim's face. I deliberately withdraw a small pocket Spanish-English dictionary, show it to him, and begin to studiously leaf through it.

—¡Unmistakable exclamation of hopeless frustration!

He is walking backward, waving us away. Instead of starting the car, I call out to him, waving my text, perhaps looking like I might follow him. He is now walking briskly away with his back turned, pocket change in one hand, still waving us southward with the other. I believe that, had I got out of the car, he might actually have run.

Mile 3214 - Tampico, Tamaulipas

We had wanted to make the reputedly very nice coastal town of Tuxpan for the night, but thanks to our late start, dusk catches us on the outskirts of the rather industrial city of Tampico. We are far enough south now that night is starting to fall pretty quickly.
Thanks to the twilight, a foolish attempt to circumnavigate the city via the tollway bypass, random road construction, and the crush of end-of-the-day traffic, we have missed a turn and are already beginning TM #3, though we are, as yet, blissfully unaware of the fact.

Actually, TM #3 turns out to be a blessing in disguise (or, as I like to say, a "mixed curse"), as without it we would never have discovered the first Love Shack.

So it is now definitely getting dark, and starting to rain, and we are wrestling our way through a muddy construction zone, pinched between huge trucks when, ahead on the right, there is a glorious, brand-spanking-new, gorgeously landscaped, pink-walled edifice which looks as misplaced as we in the industrial mudpit of eastern Tampico.

The sign says: Motel.

We pull in, under the huge pink arched stucco entryway, and park next to a very shiny, late model Mercedes. We are surrounded by immaculately tended gardens of tropical vegetation, spotless concrete and tile, and very curious, slightly amused-looking staff, including one very polite, cheerful armed guard with a walkie-talkie.

This last fellow, grins and waves in a friendly, reassuring manner, and keeps his distance, which we consider a good omen. A fellow who has a friendly "in charge" air about him approaches from what appears to be the office. He also sports a walkie-talkie. The female staff have all piled out of their various hiding spots and group up in the background, enjoying the spectacle.

We take in our surroundings as we await the in-charge fellow's immanent arrival. There are several driveway "isles" lined to each side with what appear to be suites, to each of which the only access is through what appears to be a garage door. There must be forty or fifty of them, all surrounded by the high, pink wall. The design, landscaping and maintenance are all perfect — the place is nothing short of beautiful.

The in-charge man has arrived. I've got a pretty good idea what we're dealing with here. But I don't think Denise does! ;-)

—Friendly stream of unintelligible Spanish, this time accompanied by a generous and sincere, if slightly amused, smile.

I'm a little fuddled, not quite sure how to proceed, so Denise takes the lead, making her best impression of a room request in Spanish.

—La, er, habitacion para, er, for the night..." She looks to me for help.

—La noche, I prompt.

—¿Para la noche? ¿La habitacion? She waves her hands about and looks hesitantly optimistic.

The man looks bemused, and maybe just a touch at a loss.

—No hablo ingles.

And inserts a long string of Spanish into his walkie-talkie. His voice is echoed some distance away at the guards hip, but he makes no motion.

We all stand around, enjoying the silence of each other's company, and soon another fellow, very young, approaches: the Manager.

"Good evening ladies, how may I be of help?"

We are speechless. Near-perfect American-accented English, with maybe even an undertone of college education.

Denise looks nonplussed. I believe she may be trying to get "la habitacion para la noche" to come out again, so I take the lead.

"Is it possible to get a room for the night?"

There is a brief debate between the Manager and his #2.

"Ah, yes, but the best price we can offer you is from 8:00 PM to 10:00 AM."

It is now somewhat past 6 PM — seems odd — but whatever...

"How much?"

Another conference; it seems this event may be precedent-setting. A conclusion is reached.

"For eight until ten it would be $360 pesos." He seems to think this is likely to be too high. It's about $33 USD.

"No problem. Can we see a room?"

Now the young Manager is really at a loss. He's starting to look distinctly awkward.

"Ah, ma'am, ah, this is... you know, this is like... a love hotel..."

"Yeah, I know. Can we see a room?"

He is defeated. We are shown a room. It's fantastic. Huge bed, elegant decor, without question the cleanest, best appointed, most secure room we've seen anywhere either side of the border. Words don't do justice — you really need to take a look at the photos!

I think Denise may be catching on: there is a complementary condom in the ashtray.

"We'll take it. Can we pay now?"

. . .

We drive off in search of the restaurant the Manager has recommended. Properly fed, we return well in advance of the 8 PM assigned check-in, but it doesn't seem to be a problem. As our car appears and is recognized, we are rapidly ushered by #2 to an open garage door, while the guard, er, stands guard.

The instant our vehicle is clear, the mechanism engages and down comes the automatic door and we are suddenly ensconced in our secret love nest.

We are exhausted — take a few photos before we mess up the room, then unload — no need even to lock the car. Shower and bed. Lights out. I make Denise keep to her own side... ;-)

== End of Day 6, Mile 3214, Tampico, Tamaulipas, Mexico ==

Clic here to see all Day 6 pix...
_________
** I do have one report of a first-time successful transit of Mexico from Texas to Belize which disregarded this advice. The transit in question involved a large truck towing a large fifth-wheel, and a compass. Since there was, in this case, no reasonable hope of backing up or turning around, their MO (modus operundi) was "just keep heading south." Evidently they did eventually make it to Belize (since that was where I got the story from), but this MO is nevertheless not recommended: they could just as easily now be permanently parked, sunk to the axles, and living today on some muddy, dead-end road, somewhere in Mexico...

