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June 3, 2013
Postcards from Nowhere: Peoria to Panama - Day 15: Tulum, Mexico to Orange Walk Town, Belize
Update: I am alive and well and resting quietly in D' Victoria Hotel in Orange Walk Town, Belize.
Monday June 3, 2013
Motorcycle Odometer (at start of day): 3,451
Motorcycle Odometer (at end of day): 3,663
Miles driven today: 212 miles
I wake up in the morning. My alarm clock goes off at something insane like 6:00 a.m. Someone told me I should shoot the sunrise. But it's raining and I'm like...yeah...that's not going to happen.
I turn it off and go back to sleep.
Into Belize
I wake up in Tulum, and it's still raining. It rained all night. Still raining now. No sign of letting up. I want to hang myself. Rain is among the many things that can ruin an otherwise beautiful motorcycle trip. I lay in bed, and read the book "A White House" by Thomas Jefferson Young. I brought it along with me on the trip, in case I ever found myself off the grid. I'm fairly close to that now. No internet service in my room. No cell coverage. I have to go into the atrium at Las Ranitas Hotel to get internet access.
So, eventually, I wander to the main atrium in a light rain. The hotel is stunning. You couldn't design a better hotel. It wouldn't be possible. There are no words. I am the only one here at the hotel. I'm fine with this. It suits me. I like my time alone. I'm comfortable being with myself. I've been alone for a long time. But I am good with this.
I sit and surf the internet and drink a CocaCola Light.
I need to get on my bike and start riding, or else I'll never make it to Panama. Somehow, I've got to find the courage to get on the bike in a light rain and start driving again It's so hard to move on. To leave this place. Tulum is decadent. It's the only place I ever saw anyone hitchhiking in Mexico. It's the only place I ever saw a single american/european tourist. It's the closest thing to civilization I've seen since I crossed into Mexico so long ago.
I have to get to Belize somehow. I've got to get out of this place. Been in Mexico for too long. I shouldn't have even come to the Yucatan. I could have easily crossed down to the Pacific and shortcut the Yucatan and now I'm wondering why I didn't do exactly that.
"You are staying for another night, sir?" the hotel clerk wants to know
"No. No. Gracias, amigo. Salida para Belize in diaz minutos."
"But sir, you don't have to run off. You should stay here, where it's dry."
"No. Gracias, amigo."
I'm so close to Belize though. I'm sure I could make it if I try. The rain lets up a bit, and I decide to make a run for the border. Toss all my things into my little C.C. Filson hand bag, and I'm rolling down Mexico 180 in a light rain down the Yucatan peninsula, in the state of Quintana Roo (Keen-TAHN-a Roo).
The road is fairly good and I drive for about 50 miles in a light rain, going between 90 and 100 mph. For clarification, there aren't a lot of other cars on the road. You only pass someone else every few minutes. So, it's not like I'm driving this fast in rush hour, or anything. The place is deserted.
I set my iPhone/GPS to take me to Chetumal, the last town in Mexico, because it won't let me put in a destination in Mexico, because that's international travel, and can't be accomplished, according to Google Maps.
But a friend I met at the Pemex station tells me to be sure to exit at Santa Elena, before I get to Chetumal, to get into Belize.
So, I'm rolling south, looking for my exit to Belize. Still in a light rain.
Now, instead of painting the skies with dark ominous clouds, my eyes are painting breaks in the clouds. Slowly, light comes into the clouds. The sky lightens. And I drive out of the rain.
Now, driving out of a rainstorm after driving in one for 60 miles is a miraculous thing. My cameras start to dry out. My jacket starts to dry slightly. I'm excited to get out of Mexico. To finally be moving on to the next country. I have to start putting up bigger miles if I'm ever going to make it to Panama. Panama seems so far away.
At some point, I see some vendors selling snacks on the side of the road. I stop and buy some salted, dried pumpkin seeds for 5 pesos. I get them to let me try a jar of something that looks like olives. But whatever it was has pits and was soaked in habanero juice.
"Muy picante," I choked. They all laughed, and I drove away still eating my pumpkin seeds, which were delicious.
I reach the exit for Belize, and take the exit. But then, the road forks, and I can't figure out which way to go. My GPS is programmed to take me to a city I'm not going to in Mexico, so it's no help. I have to use google translate to figure out which fork to take. And now, I'm rolling up to the border between Mexico and Belize, which is a river, as it turns out. (I believe it's called the Hondo River.)
Now, normally, I just roll through all of this stuff, and it's no problem. But now, the guy points at me, blows his whistle, and motions for me to pull over, which I do. Now, keep in mind, this is a well defended border crossing. There are soldier everywhere waving FAL rifles. This is not the border between Alaska and Canada. This is a well defended border crossing.
