Tuesday, June 27th, 1995

Day 3: McAllen, Texas to Tampico, Mexico

Preparing to enter Mexico from McAllen

We wake at 7:00 with the intention of making the border by 8:00.  We stop to exchange money before crossing.  The first place we stop, a little hole-in-the-wall joint, features attendants who speak only Spanish.  They won't change traveler's checks, so we move on to a larger place set up like a drive-through bank teller.  The exchange rate is 6 new pesos (equal to 600 old pesos) to one dollar.  We drive away with N$600 bulging our wallets.

We gas up, filling two roof tanks with what we expect will prove to be superior U.S. gasoline.  8:30 a.m. and we arrive at the border, papers in hand.  We pay the nominal bridge fee on the U.S. side and cross into Mexico.  Immediately the road surface changes from unnoticeably smooth blacktop to rutted, cracked-up concrete that forces us to swerve around like drunken fools.

The Mexican official looks concerned when we tell him that we're going on to Belize.  He says, in broken English, that we must enter at Matamoros.  He and his fellow customs agents perform a very brief search of the truck.

While they're searching, a Mexican gentlemen approaches with a friend.  He speaks reasonable English.  He asks where we're headed, then confirms what the customs agent has told us.  We can't enter here, but he can help us.  He and his brother can handle all our paperwork, and get us on our way to Belize.  We say thanks, but no, and drive on into Laredo.  I am distressed that we don't have tourist cards, an importation permit for the truck, etc.  We're in Mexico, but not legally.  We park on the street just opposite the customs building and gather our papers- trying to regroup and figure out what's going on.

The guy approaches again.  He promises that he and his brother can "fix everything up.  All legal."  His name is Tino, and he wants us to go with him to Indio.  Tells us we must go to Indio.  They can help us.  Fix it all up.  Everything legal.  Have to go to Indio.

"Where's Indio?" I ask.
"Ahh...about 80 km."

No thanks.  While crossing back on the bridge, a woman refuses to allow a young Mexican man to wash her windshield.  He continues anyway, so she turns on her windshield wipers and throws the rag from his hand.  He laughs to himself.  Possibly at the woman's persistence, perhaps at his own.

Customs on the U.S. side confirms that we must cross through Los Indios.  The agent is very helpful.  We aren't really searched because we did little more than turn around in Mexico, and their computers confirm this.

The drive to Los Indios takes about 45 minutes.  There is a knot in my stomach as I question whether I am horribly unprepared for this trip.  How could I have not known that we couldn't enter in McAllen?  What other unpleasant surprises await us?

The Los Indios border complex is very new, and meticulously landscaped.  It is located in a wide open field, quite in contrast to the crossing at McAllen which was sandwiched between two dirty border towns.  I stop the truck at the entrance so that I can organize our papers for what I expect will be a quick crossing.  To our right, a single-lane paved road loops around in a 1/2 mile semi-circle to join back with the road I'm on, which leads straight to the border gates.  Parked along both sides of this loop road, in two stagnant rows, are hundreds of old cars and trucks.  Trucks carrying cars, towing cars.  Little pickups towing pickups, towing cars.  Cars towing cars.  And interspersed through this nightmare of hot metal are hundreds of Mexicans, seeking relief from the scorching rays of the now mid-day sun.  The people are lying in, on, and under the vehicles.  We feel for them, and speculate as to why they are there.

As we sit in the truck arranging our documents, a border official drives a golf cart out to us from the guard booth 100 yards away, and asks me where we're headed.  I tell the guy we're going to Belize.

"Get in line" he says.

I simply can not believe that we must sit here in order to cross the border.  I pull onto the loop road but am somehow unable to stop the truck at the end of the line.  We drive down the middle of the road, between all of the trucks and cars parked along either side, and look at the people.  Images I see here will stay with me for a long time.  Men are rolling around on the dusty ground, wrestling with wrenches in the 90 degree heat.  I see a grandmother and her grandchildren sitting on a massive pile of clothing in the back of a minivan.  She has somehow shared the infinite patience of the elderly with those children, and they all stare at us with hollow eyes as we roll quietly by.  I drive right past the front of the line and turn the truck north out of the complex.

