Crossing Over
Since we are living in Guatemala on tourist visas, we are required to leave the country every 90 days. Fortunately, for a small price, you can buy an additional 90 days, extending your stay to six months before getting out of dodge. With our six month limit bearing down hard last week, and plane ticket prices only going up, we were forced to exit the country by whatever means available, which turned out to be the car and the nearest border. El Salvador, the closest border crossing to Guatemala City, has been the traditional point of exit and re-entry for most “tourists” like us, but having recently grown wise to this border misuse, declared open borders with Guatemala last month, and consequently no longer stamp tourist passports.
With El Salvador out, there are three alternatives by car: Mexico to the north, Belize to the northeast, and Honduras to the south. We decided on Mexico primarily because of the gorgeous Caraterra 1 highway to Escuintla (our usual route to the Pacific) which would take us a third of the way there. The road from Escuintla to Tecun Uman squirms north almost parellel to the coast, eventually works its way down to two good lanes, with much truck passing, lots of rain, and enjoys the greenest farmland imaginable.
We reached the border well after dark without incident, but had to circle the tight and flooded streets of Tecun Uman several times before finding the crossing: a narrow, fenced drive in the heart of the city, with no sign or outward indication of what it was. With some help from a Guatemalan named Eric, dressed in khaki shorts and a sleeveless black concert tee, who spoke a little English, we made it through without too much trouble. I could not tell at first if Eric worked at the border crossing, or just hung around because he could speak a little English.
At the migracion building, we changed our quetzales for pesos at a 1.3 rate (not too good), filled out forms, and made up a story about visiting Tapachula for the weekend, etc. Our real intention was to spend the night and beat it back over the border first thing next morning.
Eric offered to help us on the Mexican side, and take us to a nice hotel. Worn out from the nearly five-hour drive, not to mention having no idea what we would find on our own in the dark of Hidalgo, I agreed.
Hidalgo turned out to be anything but dark. The most noticeable difference between Mexico and Guatemala upon crossing the border is the street lights. Hidalgo was lit up like an evening soccer match, only there wasn’t a soul on the street. Wet buildings, puddles, pot holes, and tons of street lights in every direction, but no people. I was a little unsettled by this since it wasn’t yet 8:00 p.m.
First off, we had to pay 50 pesos to have our car fumigated. Next, more paperwork, which to complete I had to borrow a pen from the man behind the counter, which was one of these long and narrow chest-high deals with a tiny slit for limited communication and form passing. When I finished, because the slit was so tiny, and because the man’s desk was so low behind it, I had to reach my arm in to the elbow and gently drop the pen onto the his desk. This turned out to be the biggest mistake of the night. The man at the desk, let me add, was dressed in his shirtsleeves with several gold variety necklaces around his smoky neck, and could have looked natural at Tony Saprano’s card table. Behind him was a goon in a blue security uniform. At once, after dropping my pen onto the desk, they both began barking at me about something. When the look on my face told them I didn’t understand what the hell they were taking about, the goon proceeded to re-enact what they mistook for rudeness on my part (dropping the pen) by picking up my passport and flipping it carelessly onto the other man’s lap. I got the point, and fighting every instinct to tell them what I really thought, I leaned in close to the window slit and said los siento (I’m sorry) a couple of times. It was enough, fortunately, to get us through.
Three or four blocks from the border, we pulled up to Hotel Marzari, one of the only buildings still lit up and open for business. We climbed out, paid the gringo rate of 300 pesos (twice at least what the room was worth), and clamored into our room. The textured walls were the color of Barbie skin, and the two single beds were mounted to the same headboard with barely space to move between them. Mallory looked the most confused. A trip to Mexico, to her, meant something quite different from what it meant to us.
Even though the restaurant was closed, I got the owner to send someone out for a couple of beers—Modelo Especial, which is as bad is it gets, but like my Dad always says, “I’ve never had a bad beer.” It’s true, once you get into it, it’s not so bad. So we played cards and drank beer and watched the lizards climb the skin colored walls. It was to be the highlight of the trip.
Next morning we packed and got out as quickly as possible. There was nobody to flag us down on the Mexican side, so we crossed the bridge again and headed back into Guatemala. This time we were stopped at a different check point, but taken into the migracion building once again. An old man, in the same vocation as Eric, was there to see me through for a small tip. And a good thing too, since the migracion man wasn’t going to let us through because we hadn’t stayed for three nights in Mexico, which is necessary for these crossings to go smoothly. But I wasn’t about to turn around and head back into Hidalgo. I claimed the stomach flu, but that wasn’t well-received. In the end, 150 pesos did the trick.
It felt surprisingly good to be on Guatemalan soil again, even though we had only been gone for less than a day. The return drive was equally beautiful. We stopped off in Xocomil where Guatemala’s largest water park is built, and which happens to be the country’s number one tourist attraction, and after waiting in line twenty minutes, discovered on this particular morning of all mornings they didn’t accept credit cards.
