No More Driving In Mexico

We arrived at the border shortly after Mexican Customs opened their doors with the intention of having our passports stamped and checking our bikes out of the country. Since we had imported vehicles it was required for us to prove that we had not sold them while in the country and cancel our temporary import permits. If you remember, I lost my temporary import permit about a week earlier which resulted in “una problema pequeno” at the border. Fortunately I had the window sticker that corresponded to the permit and they were able to locate my file in their computer system. Unfortunately the guy who could resolve the situation was not going to be in for a few days. Apparently it’s no big deal to leave the country without cancelling the permit if you never want to import a vehicle into the country again. So I was faced with an illusion of choice; hang out in this crappy border town and wait to see if this guy comes back or drive out of the country and never plan on driving my own vehicle in Mexico again. When I was leaving the US everyone said “this is a once in a lifetime experience” so I took all of your good advice and headed for the border! Besides, home is almost 5000 miles away and an airplane seat is waaayy (even those teeny ones on the cheapo airlines) more comfortable than the plank I have been straddling for the last 2 weeks…

I expected to be held up at the Guatemalan border for hours. Central American countries are notorious for having border crossings that are a royal pain in the ass, taking as much as 7 hours to navigate the bribes and bureaucratic bullshit. A half our later and ten bucks lighter we were on our way. My butt is spared for another day…

Guatemala es muy bonita. Every time I enter a border town I can’t help but wonder why so many Americans visit Tijuana. Border towns always seem to be in complete chaos. If you want to get picpocketed, run over by a driver who thinks there are no rules, solicited nonstop by beggars, venders, or money changers, or die from asthma attack inducing smog, then by all means hang out in one of these zones of insanity. As soon as I see an opening in the crowded streets I wind through the gears as fast as possible looking for the welcoming “Feliz Viaje” sign indicating that I’m leaving. As soon as I pass that beautiful sign the chaotic border society disappears and endless curves through impossibly steep mountain valleys begin carrying us up higher and higher to the highest point on the Interamerican highway (somewhere around 9000 feet).

Miles pass quickly in a country about the size North Carolina on our way to one of the country’s national treasures, Lago de Atitlan. Small huts and farms with terraced fields dot the impressively steep hillsides with only foot paths for access. Tarps line the rain gutters on the edges of the autopista covered with drying coffee beans, apparently taking advantage of the heat given off by the asphalt during the day. My romantic image of coffee beans drying on a plantation in a spectacular setting and then making their way to my favorite Seattle café will forever be changed. Next time you stop at the local Dunkin Donuts take a good look at the parking lot because those tasty beans may have come from a very similar location, oil stains, diesel soot, and all…oh and maybe a little donkey doo as well! That being said, the coffee con leche I’m now sipping is one of the best I have ever had!

Twenty five miles of wandering poorly maintained roads led us from the Autopista to our home for the next week, San Pedro la Laguna on the shore of Lago de Atitlan. The serpentine road slithered its way through a few tiny villages and then steeply up and over a mountain top. As I rolled over the crest I felt that same sensation I get when my ski tips hover for a split second on a mountain cornice, a momentary feeling of weightlessness combined with a hint of nausea; that nanosecond where the transition is so steep that you cannot see what is ahead except for the thousands of feet of air between you and the valley below. Breath escaped me as my mind began to comprehend both the extraordinarily steep road ahead and the fantastic splendor of Mother Earth’s creation before my eyes. Steep volcanic mountainsides cradled a perfect dark blue lake speckled with small cities. A deep blue sky with scattered puffs of fluffy cotton blanketed the dormant volcanic creators of this magnificent piece of art.

Hairpin, slower than first gear, turns led us into the well traveled but still somewhat culturally indigenous city of San Padro. After checking in at the spanish school, we headed to a nearby hotel for the afternoon and night. For the equivalent of $5 US each we had separate rooms and a shared porch with hammocks on the 4th floor of one of the tallest buildings. “Now this is what I’m talking about!” is all I could say to Jamal as I swung lazily in the hammock. My rear, neck, and back welcome that change. After one night in this place we will be living with separate families for the remainder of our stay.

This is also one of our first destinations that receives a fair bit of tourist traffic resulting in a corresponding change in culture. The eating establishments are designed for tourists and small souvenir stands purvey interesting handmade trinkets meant to catch the eye of the passing tourista. Women approach the tables at the eating establishments attempting to sell homemade breads and scarves to the diners. Just up the road in “el centro” a strong local market still exists once again indicating that the local traditions and ways of living are still strong even in this city experiencing the trickling flow of western commercial culture.

It is comforting yet discomforting to be around people that look like me once more. When there are few gringos around the locals approach with friendly curiosity rather than an agenda to sell us a hotel, tour, food, or some item that we can bring home to our families. Jamal has great difficulty with this cultural shift to extract as much money as possible from the different looking visitors, becoming slightly frustrated by the marketing techniques of the locals. He thinks, and I agree, that in some ways the culture begins to suffer under the influence of tourism and the impact of commercialism slowly oozing its way around the world. These pressures also seem to cause a corresponding increase in the petty crime rate, which I attribute somewhat to the huge discrepancy in wealth when people of greater means visit the homelands of people with no wealth by modern standards. For example, last night we were relieved of everything that was not removed or permanently attached to our bikes. The thieves absconded with a tarp, a couple cans of lube, a tire pressure gauge, and a broken bike pump; a reminder that even things that believe to have little value to us may have great value to others. I shrugged my shoulders and let it go. I am working hard to believe that all people, especially here, are surviving in the best way they know how. The salespeople on the streets are merely trying to survive or perhaps their understanding of what it means to survive has been altered by our influence. For me, thievery definitely crosses a moral line almost regardless of your need, but I won’t ever allow myself to lose respect for this place or its people because of the actions of a few misguided teens.

As one passing white guy said, “this is an easy place to get lost for a while”. With its rich natural and cultural beauty and the fact that you can live on 125 dollars a week I’m beginning to see what he means…

Thanks for reading

Love Jay