We drive 20 minutes to the border crossing at Brownsville/ Matamoros, which I believe is the largest crossing in southern Texas.  If we can get in anywhere, I reason, it's here.  The knot in my stomach grows.

The town stinks.  Brownsville, Texas is just plain ugly.  We finally locate the crossing station amid a nightmarish traffic jam.  A customs official stands to the side looking for people carrying guns across.  When we tell him we're headed for Belize, he assures us that yes, Los Indios is the only place for us.  When we describe the unmoving line of trucks, he says that those people are permanently importing the vehicles they are driving or towing, and customs must inspect them thoroughly.  Hence the long wait.  We may be able to talk our way to the front of the line "if there is someone cool working."

It is 12 noon when we arrive back at Los Indios.  We park right at the end of the line and begin the 1/4 mile walk to the guard station with our papers.  It must be 100 degrees out in the sun.

We are approached by a friendly, English-speaking Mistizo man.  We explain that we are just simple tourists, that we have no intentions of selling the vehicle in Mexico or elsewhere, and that we really would like to avoid spending all day, possibly longer, in that line.

"How long have you had the truck?"
"Just under a year."
"Got any electronics equipment, stereos, VCR's?"
"Only the radio in the dashboard."
"...All right, park it right here," he says, motioning towards the front of the line.  Thank you God.

Eventually we are called into customs.  Sean eats cold ravioli while the officials inspect the truck, looking for salable merchandise, not drugs.  They are impressed by our bed setup.  The police officer there motions towards the bed and jokes that they must seize it, put it in his cruiser.  Sean and I are upset until we realize he's not gesturing towards our two remaining Lone Star beers.

We cross the border four hours after our first attempt.  Another quick electronics inspection and we're into immigration.  We spend the next two hours wandering back and forth between three customs buildings.  We are now in exclusively Spanish-speaking country.  The people crossing here are either Mexican or Central American. The only other English-speaking people we see are two fair-skinned guys wearing shorts who tell us where we can copy some documents.

At one point, we are talking (gesturing) to a customs official, who keeps asking: "Donde esta puedo carre?" or something like that.  He simultaneously makes this strange gesture like he's scratching his thumb, or maybe peeling carrots.  We are absolutely clueless.  I run back to the truck for the Berlitz phrase book.

By the time I return Sean has an English-speaking official filling out our forms.  The guys name is Juan, and he's great.  He walks us through everything.  We tip him N$10  pesos.  I ask if we need tourist cards.  "No, you have money.  You don't need anything else.  In Mexico, you can live like a king if you have money!"  We love Juan.

We never figured out what the thumb scratch meant, or if their was any significance at all.  Maybe he just had a minor skin irritation.  Around 2:30 the officials follow us out to the truck, give it a quick look-over, and attach an import sticker to the windshield.  They wish us luck on our journey.  We leave the border elated to finally be in Mexico.  And legally no less.

Billy Bragg cranks from the stereo as we drive east towards Matamoros, where we will catch 180S to take us all the way around the Gulf.  Driving is immediately different from in the States.  Huge, brightly painted trucks dominate the traffic.  Typically Detroit iron, they are evidently old, worn-out trucks from the States.  They barrel down the straight, flat, 100 kph roads doing about 80.  That's plenty fast enough for me when they pass on the two-lane shoulderless highway.  We keep getting passed by brand-new American-built cars and pickups bearing D.F.Mex (Distrito Federal de Mexico) plates and doing at least 120 kph.  "We're not in Kansas anymore!" I yell over the wind.  Driving is particularly insane in the cities as we discover upon entering Matamoros.  There are no lines on the roads.  Vast free-for-alls of macadam pose as intersections.  Little green Nissan Sentra taxies dart around us, incessantly tooting their horns as they invent new traffic patterns.  Pedro thrives on the hectic pace and cratered road surfaces.  We blast through poor sections of road that send the little taxis scrambling for smoother pavement, and we weave in and out of the big, cumbersome freight trucks.