So, when he waves me over, I pull over, and now I start getting nervous. I figured they'd just wave me through, the same as they waved me in back in Matamoros. But no. Now, they tell me to stop, and I"m very confused about what's going on. I'm probably technically not supposed to be out of the country. I have a court date in Colorado on June 28th. And now, I've got the attention of the border patrol in Mexico, and I know damned good and well that there's nothing in my passport to indicate I'm in the country. Nor do I have any insurance. Or any of that nonsense.
I complain pretty loudly to everyone within earshot in broken Spanish that I don't understand what's going on, and what they want me to do. I'm technically in that no-man's land between Mexico and Belize, I think. Finally, a guy comes over, and I park my bike. He walks me back across the border into Mexico, and now I'm going to try to exit Mexico again. He walks me up to a window of a little shack. A man inside talks for some time into a cell phone. My escort hands the man my passport, and then disappears.
Now, I know I'm screwed. I'm on their radar now in a big way. He's talking on the phone, and I can see my passport there inside the window. In my mind's eye, I reach inside, grab the passport, run across the border, hop on the KTM and ride a wheelie across the bridge into Belize. But, then I think about all the military with their FAL rifles that they're just aching to shoot. They'd fill me full of holes before I went 10 feet. I resign myself to deal with this governmental bureaucrat.
I hate border patrol. Like...don't get me wrong. I hate the police. I detest any type of authority. Always have. But, no matter how you measure it, the border patrol agents are always the worst. They're the most horrific jackasses on the planet. They are royal jackasses, and they've proven it to me time and again all over the planet. If you like to fuck with people, you're going to LOVE being a border patrol agent. You can ruin people's lives. You can keep them from going home. All for your enjoyment.
So, finally, the guy gets off the phone...starts thumbing through my passport.
"Why isn't your passport stamped?"
"Because, when I entered the country at Matamoros, they just waived me through. You know how it is. I asked them if I needed to get it stamped, but they just waved me through. They were holding machine guns. I didn't want to argue with them."
"This is a very big problem. You realize that you are in the country illegally? You are breaking the law. This is a big problem."
At this point, he hands me my passport back.
"Well, maybe I'll just try to get into Belize and see what they say," I offer, glad to have my passport back in my hands.
"I'm afraid that I cannot let you go. You are breaking the law. You see. This is a big problem. Belize will not let you in without an Exit Stamp from Mexico."
"Aha..."
"Do you have the title to your bike?" he continues.
"Ah...yeah...I think so."
I root through my soaking wet suitcase. In it, wilted maps of Texas and Mexico.. Rotting clothes. A soggy copy of "A White House". A wet owner's manual for a 2010 KTM 990 Adventure. I root through an envelope and produce some documents. It's all that they gave me when I bought the bike. I'm not clear if anything in there would rise to the definition of a "title" or not. I just hand him all of this paperwork. The license plate is for a one-week long-ago-expired temporary tag issued by the State of Illinois. Needless to say, I don't have insurance on the bike. Not in the U.S. Not in Mexico. Not anywhere.
He looks at the paperwork very closely.
Slowly, it dawns on me how stupid I've been. Why is it that I felt like this trip was a good idea? This is why people don't travel. Because the goal of every government official along the way is to skull-fuck you. To royally screw you over at every conceivable opportunity. I'm pissed at myself for not demanding that they stamp my passport. The same thing happened when I drove into Tijuana. You'd think I'd learn, but no.
I imagine myself in a Mexican prison like something out of Midnight Express. Only I've got not one to come shove their breasts up against the glass for me. This is going to be a bad day.
"Possibly, I could give you an exit stamp. But there will be a fee for entering the country illegally, and staying over a week."
My ears perk up at the sound of "processing fee." Like...if you need a bribe...I'm all in.
"How much is the processing fee?"
"It would be forty dollars."
"Forty U.S. Dollars?" I choke.
"Yes."
Like, trust me, I've got a lot of problems. But money isn't one of them. I reach into my wallet and hand him two twenties.
"I will give you only an Exit Stamp, but this is all you will need to get into Belize."
And I'm like "Thank you very much for helping me."
Forty dollars? Whoohooo! That's like my Monday night bar tab!
So now, I walk back across the border. They whistle at me a few times, like a rancher herding sheep, to get me to walk down the right chute. But I walk cross the border back into no-man's land, in between Belize and Mexico, holding my passport above my head lest the army start firing at me with their FAL's.
Hop on the bike, and now roll across the river that forms the border between Mexico and Belize.
