We woke early and made our way deeper into Mayan lands, stopping for breakfast at a lovely little restaurant with a stunning view of a valley bursting with cornstalks. One gets the sense that all you’d have to do is throw a handful of seeds, and the next day, your harvest would be ready to pluck from the earth. The freshness and natural richness of the coffee, tortillas, and huevos rancheros cannot be described, they must be tasted. I rolled up some of the last of my good organic tobacco and watched the smoke rise into the humid air.
Once you near the famed waterfalls approaching the pyramids, children pull ribbons of festive flags in front of your car- like a Christmas blockade- then rush you, shoving snacks for sale into your windows. It’s both cute and somewhat frustrating. They are extremely persistent, placing their little bodies in your way for the sake of a few pesos. We shoved through more ‘roadblocks’ and made our way to the most famous of the waterfalls.
Agua Azul is aptly named. The color of the water is so strikingly blue as to seem otherworldly. I wondered if there had been some special plant addition to my coffee… but it is very real, and absolutely unadulterated. Restaurants and tourist stalls line the cement-and-stone walkway past the most-photographed and easily accessed of the falls, where tourists swim and take selfies.
There is a suspension bridge, and we wobbled across it. I foolishly tried to shoot some (totally unusable) video and nearly lost my grip. Having survived that, some locals asked for a toll of 30 pesos. We obliged, and a 12-year-old kid by the name of Geronimo guided us down a long trail, across some fallen logs and hand-hewn steps, to some more remote falls with nobody around. There we swam, basking in awe at the power and purity of the water.
Geronimo was very interested in Ela’s camera, and studied her as she worked. He asked me quite a few questions about making movies, and told me that he had just started learning English. It appears that he has ambitions to leave that paradise. I’d just as easily trade places with him. I asked him if he swam in the water very often. He shrugged and said ‘tanto.‘ Then I asked him if there were a lot of snakes here in the jungle. He smiled and said ‘tanto.‘ Funny kid.
When we made our way back to the car we had a rather frustrating realization. Our money is running out quickly. We had hoped to spend some more time in that paradise, but we have still so many miles, and several borders and unknowns ahead of us. Not to mention – two movies to make. We reluctantly decided to turn back, before spending the day (which we knew would turn into several) at the ruins of Palenque, and head toward the Guatemalan border.
We stayed another night in a cheap room, woke up early, and bade farewell to Mexico, stopping for breakfast at a friendly little commune. Thus fortified, we headed to the border, where I was expecting to see a strong military presence, having read the recent news of a Mexican troop surge there. However, there was not a soldier in sight. We returned our travel passes, got our refund for the car permit, and entered into Guatemala. For one hour.
After paying for our vehicle to be fumigated, getting our passports stamped, and changing our Pesos for Quetzales, we were stymied by a very stern and (I think) unhappy customs agent. After viewing our vehicle documentation (of which we have much), he refused to grant us access without seeing our official title of ownership. I explained to him that we bought the car shortly before leaving the states, and that the title is still being processed, but no amount of pleading or explanation or subtle offerings of a bribe would budge the man. Original contract of sale? Insurance? Mexican registration? U.S. temporary registration? Not enough for Guatemala. Sorry, no, you can’t speak to the boss. He’s busy. You can pass through on foot if you like. But you’ll have to leave the car here.
Bye bye gringos, go back to Mexico.
Flustered and a bit angry, we crossed back across the border and explained our situation to the Mexican officials, who laughed and shrugged and stamped our passports again. We have one week, without the ability to leave the border zone, to obtain the title from the U.S. After that, we’ll have to pay for our car and tourist permits again, just to stay in Mexico.
We found some wi-fi that did not work at what seemed to be the only toilet/hotel/restaurant/bus ticket station in the border ‘town’ of Mesilla. The patron of the establishment generously offered us a windowless hole of a room at a fairly high rate, but Ela and I decided to make for Tapachula, hoping that a larger border and the resources of a city will grant us more options. At the very least, we’d have working internet.
We wound into the mountains, into the clouds and heavy rain, and over many, many topes. Seeing that we’d never make Tapachula by nightfall, we pulled into a little mountain village to eat and wait for morning. Here, once online and able to communicate with the states, we learned a bit more about our car documentation. I won’t bore you with the details, but it looks like it will take us a couple of weeks to obtain it.
Well, we wanted to get a first-hand look at the stories of migrants. Here we are, unable to cross the border.
Be careful what you wish for?