Day 7, Part 1 — Wednesday morning 22 October 2003 — Tamaulipas - Veracruz

2008-03-01T05:00:00.003-06:00

"Who's Driving on First?"

The run from Tampico to the town of Veracruz may have been deliberately designed to take the non-native on a mystery tour of the entire state of Veracruz.

There is, naturally, the usual minimalist approach to signage, and the frequent lack of correspondence between the available maps and guidebooks and the actual roadscape. Then there are the random road construction, blocking breakdowns, diversions, checkpoints, donkeys, etc. And, of course, the locals' irritating insistence on speaking only in Spanish.

To add to the confusion, the Mexicans seem to have taken their lead from New York and thriftily reused the names of their cities as monikers for their states and country. Or vice-versa — who knows. Thus you can "go to Mexico" even after you're already in Mexico — the locals consider it an economy of speech to leave out any superfluous words — like "city" (ciudad, usually written Cd.) or "state". Thus, once in Zacatecas you can still go to Zacatecas, being in Campeche does not prevent you from going on to Campeche, and, alas, once you're in Veracruz you still have to figure out how to get to Veracruz.

Mile 3214 - Tampico, Tamaulipas, Mexico

We awake in Camelot — well, a sort of mock-adobe version of Camelot with palm trees rather than oaks and Birds-of-Paradise in place of roses — the rain is gone, the dawn sun is rising in a clear blue and rose sky, the pinks of the sunrise harmonizing perfectly with the pink fortress wall. The high-tension lines behind and the industrial complex in front detract only slightly from the spectacle.

Denise hustles up, packing as I shower and make coffee — we need to make up time. She might even have succeeded in getting us off to an early start had it not been for me — my need for caffeine, my inability to locate and identify my possessions, my need to criss-cross the love-fortress snapping pix... (Evidently I had underestimated the number of suites at this particular Love Castle: ours is #127!)

We're finally off, me driving, Denise in the co-pilot/navigator/spotter seat. She's exuding a slight aura of impatience (I suppose I *could've* been a bit quicker out of the gate this morning). This sets the mood for our first junction.

Now, unbeknownst to us, we are already engaged in TM (Temporary Misplacement) Number Three. We think we're heading west on Hwy. 70 looking for a left turn to resume the Tampico Bypass (via Cuauhtemoc — go ahead, try to pronounce it, I dare you), crossing first a railroad, then a river. That's what the Sanborn's Guide shows.

We may even *be* heading west on 70 — we're pretty sure the Pink Love Shack is on 70 (well it *might* be, anyway) — but whether we're heading west on 70 *before* or *after* the Tampico Bypass junction, well, that will never be known. Actually we'll never even know if we were really on Hwy. 70, for that matter...

So we're confronting our first junction. It appears to be a significant junction. We follow protocol: drive right past (no sign), stop and look back (no sign there either), reverse to the exit-right-to-turn-left lane (no sign), turn left across traffic onto the new road, then U-turn to check for signs from this direction (there is one, it says back the way we came to Tampico, duh), turn around again, have second (third?) thoughts, halt and call a meeting.

Denise's position: we're about to cross a railroad, just like the guide shows; if we cross a river soon, like the guide shows, then we're probably on the right road. My position: it's a honey-trap and we'll wind up gridlocked in some crowded, unnavigable village. Denise holds the navigator position, has the best junction-reading average so far, is a tad impatient this morning, and can easily take me down in a scrap: her motion carries.

. . .

We cross, first the tracks, then a river, just as shown in the guidebook, and progress is uneventful until we reach our next junction, which is a perfect triangle junction with a statue in it's center.

We follow protocol: drive right past, three-point-turnabout annoying traffic, around again, halt and call a meeting. Each of the three conjoined avenues is of approximately equal size, traffic and wear, and there is not a single sign. There is, however, a statue. I get out to consult the statue. I am able to decipher some of the attached plaque. I return to the driver's seat.

"Cuauhtemoc."

"Huh?"

"This seems to be Cuauhtemoc."

"So?"

"The guide says the Bypass goes via Cuauhtemoc."

"Whatever you say..."

Denise seems unimpressed by my deduction. In truth it is not of much help as we still need to choose between Road Number One and Road Number Two, and the fact that we may be on route at the moment doesn't mean that we will be shortly.

As we sit and debate, traffic starts to back up on the left fork, which snakes up a hill and out of sight toward (I think) Tampico. Denise considers the traffic a good omen and wants to queue up; I figure it's probably just a donkey with a blowout.

I like the right-hand fork, as this seems to head in a more southerly direction, passes *via* Cuauhtemoc proper, and lacks the parking lot which has by now taken over the left-hand route. The guidebook has no opinion, as it does not recognize this junction's right to exist. For reasons which I shall never grasp, my motion carries. We head right, into Cuauhtemoc.

Wrong.

Now, had we gone Denise's way, I suspect we would have ended up right on route — after working our way past the hypothetical donkey-jam. Instead we wind up driving circles around the central square of Cuauhtemoc, making various excursions afield only to be returned to the central square — a sort of Escher-esque navigational experience.