Now, I'm on the Belize side of the river, but I'm not sure where to go. There's a large casino. The post-apocalyptic ruins of what must have been a city at some point. I really don't know where to go though, so I stop and as someone for directions. And they tell me the border crossing is around the next bend.
Now, I follow the road around the bend, and now I see the border crossing into Belize. There's a bunch of signs that clearly say I'll have to go inside the building to clear immigration and customs, but I just ignore them and drive up to the border like I own the place. When it's my turn to pull forward, the guy starts interrogating me.
"Have you had your motorcycle fumigated?" he asks.
"What?"
"Has your bike been fumigated?" he repeats.
"I don't even know what that means," I reply. Like, I was thinking I'd like being in an English speaking country again, but now, they're so crazy I can't understand them at all, and part of me wishes I were back in Mexico where I wouldn't even understand them and I could just say "No comprendo."
But instead, I've got this guy here asking me if my bike has been fumigated and God as my witness I have no idea what he's talking about.
"Have you been inside yet," he asks.
I knew this was coming.
"Uh...no...not really...I stammer."
Turn around. Go inside. Clear Immigration and Customs. Then go back and get your bike fumigated at the green and white building.
So, I do a U-turn, park my bike, and go inside the building that the signs were very clear I'd have to go into in order to get into Belize. The signs I ignored because that's just how I roll.
Now, I'm in the building, and first I have to go through Immigration, of course. I show the guy my Exit Stamp from Mexico that cost me $40.
"Where are you traveling to?" he asks. I've learned to say "Panama", as this is my final destination. And they always try to trick you into changing your story. If you start by saying "I'm going to Panama," then you're much better off. They understand you're just passing through, and they leave it alone. Otherwise, they want to know what you're going to be doing in their country.
"I'm driving to Panama," I offer.
"Do you have insurance for Belize?" he asks.
"Oh yeah. Sure. I've got that," I lie.
"You're going to Guatemala?" he asks.
I assume he's trying to trick me into changing my story. I'm not falling for that one.
"No. I'm going to Panama," I repeat.
"But when you leave Belize, you will go into Guatemala," he explains.
"Yes. And after that, Honduras, Nicaragua, Costa Rica, and Panama," I reply. Like...I know my geography. And you're not going to trick me into changing my story. These people love to rake you over the coals if you change your story. That's a bad thing.
Eventually, he stamps my passport with a "Transit" stamp, meaning I'm just in-transit through Belize, which is fine with me.
I have nothing to declare in customs, so they let me walk through, and when you exit the building you're in Belize. Now, I have to walk back into no-man's land to get on my bike. As I walk back across the border, I ask the guy..."Now...where is it I have to go to get my bike fumigated?"
At the green and white building. It's about a hundred yards back.
So, now I climb on my bike in no-man's land, between Belize and Mexico, and drive back to the little green and white building. There are 2 or 3 other vehicles there. But I'm still not sure what they're going to do. It doesn't seem to make sense that they would want to fumigate my bike. I'm having a hard time getting at what they want to do to my bike. And they're speaking English, mind you.
Walk into the little green-white office, and he's wrapping up with guy ahead of me.
Finally, it's my turn and now he wants to know what my license plate number is.
"I have no idea. Hang on," and I walk outside and take a photo of my license plate. Surprisingly, it matches what was on the paperwork they handed me from the KTM store back in Moline, Illinois.
I bring the camera back inside, and show the guy my license plate number.
I'm starting to think now that they're going to "smog" my motorcycle, meaning to check the emissions. They do that in Colorado and California, as well as many other states I'm sure. That must be what they mean by "fumigate".
He tells me how much I owe him, and I'm like...."In what?" I mean...I have no idea what the local currency is. No clue. I've been all dialed into pesos for so long...now that I'm in another country, I have no clue what the currency is any more. I have some pesos left, so I hand him 40 pesos and that's enough, apparently.
"You are all good now. As good as new," he explains. But I'm not sure what he means by this. I'm not clear that anything's been done to my bike at all. Maybe it's all just a scam to collect revenue, and they didn't do anything to my bike. I'm not sure. I walk outside, and my bike is there. But now, I want to know if they did anything, so I go back inside and ask him.
"Did they do anything to my bike?" I ask him.
"Yes. They spray the wheels with this pesticide. To keep pests from coming in from Mexico. When you come back, they will spray your wheels when you go back into Mexico."
So, finally I understand what they're doing. They have a little hand-sprayer and the guy sprayed some DDT on my wheels. I'm not clear what, if anything, this accomplishes, but they did do something, at least.