We quickly pick up on a few of the nuances of Mexican driving. A fade to the right and/or a left turn signal without braking means "pass me."  Alternately, this could mean the person is turning left but, like approximately 50% of all Mexican vehicles, has no functioning brake lights.  Also, the turn signal does not necessarily mean that it is safe to pass- only that you have his blessing.  Even though the truck driver in front of you can see what lies ahead far better than you, don't assume that his blinker is indicative of clear road around that blind corner.  Prudence must be employed when deciding whether or not to pass.

Another ubiquitous feature of the Mexican highway system are the speed bumps.  There are at least three big ones in even the very smallest of towns.  These are not your ordinary American-style speed bumps, the kind that cause you to slow to 10 mph to avoid an unpleasant bouncing.  In Mexico, triangular yellow signs that read "Topes" or feature a picture of three big humps means you'd better stand on your brakes because in a few seconds you're going to be driving over a small hill of concrete which could actually dislodge your suspension from under your car.  Some of them are pieces of railroad track laid across the road and encased in asphalt, others are concrete bulges a foot high and up to twenty feet long.  Other have ridges molded into them that vibrate the truck like mad.  More than once we see a car dragging itself across a mound of concrete, its exhaust system being ground to pieces beneath it.

We pick up 180S after barreling through the outskirts of Matamoros.  I practically hang out of the window as we drive through the small city, trying to take in as much of our surroundings as I possibly can.  We come to a check-point just south of the city.  This must be where they check your papers to make sure you have arranged for a longer stay in Mexico than your typical border-dash.  A guy comes to my window and mutters something in Spanish.  I don't pick it up.  "Habla usted Ingles?" I ask.  The guy replies in Spanish.  Something like: "You're in Mexico now, we speak Spanish in Mexico." Then in English: "Where are you going?"

"Belice."

The agent sees our passports and visas, seems satisfied and waves us through.  We drive on.  The beauty of Mexico continues to impress.  But the roads defy description.  We hurtle along at 100 kph, the truck pitching and bucking like a roller coaster.  The road surface has been spot-patched so many times that sometimes I literally can not make out the original surface underneath.  The patches are little humps of macadam that often give the impression that we are traveling over old cobblestone streets at high speed.  Occasionally we stick a wheel into a 5-inch deep pothole.  Generally our velocity is such that the tire drops into the hole only a bit before crashing into the far side, but that isn't always the case.  Elsewhere, settling roadbed has left a foot-deep depression to the outside of the road, causing the truck to tilt drastically, seemingly balanced on two wheels for a moment before being thrown back upright.

As we make our way south, the land stops looking like the dry, scrubby desert of southern Texas.  The lush pastures and rolling, forested hills surprise us a bit.  Mexico's beauty is surpassing my wildest imaginings.  Mile after mile of vibrant colors, in the heavens as well as on the ground.  Beautiful vistas around every turn of the highway.  Dark, foreboding clouds seem to roll up to meet us but disappear just as we reach them.  We marvel at the straw huts.

Driving in Mexico is basically a question of getting from behind one truck to behind another.  We see some incredible displays of either balls or stupidity as we enter the low rolling grasslands of the Central Gulf region.  Cars pulling cars pass huge double-trailer trucks at 80 kph on blind hills and blind corners.  Oncoming trucks don't slow down, and we begin to understand why virtually all of them have huge steel grill guards, with structural I-beam uprights and crossbars of 3-inch steel pipe.

We make our first gas stop.  All of the gas stations in Mexico are federally owned and basically identical; every one is a Pemex.  Prices are the same nationwide.  While we are there, a liter of gasoline costs N$2.0 to N$2.1.  Sean first pulls into the diesel spaces accidentally.  Before the tires even stop rolling, our windshield is being washed (we give the guy N$5) and a man is leaning in my window, emphatic that I buy some Chiclets or peanut brittle from him.  I refuse.  Sean gets the same.  We pull away from the crowd and drive around to the gasoline pumps.  We have moved no more than 30 feet, and again people selling candy out of cardboard boxes accost us.  Mexicans have no compunctions about sticking stuff right in your face, and it can be a bit unnerving.  I attend to the gas being pumped while Sean entertains a Mexican women and her son with his questionable Spanish.  I am kept busy refusing Chiclets and peanut brittle.  Standing behind this vendor is another man with a box full of different candy.  I'm not sure I can take this every time we stop for gas.