We halt in a taxi queue and call a meeting. Denise wants to head back out the way we came and follow the traffic up the hill outside town. I find this position to be too reasonable, and insist on consulting a taxi-man instead.

(As it turns out, either method would have worked, but mine was more fun! ;-)

I approach the nearest taxi-man, pidgin-español at the ready. The exchange involves a dreadful butchering of the Spanish language (on my part) combined with some very creative gesticulations (on his part) — altogether too complex to present here in the original, so I must take the liberty of translating the exchange into English:

"Excuse me, Sir, but which way to Veracruz?"

"This is Veracruz."

My coherent thought processes lurch to an abrupt halt: I cannot rationalize our transit of over two hundred miles southward whilst circling the spacetime vortex of this village square. Escher or no, this is just too much.

"I thought this was Cuauhtemoc."

"That's right."

"We need to go to Veracruz."

"You're in Veracruz."

The conversation seems to be trapped in the same spacetime vortex that our navigation had recently fallen into.

"No, we're in Cuauhtemoc."

"That's right."

I'm not sure who I want to strangle more — him or me. A couple other idle taxi-guys have entered the discussion. There is a three-way debate which no longer includes me — probably trying to decide what to do about the insane gringa.

I have a flash of insight. I make a hop-scotching kind of gesture with my right hand, like a skipped stone—

—Cuauhtemoc...Poza Rica...Veracruz...

—¡A-ja! CiuDAD Veracruz!

Each of the three take turns repeating the phrase —¡Ciudad Veracruz! —¡A-ja! —¡Si! Ciudad! Cd. Veracruz! until they've all memorized it. I join in enthusiastically—

—¡Si! Si! Cd. Veracruz!

This is followed by Taxi-man #1 launching into a utterly confident set of gestures this way and that, as if slicing a pizza with his open hand; liberally accompanied by directions in, of course, Spanish.

-----------------------------
Interlude: Spanish Directions

—Derecho, derecha = (turn) right

—Todo derecho = go straight (yeah, no kidding, and that todo gets lost pretty easily!)

—Directamente = straight (but why use that when you can use todo derecho?)

—Izquierda = (turn) left (quite a mouthful for a concept as simple as "left", if you ask me...)

—Divertido = not "diverted", but "entertaining" or "amusing" (which is how the person giving directions sees you).

End of Interlude
-----------------------------

So #1 is enthusiastically burying me under a load of derechos, todo derechos, and izquierdas, with an occasional generous directamente, as he slices the air to shreds, barehanded. I nod gravely, as if I am actually following this and committing it to memory.

Then, just to be divertida, I run it back to him with (to me) startling accuracy, even managing to clarify some todo derechos into directamentes. All four of us are surprised and impressed. Grins and felicitations all around.

Back in the driver's seat and we're off again. I am repeating a mantra:

"Around the square, then straight, then left, then right, then straight, then left-and-right..."

We exit the square, go straight, left, right, etc...

We are back at the square.

The spacetime vortex still holds us captive. Denise wants to go back to the triangle junction, but I am feeling determined. Denise would say "pig-headed."

I have a theory: perhaps I fell short by 90 degrees on the "around the square" part. We circle again and exit on the new heading. The three taxi-guys are still there, obviously very divertirse.

We exit the square, go straight, left, right, etc...and...there it is: a miracle of pavement, a four-lane controlled-access divided highway fit for a Porsche.

The only hitch seems to be that our present road passes up and over this glory of asphalt and concrete without the benefit of an on-ramp. There is, however, an off-ramp, which joins our present location off to the left. We stop. I look at Denise inquiringly, she grins, I grin.

"Get the camera ready."

Nobody in sight, we swing left, wrong-way up the off-ramp, and a couple hundred feet later pull a sharp right ("...left-and-right"), just like taxi-guy #1 said to. We are speeding south, the road to ourselves and, if I don't miss my guess, with taxi-driver savvy as our guide, we probably just skipped a toll booth, not a broke-down donkey.

As we pass signs (!) that confirm that we are right on course, we are feeling pretty darned Mexican...

Day 7, Part 2 — Wednesday afternoon 22 October 2003 — Veracruz - Tabasco

2008-03-01T04:00:00.003-06:00

"Dogs, Topes, Stalled Vehicles, Nearly Stalled Vehicles, More dogs, and the Mexican Pot-Hole Slalom."

Entering the state of Veracruz south of Tampico, Mexico starts to look more tropical; here coconut, bananas, papaya, mango, flamboyant, almond, hibiscus, and the ubiquitous tropical morning glory make their presence known; here also, as the land becomes increasingly fecund, agriculture prospers and the first thatched roofs appear...

It is here — from quaint Tuxpan, down the sandy, coconut-graced beaches of the Costa Esmeralda to Nautla, and onward along the Gulf coast to historic Cd. Veracruz with its famous "pole dancers" — it is here that you find the "real Mexican Caribbean" about which those in the know crow.

Or so I'm told. We were really too busy looking for potholes and topes to really look at much else...

Mile 3230 - South of Tampico in Veracruz, Mexico

We are ripping south from Tampico at 75 MPH on a gorgeous four-lane divided controlled-access miracle of pavement. Neither of our maps gives any hint of such a wonder south of Tampico, and the road quickly complies by dropping to an undivided single-lane each direction with no lines. The good news is that the absence of paint is due to the very recent new pavement. We see no compelling reason to moderate our speed.