So, the guy hands me a little slip of paper, and now I rush proudly back to my border patrol agent. I present him with my stamped passport, and my fumigation paperwork.
He's all smiles, and waves me on through.
I'm still not sure what the local currency is. I mean, I'm sure that I'm not the person to write a travel guide, or anything, but it seems to be working for me, albeit in a somewhat haphazard manner.
Now, I'm rolling through Belize and, I'm truly shocked. Like...Belize is the answer to the questions "What could possibly be worse than Mexico?"
Belize is so poor there just aren't words. Burned out cars parked in fields. Rusting tin roof houses collapsing all over the countryside. This must be what Mississippi looked like back in the '30's, before the New Deal. Before the war. Before the WPA and the NRA.
I didn't think it would be possible for a country to have more stray mongrels than Mexico. I was wrong. Belize has twice as many stray dogs. Even the land is managed poorly. In Mexico, the countryside was plowed, planted, and harvested.
In Belize, the land is disheveled, burned, scarred, and unattended. It's hard to imagine how poor these people are. Words can't do it justice.
I stop at a small convenience store in the first town I come into. It looks like Hiroshima in September of '45. I talk to some locals, and they warn me not to go through Belize City.
"There's young blacks there. It isn't safe.," they explain. "You should go through Belmopan instead," they offer. "It's very dangerous in Belize City. Here, you have no problem. But that city is very dangerous."
This is the advice you want to hear. These people ought to know. So, I'm like..."Aha...skip Belize City. Got it. Thanks."
"Why does it rain so much here? Is it the rainy season?" I ask. Like, anyone with a brain would have checked this before they drove down on a dirt bike. Not yours truly.
"Yes. The rainy season has just started."
"Perfect."
So, I roll south for a bit, and it's getting late in the day. I decide to stop at Orange Walk Town for the night. Not on the coast, but it's time to stop. Getting close to dark, and the next big town is Belize City, which I was told to avoid. Plus, if I detour and go to Belmopan, then that's even further still.
I'll spend the night here in this Orange Walk Town place. Ask some guy at a gas station where to stay in a hotel with internet service. He directs me to the D' Victorian Hotel across town. I pull in, and get a room for the night.
Now, looking for a place to eat dinner. Haven't eaten all day. Ask the lady at the hotel where to eat.
"Mostly, Chinese places here, of course. Try Hong Kong or Rosie's," she suggests.
I ignore that absurd assertion that most of the restaurants in Orange Walk Town, Belize are "mostly Chinese." It's just been such a bizarre day that stuff like this doesn't faze me at this point.
I go driving around without a helmet because, this is what I do at night. I check into a hotel, then ride around town without a helmet. In Mexico, anything goes, and this is not an issue.
Walk into Hong Kong restaurant, and it's just sweltering. No A/C. No internet. No dice. I'm not eating here. Not a chance.
Go driving down further, looking for another place, and Some little Boy Scout looking fellow with a purse blows a whistle and pulls me over as I'm riding by. I stop, and he tells me there's a helmet law.
"Oh really? I didn't know. There's not a helmet law in Mexico."
"Yes there is," he counters.
"Oh. Maybe. I dunno. It's not enforced then."
"Can I see your driver's license?"
So, I hand him my driver's license. I don't have insurance. No helmet. But at least, this time, I'm in the country legally. So I have that going for me.
He just hands me the license back and tells me to go find a helmet and start wearing it. I immediately return to the hotel and get my helmet. Go back and eat at Rosie's, a Chinese restaurant, with no internet, but at least it has air conditioning.
Now, a guy comes in off the street wearing a guitar over his back. Tells us he's from Peru or something, and starts playing his acoustic guitar in the restaurant. In the corner, a television shows women wrestling in a ring in what looks like bathing suits.
I eat a bowl of shrimp fried rice with a CocaCola Light, and get ready to leave. The guy comes around wants a tip. I tell him I can't help him and go home for a shower, do my laundry, and climb in bed.
The things I notice about Belize that are different than Mexico is that, I don't see any street vendors any more like I did in Mexico. I miss them. Also, no Pemex stations, but they do still do the Red = Premium, Green = Regular coloration scheme for the gas pumps. There's more dogs here, if you can believe it. The signs are in English, which is nice. They have a different currency. The Belize dollar is worth exactly 1/2 of a U.S. Dollar.
But they'll take pretty much any currency you offer. They'll take U.S. Dollars, pesos, Belizean dollars. They don't care. They're desperate. They'll take anything. But they always give you change in Belizean dollars. They money is essentially worthless. It folds up like tissue paper. It's a joke.
Posted by Rob Kiser on June 3, 2013 at 10:44 PM
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