I arrived in La Paz, a town near the southern tip of the Baja Peninsula. I bought a ticket for the overnight ferry to mainland Mexico. Parking on the boat was tight but efficient. It was a mix of seasoned truckers and novice tourists. I locked the truck and headed upstairs to explore the deck. I felt the vibrations from the engine shift as we set off. After a while, I made my way to my room for the night. By morning, we had docked in Mazatlán, Sinaloa.
Earlier that month, in the state of Sinaloa, the Mexican Army had arrested the son of a drug lord. The Cartel took to the streets, blocking highways and burning vehicles, threatening to keep doing so until his release. In Mazatlán, I saw the burned carcass of a car. Given the headlines, and being a first time visitor to Mexico, I decided to stick to more touristy spots. After another day of driving I was just north of Mexico City. I was using my phone to find a place to camp when I saw Omar's Camping Circus. A large white stucco walled building with a roof covered in brightly colored tarps. I entered through a large metal gate. The walls surrounding the compound were topped with barbed wire. I parked in the shade next to a row of tall cedar trees. This place seemed safe for the night.
I made my way south into the state of Chiapas. As I approached the toll booth, I noticed a message taped to the glass. Handwritten in Sharpie on a piece of cardboard, it warned of roadblocks ahead. I drove a little further and found myself stopped on the highway. A few taxis made U-turns through the grass and headed back into town. The sound of air brakes being applied came from all the semi-trucks—first a whoosh, followed by a hard squeak as they came to a complete stop. The heat of the sun baked my truck I sat there.
I turned the truck off and hopped out. The man behind me in traffic also got out of his vehicle. He pointed at my license plate. "Ah, Kentucky! Go Cats!" he said. I laughed. The "Cats," also known as the Wildcats, are the name of the popular college basketball team from my home state. He introduced himself as David. He had lived in Georgia for a few years, a neighboring state to Kentucky. I asked if he knew how long the wait would be. "Not very long," he replied. We talked about our trucks, exchanging stories. Every so often, the big semi-trucks would turn their engines back on, release their brakes, and David and I would get jump back into our vehicles, slowly rolling forward for about a mile before stopping again. This time, we stopped in front of a house—a bright teal one with white trim and a large shade tree in the front yard. The owners had set up a circle of plastic lawn chairs beneath the tree and offered dinner to anyone who wanted it. I didn’t join, fearing I might eat something that wouldn’t sit well with my stomach. I hadn’t yet tested my gut. I sat in my truck, wishing I’d joined them, hoping we’d move soon.
A couple dozen men, some in flip-flops, some barefoot, stood in the middle of the road with a sense of purpose. They directed traffic by waving and pointing their machetes.
After nearly six hours, I reached the roadblock. Large, dented oil barrels and piles of rocks, created the impromptu wall across all the lanes. A couple dozen men, some in flip-flops, some barefoot, stood in the middle of the road with a sense of purpose. They directed traffic by waving and pointing their machetes. Every hour, the protestors would roll one of the barrels aside, allowing traffic to pass for fifteen minutes or so, then roll the barrel back into place. Later, I found out the roadblock was a protest against the government’s plan to build a landfill nearby. The locals had figured out that by blocking the road and disrupting traffic—and, in turn, the economy—their voices could be heard. It was my turn to pass through the roadblock. By now, the sun had set. I found the first hotel I could and paid for the night.
I woke up before sunrise and made my way to the Guatemalan border. I was directed to drive through a building that looked like a car wash, but it misted the truck with what I assumed was some sort of pesticide. I made sure to roll up my windows and turn off the vents. After pulling through, I parked the truck and walked toward the customs building. As I reached into my pocket for my passport, I accidentally fumbled all my cash onto the floor. In my mind, I was a skilled International Adventurer. In reality, I was so embarrassed my cheeks turned bright red. I quickly bent down and gathered my money. A border guard handed me a card with a number on it. I placed it in my lap and waited for my turn. I opened my folder and flipped through my documents, feeling at the mercy of bureaucracy. Border crossings are a test of patience. “Número veintidós! Veintidós.” Not my number. I continued to wait my turn, reshuffling my documents again and again. From behind a plexiglass window the border guard called me up. I handed him my small pile of paperwork. Signature, signature, stamp, stamp, stamp. I was in Guatemala.