The bad news is that we soon discover the paving crew in action, complete with flagger with red flag. Between the red flag and the ending of the sweet, new asphalt, moderation of speed now seems prudent. Leaving the paving crew behind, we are back to the Mexican Pot-Hole Slalom. After futbaaaaaaaaal, this must be the national sport.

We are behind schedule, and have been since oversleeping our last morning in Texas. The original overnight had been planned for the reputedly very nice town of Tuxpan. Unfortunately dark and rain had forced a halt in Tampico the previous night, and now our only interest in Tuxpan was finding the bypass to avoid it.

One map makes the bypass look obvious, almost unavoidable, even gives it a number — Hwy. 130; the other map is utterly silent on the matter — what highway?; the Sanborn's Guide describes a completely different bypass route, skirting closer to town.

And now we are in scenic downtown Tuxpan.

TM #4: We are at a three-way, signless junction in moderately heavy traffic. For lack of a better plan, we follow the greater traffic flow and wind up part-way up a one-way street which is obviously taking us nowhere we want to go. We halt and call a meeting. There is a traffic cop a little way back, ignoring traffic, having a nice chat with a Señora. We consult the nice officer.

There is the usual series of derechos, todo derechos, and izquierdas accompanied by the obligatory air-karate visual aides. The uniformed gentleman is very nice and helpful and is clearly directing us back down the one-way, against traffic, to where ever it is we need to be. We thank him and blithely head back against traffic: this kind of maneuver no longer causes the least concern for us.

. . .

Although, in truth, I am not doing well today.

I am becoming increasingly anxious and am not approaching our Temporary Misplacements in the proper frame of mind. I can tell this because Denise is becoming irritated and rather cross with me, which is her way of reacting when I am out of sorts. Her irritation is then feeding back into my anxiety, and I get shorter and crabbier, which annoys Denise all the more. We've been doing this for nearly a decade-and-a-half, so we're pretty good at it.

I have utterly no recollection of how or where we got back on track, and we have not one single photograph of scenic Tuxpan. There is an hour-and-a-half gap in the photojournalistic record. Next thing I know, we're on the main drag in Poza Rica, in very heavy traffic, and I'm jerking the Bomber into the first open restaurant with parking. My nerves are completely shot. Denise is visibly resisting the urge to throttle me. I'm done.

Now I am not necessarily an advocate of prescription drug use as an everyday coping method for life's little bumps, but the fact is that, for their own safety, certain pets should be tranquilized for travel, and today I'm one of them. I have a small stash of Mothers' Little Helpers (properly prescribed, for emergency use only) and as we enter the restaurant I head straight to the washroom and take one. I'm done. Denise will take the con for the duration today. I will practice my mantra.

We had a delightful little lunch in Poza Rica, and I wish I knew the name of the restaurant so I could tell you. We had the place to ourselves, the owner took fantastic care of us as we all pantomimed our way through the menu, and later her teenaged daughter came by to try her English on us. First-rate, if limited, English, and well-accented. Obviously the young Senorita was highly motivated and had been studying very hard. She was so hungry to speak English, I felt bad as we made our excuses and scooted on out of there.

[The restaurant is "PAL-MART" on the right side of the main drag downtown. See Two Gringas #2 for a photo. —Lena]

. . .

Back on the road with Denise at the helm, things are going better. I have given up any pretense of navigation — Denise has proven her superior skills — and have been reduced to being the spotter, photojournalist, and turbo-boost operator.

Now, for those who have not driven in Latin America, the "spotter" function may be obscure; the rest of you certainly know... "Photojournalist" is pretty self-explanatory.

But "turbo-boost operator" is a function unique to loaded cars with small engines and A/C running and a need to pass (as in overtake). Here's how it works:

You have lost momentum as you come up behind slower traffic which you cannot immediately pass; you hold back far enough so you can see oncoming traffic, either on the driver's side, or on the spotter's side, and leave yourself some "running room"; when the opportunity presents itself, the pilot begins to accelerate and close the gap with the offending vehicle ahead; then, as the last opposing vehicle clears, the pilot lurches out into the passing lane before the vehicle behind can get the drop on you, the spotter simultaneously switches *off* the A/C, shutting off the compressor and thus providing more power to accelerate; when the vehicle has reached peak velocity, the spotter switches the cooling back on as the pilot swings the vehicle back to the proper lane, and you continue on your merry way.

Now, as to other functions of the spotter...in addition to keeping watch for vehicular attacks from the flanks and other bogeys, here is a short list of common Mexican road hazards the spotter must keep an eye out for: dogs, marked topes, potholes, donkeys, ruts, stalled vehicles, rocks put out to warn of stalled vehicles, checkpoints, pedestrians, bicycles, stopped busses, wood, dogs (cats are generally smart enough to keep off the highways), rocks left behind once stalled vehicles have moved on, unmarked topes, spare parts, pavement settled up to several inches at bridge decks, people (including small children) using the pavement edge as a chair or cot, craters, flaggers, tractors and other very slow equipment, horses, secretly hidden topes, random roadwork lacking flaggers, bomb craters, dogs, and the occasional complete absence of pavement altogether. Not *one* of these is made-up. (Did I mention dogs?)

. . .

