After rattling onto the dusty lot of the Benque Viejo del Carmen’s bus station in an orange-and-cream school bus, after escaping the bag-snatching (are we being mugged?) bellhop-like assault of two taxi drivers (catalyzed by our pale skin and prospects of procuring our last Belizean dollars), after pouring sweat along seemingly endless curves of thick-poured asphalt, after asking for directions inside a philanthropically constructed biblioteca, and after hitching a ride in the bed of a compassionate soul’s battered red Toyota pickup truck, we arrived at the official northern border station between Belize and Guatemala.
Unlike the Siamese twin border town relationships to which I am accustomed—San Diego and Tijuana, El Paso and Juarez, for example—Benque Viejo and Melchor de Mencos rest several kilometers apart with a large sash of thick jungle between them. This wide line of demarcation between Belize and Guatemala reveals the vestigial remains of recent, violent land disputes. Perhaps more importantly for us, both towns have evolved against investments to improve stability or appeal, discouraging tourists or any would-be guerilla revolutionaries from lingering long in the area.
LaFleur and I must quickly navigate this transition into a new nation, language, currency and sociopolitical policy. The last bus into Guatemala left hours ago and only a few moments leave themselves between nature’s greatest borderline: sunset. The sun’s last rays bend weird colorful light and immense shadows across the landscape, drawing night closer. LaFleur and I scan the border for trustworthy drivers, hoping to procure a cab ride to El Remate, seventy kilometers deep into Guatemala’s Petén district.
The border swarms with local men delicately rubbing their bare stomachs, upturned t-shirt tails looking like halter tops; squatting grandmothers hawking greasy pork empanadas and salbutes topped with shredded chicken and cabbage; but no Policía Turismo nor any do-gooder turning a compassionate glance on our predicament. We queue ourselves through the line for Belizean departures, pay a large exit fee funneled toward wildlife preservation, and continue toward Guatemala’s port of entry.
A breeze sweeps the dry, white parchment paper earth and swirls thick dust through our hair and in our eyes. How could the ground be so dry here, firmly between Cancer and Capricorn?
Inches within Guatemala, zopilotes sinverguenzas surround us—begging, waving fistfuls of quetzales in our faces or exchange, squawking “Taxi, taxi!”—so I act in haste. Between a tiny, grizzled driver with one empty eye socket and a lanky fellow conspicuously twitching with stimulants, I choose the amphetamine junkie. Fear comes easily on the borderline, the cusp between two worlds, and desperate decisions oft follow.
I argue for several minutes through thick glass with a Guatemalan border guard who demands an entry fee contrary to my guidebook wisdom. The guard explains that there is a special fee (suspiciously declared in U.S. dollars) for late departures, after seven o’clock in the evening. I wave two U.S. dollars at the window, mutter “Está propina para ti, nada más” (“It’s gratuity for you, nothing more”), and pass the bills through the slot. He sucks on his mustache and strokes his gold watch for a few seconds, mulling over my counteroffer, then returns my passport with a sneer.
LaFleur and I have drained our main supply of cash and our last meal took place nearly eight hours earlier inside Ian Anderson’s tourist-laden caves. Our driver, reassuringly named Benito, drives cautiously to a cash machine and a small convenience store to pick up tacos. His smooth driving and accommodating personality put me at ease. I sit next to him up front; LaFleur sits in back.
Darkness erupts from the horizon, the Belizean pavement turns into Guatemalan dirt, and Benito pushes the accelerator. His tiny car rattles along the washboard road, bald tires shifting slightly through patches of gravel. Stars emerge, along with puddles hiding potholes, peregrine dogs, sag-backed horses eating grass on the road shoulder, errant children prodding black sows along with switches. With each new obstacle, Benito jerks the steering wheel a little more emphatically.
Wispy fog brushes the headlights and rain blots out the stars, pushing us further into darkness. Benito’s ancient windshield wipers smear a thin film of raindrops and insect intestines evenly across the glass. His breath shortens with panic when the windshield begins to fog inside with condensation. Soon, stone cairns on the periphery, meant as guideposts, become near misses. Horses buck themselves to safety and Mayan children stare from the as Benito swerves down the road.
Each town in northeastern Guatemala offers its own unique height and geometry to the concept of a speed bump, but Benito ignores all of these suggestions to slow down. Instead, he bends his elbow into the glass, wipes manically with his forearm, and keeps accelerating. I wonder how long it’s been since Benito’s last speed fix—his eyes quivering, his forehead trembling sweat.
We arrive in El Remate. Thousands of giant iridescent brown beetles called Ronrones swarm the sky, mating in mid-flight, then crashing to the pavement from sexual exhaustion. The road is littered with satisfied bugs, crunching loudly under Benito’s tires.
LaFleur waits by the cab while I procure a hotel room, we hoist our backpacks from the trunk, and Benito squeals 180 degrees, disappearing into the fog.
Still holding her uneaten taco in one hand, LaFleur grabs my arm and pulls me close. She speaks sleepily, “You haven’t spoken English in three hours. You were talking so fast I couldn’t understand. I haven’t eaten in ten hours. I had no seatbelt and that driver nearly killed us. This place had better be good.”
The beetles hum all around, dropping into our hair and snapping beneath our feet.