I freak when I see that the dial, when the pumping is all done, reads N$683.  That's over US$100!  I've heard stories about people getting ripped off at gas stations, I've read the warnings.  But I watched them turn the dial to zero and fill my tank.  How did they do it?  Are these vendors just here to distract me?  Is it a big conspiracy?

I stall for a moment, trying to get Sean's attention away from the old woman, who is crooning over his blue eyes.  I'm sweating pretty badly while the Mexican gas attendants swarm around me, trying to tell me something while I pretend to be searching through my wallet.  What are we going to do?  At this rate, all we can afford is the gas to get back to the U.S.  I had no idea gas prices had risen so much.  I look more closely at the pump.  One of the digital readouts says N$2.0 per liter.  We got just over 34 liters.

I then realize that the digital machine has no decimal point.  It's actually reading N$68.3, or about US$11.  Ahh...no problem.

Sean has the young boy wash the headlights and driving lights for 1 peso, and buys two packs of Chiclets and two bags of Guatemalan nuts called Katos.  They turn out to be excellent.

We're on the road again with a full tank.  We pass more breathtaking scenery and take terrible pictures at 100 kph.  Another checkpoint.  This time the guard speaks no English at all.  He stops us, starts thumping all along the side of the truck, and asks us something.  We finally figure out that he's asking us where we're going.  "Belice."  There are at least five more agents sitting there in the shade of the small concrete building.  They serve no apparent function.  Occasionally one looks over his shoulder and appraises us.  "O.K.," he says finally, waving us on.

An hour down the road, we pull off to get some water out of the back.  We take pictures of an old man driving a cart pulled by burrows, fill our canteens and switch drivers.  I feel good driving.  The roads are bad, but feel better now that I'm in the driver's seat.  I'm concerned about the dynamic loads on the fiberglass cap over the truck bed.  We've got 150 lbs of gasoline and other spare stuff on the rack.  While sleeping in the back during our drive through the states, I noticed that the top is creaking loudly around the window seals.  These horrible roads will certainly make it worse.  Sean wants to continue driving through the night, but I think with the truck traffic and the condition of the roads it's a bad idea.

As the sun sets we stop for gas just north of Tampico.  We learn in our Sanborn's Travelog that all of the attendants at this particular Pemex are women.  Apparently the owner feels they are more trustworthy than your average Mexican male.  Sean tends to the gas and hits on the attendant while I inspect the truck, wash the windshield, and check the roof-mounted gas tanks.  The sharp edges of the rack surface and the stainless steel bolts holding it together are wearing away at the plastic tanks.  I cover the sharp spots as best I can with layers of duct tape.

I have heard not to drive at night from people who have traveled through Mexico, and every travel book I have preaches against it.  But we reasoned that with big new tires to absorb the bumps, high-powered driving lights on the front, and a grill guard to deflect the impact of the occasional stray animal, we should be well-equipped to deal with whatever might cross our path.

We couldn't be more wrong.  There is a surprising amount of traffic as we enter the small city of Tampico.  Cars and trucks missing front and rear lights, no lines on the roads, poor traffic signs and inoperative traffic signals all combine to make this the most harrowing driving I have ever experienced.  Sean and I take Dan Sanborn's advice and decide to stay the night in the parking lot of the Auropuerto Tampico which, according to Dan, features "excellent security."  Parking here costs us N$30.  We cook pasta again and fix a hole that has appeared in one of our water tanks.  By 10:15 I'm sitting under a huge street light in the middle of the parking lot writing in my journal.  Since we arrived, one plane has taken off.

About 56 hours ago Sean picked me up at the Atlanta airport.  We are amazed at what has transpired, and have trouble imagining that the trip can keep this pace much longer.

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