Except for the minor hazards mentioned above, we have clear sailing along the Costa Esmeralda to Nautla. Everybody talks about how great the Costa Esmeralda is, mostly for the beaches, I think. We are, unfortunately, road-bound and enjoying the beach from several hundred feet away and at 50 MPH. My best photos are some blurry coconut palms with something that might be water beyond them, and a photo of a wall that jumped up just as I clicked the shutter.

We actually manage to make the correct choice first try at the Hwy. 180 junction with 131, and avoid the side-trip to Xalapa — the actual capital of Veracruz, which oddly, Cd. Veracruz is not.

. . .

TM #5: We are less lucky at Cardel and find ourselves heading off west toward Xalapa after all, but after several miles into the westering sun with no junction southward, we realize our error, turn around, backtrack, pass through village of Cardel and rediscover the main route heading towards Veracruz.

Veracruz, finally, and we actually manage to navigate the bypass — a Two Gringas First! Then onward toward Córdoba, and make the turn to Acayucan & Villahermosa, again on the first try — we're now up to 50% junction success!

But it's really getting dark, so we're cruising to Acayucan for the night.

. . .

And then something strange happened.

There is a toll point right before the turnoff to Acayucan. If you're going to Acayucan, you take the right-hand booth, pay I think $6 pesos, and exit. If you're continuing on to Villahermosa (another 128 miles of toll road), you take one of the left-hand booths and pay the princely sum of $131 pesos.

Now, it was dark, and we had already decided to stop in Acayucan for the night, but the line of toll booths caught us by surprise, and like a deer in the headlights we just stopped. Right or left? Right or left? We're stopped, a huge truck behind us is honking, and we're taking a meeting.

Right or left?

¿Derecho o izquierda?

We're tired and confused. It's been a long day. The truck horn blares again. Someone in a uniform off to one side is signaling frantically, or maybe doing jumping jacks.

Denise goes left. I pony up $131 pesos. We're off into the night...

. . .

With minor exceptions, this is a fantastic road, and we bomb 70 to 80 MPH.

The one curious event occurred, we think, somewhere around the Coatzacoalcos River: suddenly we're into a wall of bugs, like white rain, like a downpour of Elmer's glue, for a mile or two; the windscreen is completely plastered, and we stop in the night to scrape it off.

Onward we bomb, through the night, and make Villahermosa about 10 PM.

And the best thing about the Pink Love Shacks? Well, they're open all night! This one was nearly as nice as the last, and cheaper, but then again, we booked fewer hours. ;-)

== End of Day 7, Mile 3821, Villahermosa, Tabasco, Mexico ==

Clic here to see all Day 7 pix...

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

2008-03-01T03:00:00.009-06:00

"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... ;-)

Clic here to see all Day 8 pix...

Day 8, Part 2 — Thursday afternoon 23 October 2003 — Belize

2008-03-01T02:00:00.007-06:00

"Double your paper, double your fun!"

Well, even tho' we have got *to* Belize, we are not yet actually *in* Belize, and so the story must continue...

Mile 4169 - Santa Elena, Corozal District, Belize

During our loop through the Free Zone and subsequent exit and turn toward Customs and Immigration, we have missed a crucial sign: it says "STOP — Compulsory Quarantine!"

Not that we would necessarily have actually stopped for this sign, as there are no buildings or uniforms of any significance anywhere near the sign — just a couple dusty little shacks among the abandoned vehicles and rubbish and various dusty layabouts to match.

We pause for the first uniform we find, but he just waves vaguely in the direction we're heading anyway, which is toward the obvious customs checkpoint. Which is, of course, exactly not what we're supposed to do.

Now, they've actually got some very nice people here on the Belize side of the border, who wear a (yellow, was it?) tee shirt which has stenciled upon it something like "Customs Assistance", and these nice folks smile genuine smiles and are there for no other purpose than to round up lost souls such as ourselves and put us back on the path of the righteous. Free of charge.

One such angel gets to us just before the scowling uniform at the checkpoint can, and we are given a (to our lunch-less, sun-scorched, addled minds) complex series of procedures to negotiate and are then packed back off to the aforementioned "Compulsory Quarantine!"

This time we do see the sign, after a U-turn, and "STOP!" next to it and wait for something to happen.

Then a dusty, shambling little creature appears from the shade cast by one of the shacks — I am somehow reminded of a sunbaked, Creole version of Gollum — and behind him he is dragging what appears to be an ordinary home-use tank sprayer.

He eagerly explains the process, the fee, the tip he should get in addition to the fee, and then — for some reason — drops his can and ushers me off toward another little shack which turns out to represent one of the three Belizean insurance companies — presumably the one which also gives him a tip to which he is entitled.

And at some point during this show, we are joined by another dusty creature who has shambled across the street, this one young and lanky, who the first creature sternly informs me is "...a liar and a cheat — don't give him anything!" while simultaneously the lanky unit is in my other ear explaining about how he forms the vital link in the process. The stereoscopic effect is highly disorienting.

Denise sits-guard in the car as I am hustled off to the insurance hovel by my entourage, where I buy a month's worth for I forget how little ($30 Bz, maybe?).

Meantime, back at the car, Gollum has done whatever it is he does, and as I return to the vehicle I am presented with a bill for (I think it was) $7 Bz.