Yes, a predictable welcome back to Guatemalan life, with 90 days more in our pocket.
With El Salvador out, there are three alternatives by car: Mexico to the north, Belize to the northeast, and Honduras to the south. We decided on Mexico primarily because of the gorgeous Caraterra 1 highway to Escuintla (our usual route to the Pacific) which would take us a third of the way there. The road from Escuintla to Tecun Uman squirms north almost parellel to the coast, eventually works its way down to two good lanes, with much truck passing, lots of rain, and enjoys the greenest farmland imaginable.
We reached the border well after dark without incident, but had to circle the tight and flooded streets of Tecun Uman several times before finding the crossing: a narrow, fenced drive in the heart of the city, with no sign or outward indication of what it was. With some help from a Guatemalan named Eric, dressed in khaki shorts and a sleeveless black concert tee, who spoke a little English, we made it through without too much trouble. I could not tell at first if Eric worked at the border crossing, or just hung around because he could speak a little English.
At the migracion building, we changed our quetzales for pesos at a 1.3 rate (not too good), filled out forms, and made up a story about visiting Tapachula for the weekend, etc. Our real intention was to spend the night and beat it back over the border first thing next morning.
Eric offered to help us on the Mexican side, and take us to a nice hotel. Worn out from the nearly five-hour drive, not to mention having no idea what we would find on our own in the dark of Hidalgo, I agreed.
Hidalgo turned out to be anything but dark. The most noticeable difference between Mexico and Guatemala upon crossing the border is the street lights. Hidalgo was lit up like an evening soccer match, only there wasn’t a soul on the street. Wet buildings, puddles, pot holes, and tons of street lights in every direction, but no people. I was a little unsettled by this since it wasn’t yet 8:00 p.m.
First off, we had to pay 50 pesos to have our car fumigated. Next, more paperwork, which to complete I had to borrow a pen from the man behind the counter, which was one of these long and narrow chest-high deals with a tiny slit for limited communication and form passing. When I finished, because the slit was so tiny, and because the man’s desk was so low behind it, I had to reach my arm in to the elbow and gently drop the pen onto the his desk. This turned out to be the biggest mistake of the night. The man at the desk, let me add, was dressed in his shirtsleeves with several gold variety necklaces around his smoky neck, and could have looked natural at Tony Saprano’s card table. Behind him was a goon in a blue security uniform. At once, after dropping my pen onto the desk, they both began barking at me about something. When the look on my face told them I didn’t understand what the hell they were taking about, the goon proceeded to re-enact what they mistook for rudeness on my part (dropping the pen) by picking up my passport and flipping it carelessly onto the other man’s lap. I got the point, and fighting every instinct to tell them what I really thought, I leaned in close to the window slit and said los siento (I’m sorry) a couple of times. It was enough, fortunately, to get us through.
Three or four blocks from the border, we pulled up to Hotel Marzari, one of the only buildings still lit up and open for business. We climbed out, paid the gringo rate of 300 pesos (twice at least what the room was worth), and clamored into our room. The textured walls were the color of Barbie skin, and the two single beds were mounted to the same headboard with barely space to move between them. Mallory looked the most confused. A trip to Mexico, to her, meant something quite different from what it meant to us.
Even though the restaurant was closed, I got the owner to send someone out for a couple of beers—Modelo Especial, which is as bad is it gets, but like my Dad always says, “I’ve never had a bad beer.” It’s true, once you get into it, it’s not so bad. So we played cards and drank beer and watched the lizards climb the skin colored walls. It was to be the highlight of the trip.
Next morning we packed and got out as quickly as possible. There was nobody to flag us down on the Mexican side, so we crossed the bridge again and headed back into Guatemala. This time we were stopped at a different check point, but taken into the migracion building once again. An old man, in the same vocation as Eric, was there to see me through for a small tip. And a good thing too, since the migracion man wasn’t going to let us through because we hadn’t stayed for three nights in Mexico, which is necessary for these crossings to go smoothly. But I wasn’t about to turn around and head back into Hidalgo. I claimed the stomach flu, but that wasn’t well-received. In the end, 150 pesos did the trick.
It felt surprisingly good to be on Guatemalan soil again, even though we had only been gone for less than a day. The return drive was equally beautiful. We stopped off in Xocomil where Guatemala’s largest water park is built, and which happens to be the country’s number one tourist attraction, and after waiting in line twenty minutes, discovered on this particular morning of all mornings they didn’t accept credit cards.
Yes, a predictable welcome back to Guatemalan life, with 90 days more in our pocket.
posted by Daniel Todd at 8:01 AM
1 Comments:
Fasting. Or slobbing around in the wet grass back home.
Hey, what's your email address, I think I lost it. You're in Michigan! All those brains and only now, into your 30s, you've migrated to the greatest state north of the maxon dixon? Write me: dtodd@smartishpace.com.
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