We woke early and drove to the border crossing at Ciudad Hidalgo, the most southern of the crossings between Mexico and Guatemala. It was a curiously cryptic border; there was an assortment of confusing signs as we approached Hidalgo, which led us straight into a tangle of crowded, labyrinthine streets in the center of town. We asked a number of people for directions, which was sometimes helpful and sometimes not; asking for directions within cities have proved to be a confusing endeavor, in which our imperfect Spanish mixes with people’s imperfect knowledge of which streets we should take, as well as the often-idiosyncratic nature of the directions, necessary in places where streets are not always named, or may be known by names other than what’s written on the signs. Directions wind up a perplexing mélange of references to landmarks, stores, cardinal directions, and the occasional hopeful bullshit when they simply don’t know the answer. Our border-crossing is particularly complicated because of the car, and usually takes this form, roughly:
- Locate the permit-cancellation office, which may be many kilometers from the border, and have our permit for the current country cancelled.
- Locate the office (sometimes) where the cancelled permit must be inspected, usually right at the border.
- Visit the customs office for exiting, and have our passports inspected and stamped.
- Cross the border
- On the other side, visit the customs office for entry, and have our passports inspected and stamped.
- Possibly have the car fumigated, and receive a fumigation certificate (this is a literally poisonous-seeming affair in which we drive the car towards a gas-masked man with a backpack full of pesticides and a sprayer, roll up all of our windows and turn off the air intake, and sit nervously while the car is drenched in chemicals, then pay three dollars and receive a piece of paper.)
- Go to the car-permitting office, where our cancelled permit is inspected, and many new documents are produced, stamped, written on; the car is inspected; photocopies are required, then stamped; the new, stamped copies must be copied again and returned to the office; fees are paid; and eventually Cochita is declared legal to enter the country and we drive away.
All of this is accompanied by a frenzied crowd of touts who offer relentlessly to “help” you through the process for a fee, tearing documents from your hands and running them around the various offices, demanding preferential treatment from harried border officials. We have become better at avoiding these men. Once they fade away, they are replaced by the calmer crowd of currency-exchangers, usually older men waving enormous wads of cash in every colour of the rainbow (albeit a very dusty rainbow), offering their rates in various languages. The rates are always bad, but as we’ve discovered, it can be very difficult to change a Quetzal (the Guatemalan currency) anywhere but the border.
After a Kafka-esque round of being shuttled back and forth over a pedestrian bridge near the border, with the city and an official, military-looking encampment on one side, and the office of the Banjercito (the Mexican public bank which manages car permitting) on the other, we finally wound up at the desk of a patient, competent older man who explained what we had to do and sent us on our way. We found the border crossing itself hidden at the end of an innocuous city street, difficult to access because of road construction cutting off Cochita’s path. A couple of grinning, relaxed guards beckoned us over the narrow entrance, studded with vibradores (big metal hemispheres, another species of speed bump), and we were through.
On the Guatemalan side, a calm and well-mannered middle-aged man named Isaiah shepherded us through the permitting process, his fee almost worth it to me because I managed to have my first real Spanish conversation with him while we were waiting for the various officials to process my documents. I learned that it is the general opinion of Guatemalans that Nicaraguans are “very poor,” and “have nothing,” and also that the word for taxes is “impuestos” – ten or so people were lined up at the customs window waiting to file their taxes, which phenomenon remains basically a mystery to me. Why file taxes at the customs office? And was it tax time in Guatemala? In which case, why were there not MORE people? Regardless, we processed Cochita’s permit with relatively little difficulty, the border crossing was charmingly peaceful and relaxed, and we drove off into the maniacal traffic of Guatemala having invested approximately two hours in the border-crossing effort.