As I am pulling out a few US dollars to ransom the Bomber, and dancing back-and-forth in a half-circle to keep Lanky behind me and away from my money, Gollum ushers in the next member of the cast — a very business-like Hispanic fellow with a bulging money belt.

"Dis-a-man give you real good price pesos, U.S. dollar too!"

I am beginning to feel like a nice fat hunk of The Other White Meat, trapped between the back end of my car and the feeding frenzy. I could take any one of these piranha, but I am nearly helpless against the press of numbers. My only hope is to throw chum and get out of the water as quickly as possible.

I give the cambiodor my pesos and he rips me off for about 5%. I know better than to give up any US dollars and, had I been thinking clearly, I would've held onto the pesos too, since I'll be driving down again in January!

I pay the "Compulsory Quarantine!" bill with a $10 Bz note, which Gollum pockets (without regard to subtraction) in exchange for a small stamped paper. Moneybag, meantime, has vanished without a trace.

As I try to make a break for the driver's side, I am headed off by Lanky, regarding whom Gollum seems to have had a change of heart, and now feels deserves a tip for his contribution to the enterprise. I lose a couple more dollars as I dive for the sanctuary of the Bomber's cockpit. In the left-side mirror I see Gollum taking his cut from Lanky.

I start the car — and the A/C.

"What'd he do?"

"Not much, he sprayed some stuff around the wheels, that was about it."

"Was he spraying the undercarriage and all?"

"Nope — just a little squirt on each wheel."

"Well I hope he didn't get any on the paint."

"Not much chance of that..."

. . .

We creep forward a hundred yards or so and debate our next move. We compile and average our mis-remembered misinformation and somehow end up parked in the correct lot next to the correct building.

The instructions were to empty the vehicle and carry all our "luggage" into the Customs and Immigration building for inspection. We look mournfully upon the press of boxes, bags, carry-alls, rubbish, dirty laundry, tools, emergency kit, etc. It's at least 100 yards to the door. There is just no way...

We lock the car and amble off toward Customs empty-handed, in the hopes of pleading or paying for someone to come out to the car for the luggage inspection.

And we're halfway to the door when Denise has a stroke of pure genius — the chick has learned a lot during our short passage through Mexico.

"Hey — we have luggage!"

"Yeah, in spades. So?"

"No, I mean we have luggage, you know, my carry-all, your red gym bag..."

Comprehension passes over my face like sunrise.

"The guy said 'take all your *luggage* into Customs'!"

"Right. And we do, in fact, have several pieces of luggage!"

We jog back to the car and each grab a couple pieces of "luggage." The woman's a genius, plain and simple.

We enter a vast concrete hall which is populated by only a few migrant souls such as ourselves, and a roughly equal number of uniforms and badges. I shudder to think how much time the process would require if a significant number of folks ever wanted into Belize.

We have been worn down. The Mexican uniforms, Belizean uniforms, and all the in-betweeners have nearly broken us. We are in no condition to discuss our purposes in Belize or the importation of the vehicle. We agree on a scenario as we approach the Immigration desk and drop our luggage. Wordlessly, we produce our passports.

"What are you going to do in Belize?"

I am momentarily stumped.

"Visit?"

"Where are you staying?"

"Placencia."

"Where?"

"Uh, a hotel?"

"How long?"

"Uh, a week or two?"

"You've been in Belize before."

A statement; the visas in the passports are obvious.

"Yes, we come a couple times each year."

"And you are bringing your own vehicle?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

Again, I am momentarily stumped.

"Uh, so we can see more of the country?"

"Then what?"

"What?"

"Then what will you do with the vehicle?"

"Uh, drive home?"

Evidently the concept "road-trip" has yet to reach this far south; the uniform seems highly suspicious of our intent. The standard Belizean tourist visa is for one month. She gives us ten days. We are too weak to object — or even to notice, actually — not until much later anyway...

We advance slightly to the Customs function (at least they don't insist on putting them in distant buildings like the Mexicans do). Denise is instructed to take both our luggage and exit the rear of the building to wait outside with the other passengers. There is utterly no interest as to what might be in the bags, but—

"You may not come back through! You wait out there for the vehicle!"

Denise trundles off under her double load like a whipped mule. I am escorted back in the other direction by a badge with a clipboard. This is the part I'm dreading...

"Open the vehicle."

Duh. I open both doors.

"And the boot."

And the only thing I'm really worried about is the enormous aluminum cube of the long-range tank which occupies 80% of the trunk. It appears, however, to have become invisible.

"What's this?"

The badge jabs her pen at a fair-sized box jammed in on one side of the tank. It's a top-of-the-line inkjet printer requested by a friend. In the original box.

"Accessory for my laptop."

The pen jabs, "What's this?"

"Emergency road kit."

It's a complete toolset for a mechanic friend. The badge moves to the passenger compartment. She looks in the large plastic bag which crowns the heap in the back seat and discovers ripe, week-old dirty laundry (how'd that get there?).

"What's in there?"

A brown box sticking out from the base of the heap which contains office supplies unavailable in Belize.

"My books."

"And this?"

"My coffee maker."

"New?"

"Oh no, very used! I have to have my coffee in the morning, you know! Would you like to look?" I am anxious to prove the verity of my one truthful statement.

"No."

The badge completes her cursory inspection. I doubt very much that she has bought into any of this. It's just not worth her effort to pursue in the heat of the afternoon.

"Would you like me to open the hood?"

"No."

The clipboard is heading back toward the building. Once again, I am momentarily stumped, but a perfunctory gesture causes me to hastily close up the car and follow my mistress back to receive paper.

I am instructed to return to my vehicle and pass through the checkpoint to pick up my passenger and luggage. At the checkpoint I dispense my paper to the uniform, who inspects is at such great length that I begin to wonder if he has seen this kind of thing before. Eventually my paper is returned and I am waved through. I am still not sure what function the checkpoint fulfills.

Finally, I pull up beside Denise and our luggage.

Denise, who has been forced to stand with the various other passengers, out in the blistering afternoon sun, no seating, no shade or water provided whatsoever — for about an hour. Had it been pouring down rain (as it did that morning), they and their baggage would have been in an alternate predicament. But—

"You may not come back through!"

Denise had tested the rule once, and been so rebuffed. Evidently I arrived just in the nick of time, as she was in the process of heading back in to resume the debate in a somewhat different tone. Lord knows what they would've gotten us for then...

We reload the Bomber. Denise recovers under the influence of sweet liquids and A/C as we pick up speed, heading southward into Belize.

Soon there are cheers, pantomime champagne toasts and hi-fives all around — we made it, we actually made it!

But, alas, the celebration is just ever so slightly premature...

. . .

Clic here to see all Day 8 pix...

Day 8, Part 3 — Thursday evening 23 October 2003 — Belize

2008-03-01T01:00:00.001-06:00

"OK, so what's worse than a Mexican cop on the take?"

We were so thrilled to have gotten to Belize, made it in and out of Customs and Immigration, got out onto open highway and pointed south towards "home", that we were completely blindsided by what happened next. Had we maintained the alertness and poise which took us so smoothly through Mexico we wouldn't have been so surprised and upset, but as it was...

Mile 4170 - just south of Santa Elena, Corozal District, Belize

It's a police checkpoint.

No sooner had we got up to cruising speed than we have to brake to a stop. There are two officers blocking our progress, and upon seeing the US plates they immediately wave us off onto the shoulder and ask us to get out of the car.

They have us open doors and trunk and start going through everything.

"You know, they just went through everything at Customs."

"That's Customs, we're the Police."

One pulls out a bag of roasted coffee beans from the trunk.

"Ah, ah, very bad — this is contraband."

"No it's not!" I am indignant.

"Coffee is produced in Belize, importation is illegal."

"If that were true, don't you think they would have said something at Customs?"

"That's Customs, we're the Police."

The other fellow is rifling through the passenger compartment.

"What's this?!" He has discovered Denise's four bottles of Bud. "Oh, this is *bad*, very bad..." The man is almost gleeful as he extracts his trophy.

The senior officer disappears into the guard shack with the "contraband" prizes discovered thus far. Meanwhile, the other fellow is systematically going through Denise's purse. He seems to be looking for something in particular which he's not finding.

"What do you have for money?"

"Credit cards."

He hands the purse back to Denise with seeming irritation, suspends his search, and motions for me (the driver) to follow him inside. As we go, he mentions that there are sure to be fines associated with our attempt to import contraband, but "we can be flexible." Until now I was suspicious, now I am certain...

As we enter the shack, my escort calls out to the other in a theatrically loud voice,

"Sergeant, so what is the current fine for the illegal importation of controlled substances."

And now I've had it. I am utterly livid. And before the senior officer can speak I have pen and paper out and I'm writing as I speak.

"There is something wrong here."

I move from the junior fellow to the senior fellow, walking part way round him so I can read his shoulder insignia.

"What are you doing?"

"Taking down your badge numbers. There is something very wrong going on here."

The senior officer turns away from me, mumbles something and gestures toward the door.

"What now, that's all? I'm free to leave?"

"Yes, yes...go."

Another sweeping movement toward the door as he retreats. The junior officer appears frozen, as if someone pulled his plug.

I stalk back outdoors, slam the trunk as I circuit the car, and flop into the driver's seat. Denise barely has time to get her door closed before I'm spitting gravel as we leave the shoulder. I power-shift through all the gears until we are roaring south at 75 MPH.

Denise has an, uh, "inquiring" look on her face.

"They got your beer and my coffee, but that's all they got."

Nothing was said for a long time. I was furious, and Denise was trying to disappear into the molding. We still haven't had anything to eat. We substitute cokes and candy bars from a roadside stand. Our only goal now is to make Placencia in time for dinner — several hours away yet.

. . .

We burn south to the junction at the cutoff to Burrell Boom and Hattieville, where there is — that's right — another Police checkpoint.

It is dark by now. Again, the foreign plates get us flagged off to the shoulder. We are only a few miles from the prison at Hattieville, and I'm wondering what the women's facilities are like.

The officer wants every single piece of paper we own, and appears to be using them to teach himself to read on the job, with occasional consultations for tutoring from his superior nearby.

Now I have *never* before, in over five years of traveling around this place, had *any* problem of any kind with the police in Belize, but apparently this was going to be the trip to make up for it. Where, in the past, the cops at the checkpoints had always been friendly and chatty, now they were rude and intrusive. My guess is that it was the foreign plates — this heavy-handed, low-grade harassment was to continue for a month until I got the Bomber properly Belizeified.

Now I know they're on the lookout for stolen cars (which are commonly brought down to Central America), but I think they're being pretty stupid about it: the stolen vehicles are invariably newer pickups, SUVs and luxury cars (not 12-year-old econo-boxes), and they're not being driven by white Americans carrying passports, original title, and full import documentation. Nevertheless I got the fine-toothed-comb treatment at most checkpoints, and it was five-times worse if a Mayan associate happened to be driving.

———————————————————
Interlude: Belizean Police and the Law

It is worth noting that Belize does not provide the same due process and search-and-seizure protections which we enjoy in the States. Police can search your vehicle at any time for any reason; and checkpoints — both permanent and "surprise" — are just a fact of driving life in the country.

Individuals, citizen or foreigner, can be held incommunicado for 72 hours without being charged, and it is fairly common for the police to round up a bunch of "suspicious characters" when a crime is reported, pretty much without regard to evidence of any kind. Beatings are not rare, at least down here in the south, and admissions of culpability are often accompanied by severe bruising.

This tendency is exacerbated, if not outright encouraged, by the national policy of having police serve in communities well distant from their own. In practice this usually means that the cops at a particular location are culturally, racially, and often linguistically, distinct from the community in which they serve, have no investment in that community, and resent having to be there.

While the capture and search of unindicted people is, unfortunately, legal in Belize; torture (intimidation and beating) and confiscation of personal property is not — and yet both are common. That I am aware, the only consequences for the police perpetrating these crimes occur when a victim dies in custody — which seems to happen once or twice a year.

If I seem angry and bitter, I have reason. I have seen "better-off" Mayans put large amounts of time and money into getting innocent relations released from these random incarcerations — one poor fellow twice.

That incident required an attorney and days and nights and wives and children weeping and calls to Ministers and the Chief of Police in Belmopan. And then, when enough pressure had been brought to bear, they dumped the poor sonofabitch out on the street at midnight in Punta Gorda, three-plus hours drive from where they'd picked him up at his home in Mango Creek, and someone has to borrow my car to go get him (seven hour round-trip in the middle of the night). Somehow he managed to convince someone to let him use their phone, otherwise...

The two others who got rounded up with him were less fortunate, not having relatives with phones, money, lawyers, or friends with cars. They survived their beatings and were freed after 72 hours.

You will no doubt be relieved to know that I have not heard of anything like this happening to anyone with a western passport. But if you're an intoxicated Mayan with no money — watch out!

End of Interlude.
———————————————————

Ah, but all of that rant was still in the future...

At the second checkpoint, the document-challenged officer and his boss eventually decided we weren't the fugitives they were looking for after all, and finally let us go.

I continued to drive until we were past Belmopan — and any more possible checkpoints — then gratefully handed the con over to Denise, took a Xanax, put the seat back, and tried very hard to think about absolutely nothing.

Denise steered us down the darkened Hummingbird Highway, through the north end of the Maya Mountains, and down the Stann Creek Valley to the junction with the Southern Highway just short of Dangriga Town, then a right turn and on southward through the darkened citrus orchards, past my village of Maya Centre without pause, and onward to the junction with the infamous Riverdale/Placencia road.

. . .

It was 8:30 PM, we still hadn't eaten, and it was looking tough for making dinner and a room in Placencia before everything closed. We swapped drivers again, as I am familiar with the road and had the best chance of getting us to dinner on time.

Now there are exactly two speeds at which the Placencia road can be driven: (1) really really slow and (2) really really fast.

The exact values in MPH depend on the road conditions of the moment, your wheel size, suspension, load (inertial mass), experience, skill, and daring. We had the suspension (4x McPherson Struts) and load (plenty) going for us, but not wheel size (13 inch); conditions were dry, surface about typically awful. The experience, skill, and daring go without saying. ;-)

We opted for Speed 2 — harder on the vehicle and driver, but left us with some chance of still getting dinner and a room.

Just under half-an-hour later (!), we parked in Placencia next to the walk-out to the Sea Spray and Da Tatch. (Only lost control of the vehicle once... ;-) We practically sprint toward the beach.

We are at our table at Da Tatch by 9:00 PM; the kitchen closes at 9:30. It's Garifuna Dance night, the drums are wild, everyone's there, the proprietors Jodie and Norman, friends in the band and dance troupe wave, gringos and locals dancing, drinking, hugs and handshakes all around; sand underfoot, moonlight on the sea and supper on the table: the fresh shrimp special, please.

Our usual lodging (the seaside cabana) is available and waiting for us. Our first sense of "home" since Seattle.

We made it. Villahermosa to Placencia in one day. Wow.

== End of Day 8, Mile 4385, Placencia, Stann Creek District, Belize ==

OVERALL TRIP STATS
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2003.10.16 - mile 0 - odo 77389 - start Day 1 - Vashon, WA
2003.10.23 - mile 4385 - odo 81774 - end Day 8 - Placencia, BZ

Approximate fuel economy: 32.2 MPG

Mildly unpleasant experiences: 3
Really unpleasant experiences: 3
Actual dangerous experiences: 0
————————————————
Daily average negative experiences: 0.75

Mildly pleasant experiences: way too many to factor
Really nice experiences: 17
Just incredibly cool experiences: 5
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Daily average positive experiences: >> 2.75

Overall trip rating: Awesome+

Clic here to see all Day 8 pix...