Roadspill

*** Here are the events of April 29th. Finally getting caught up.
On another note, I booked my flight for the Great Baltic Border Expedition -- heading to Copenhagen, then the Baltics July 4 - 23.
Wait for those tales. But first, the old ones:

Tuesday, April 29, 2003
Flores, Guatemala

Another relaxing 6am awakening. The reason for this outrageous start time is because our bus to Belize leaves at 7am. Being so early, it’s going to be tough to find any food. The amoebas have left my body, and I am ready to feast.

We hit the street in search of something, anything, to eat. There are no restaurants open this early, so a small shop will have to do. Unfortunately, they are all closed. Brent thinks a bigger store on the far side of town might be open. We have just enough time and high hopes.

We are not disappointed. The shop is open and they have a large selection of cold drinks and hard cookies. This will do fine. On the way back to the hotel, we find a shop that has just opened and is selling fresh bread. So far so good.

Our bus, a minibus, is scheduled to pick us up in front of the hotel. We take up a spot outside the hotel and wolf down our food as we wait.

Flores is just waking up: grandparents are walking their grandchildren to school, older kids are going door to door delivering papers, and adults are heading to work. It is now after 7, and there is no bus.

A series of mini-vans stop and ask us if we’re going to Tikal. More people walk by, and the newspaper kids are now on their second lap. 7:30am. No bus. Time to eat some more fresh bread. 8am, no bus. This isn’t good. But we’re being patient.

Finally at 8:30am, we go back inside the hotel and try and call the bus office. When we can’t get through, we decide that maybe we better go to the bus office. It is there that we find out that our bus is long gone.

It turns out that we have tickets for the 7am bus, but the ledger that the drivers follow says we’re scheduled on the 5am bus.

Brent’s Spanish skills come in handy. We are able to get a refund in American dollars and a taxi to Santa Elena where the other mini-buses depart for the border. This has been a hassle, but it worked out well, and we’re too tired to really care. Getting pissed off never helps when dealing with these sorts of hiccups. There is simply a different level of customer service and you can either accept it or choose not to travel.

There are a number of mini-buses at the spot where we are dropped off. We are pounced on by fixers and are quickly squeezed onto a mini that is due to depart within an hour. Suddenly our fixer screams that another bus is about to depart and we should get on it.
In our stunned morning state we somehow manage to accomplish this and make sure our bags are moved to the right mini. The price is cheap, only Q20 (US$3) each, but it will only take us as far as the border at Melchor

The mini is nearly full, but for the few cubic metres that the driver figures we can squeeze into. It goes without saying that it is hot, the air conditioning is broken, the music distorted, the road-worthiness questionable. I love travel!

As before, the highway is good, except for the last 50km of brain rattling hell. It seems a little less intense this time though, though that could be due to the cushioning that comes from being squished between Guatemalans.

We arrive safely and are dumped on the Guatemalan side of the border. I have a mission: to find a rare Belize – Guatemala border marker. There are only 3, and one is very close to this crossing. Because it predates Belize independence, it is marked Guatemala on one side, British Honduras on the other side. This is all the more remarkable, given that Guatemala didn’t recognize the border and has just recently agreed that Belize is not part of Guatemala. Although this is still not 100% legally the case. The Guatemalan constitution leaves some room for a their claim to Belize.

We walk across the bridge, where Guatemala continues for another hundred meters or so. After passing through Guatemalan immigration, we step across the official borderline.
There is no sign of a marker anywhere and Brent is suffering from the heat and a sore back. He is concerned that he has slipped a disc.

On the Belize side of the border we are the target of a few dozen moneychangers. We brush them off as best we can – and ask if they know where the infamous border marker is. We get three answers.

This frustrates Brent and he heads off to the shade of the Belize immigration building. Being a border freak, I must find the marker. It is so close, and I can’t just give up. Especially knowing that it is marked with British Honduras. I need to get a picture so I can show all the border freak brethren.

I walk back towards the Guatemalan immigration building, to where the line is. I can see the division of the two countries, marked with a fence on the south side. But on the north side there is something strange: the border appears to cross a football field. In fact, it does: I have discovered a second divided football field along this border. Curious, I step through an unlocked gate, heading north.

At the end of the field I see it: a concrete marker about three feet in height. It has been blackened with time, and has tilted at a weird angle, due to erosion around its base. I can only stand on the north and west sides of it. On top, it is marked: British Honduras on one side, and Guatemala on the other. Because of the erosion, it is impossible for me to take pictures from all angles, but I manage to capture enough to show it in all its glory.

Yes, I am obsessed.

Walking back to the Belize Immigration building, I spot Brent slumped against a wall. “Did you find it?” His excitement is much more subdued.

We proceed through customs with no problems – and I am happy that the ban on Canadians (due to SARS) has become a memory.

Outside we search for a taxi to San Ignacio where we will grab a bus to Belize City. The cab driver tells us it will be US$10 to San Ignacio, but for US$30 he will take us all the way to Belize City. Elias, the driver, puts on the hard sell when we say no. It is far cheaper to grab a bus. He won’t take no for an answer. We tell him to take us to San Ignacio. As we head out of town, he drops his price to $25. And then stops to pick up his brother. He asks if it’s ok to drop his brother off at a church and wait for him. This is not acceptable, and the tension in the cab rises. He is now offering a ride to Belize City for $20. This is actually a good deal, but since he has been such a prick, we’re firm about the bus.

By the time we hop out of his cab in San Ignacio, we’re starved. We purchase our bus tickets and pop into Eva’s to chow down and have a refreshing pint. Brent heads off to the Belize Bank instant teller to get some cash. The machine is down, but we have US$, so there is no problem.

An hour later we’re on the low-end premium bus to Belize City.

We arrive at the bus terminal and decide to walk to Brent’s house. It isn’t far, and it will allow him to get some money out of an instant-teller along the way. There aren’t a lot of bank machines in Belize, and none of them are hooked up to the international network. Some will allow you to take cash advances off foreign visa cards, but not Belize Bank.

The bank machine is located in a Texaco, and it feels like we’ve just walked into North America. It is exactly the same as a Texaco in Canada – with shelves of snacks and transmission fluid. I grab some water while Brent gets some cash.

I turn my head when I hear Brent cursing loudly. The bank machine has captured his card. There is no reason for this, other than the fact that he inputted his PIN incorrectly, one.

I stand there admiring my salt stains as Brent has the manager call the bank. Belize Bank is not known for their compassion. They tell him that he can pick up his card tomorrow – but it is impossible to do it today. This does not go over well.

We make the dusty trek back to Brent’s house and immediately collapse. Our clothes are in dire need of an exorcism. Luckily, Brent and Roh have a washing machine that is just a wee bit more efficient than using a rock in the river. But barely. The process is a series of filling tubs, emptying tubs, filling tubs again, spilling water on the floor, and emptying tubs. But it works. And within a few hours, the offending attire is drying in the tropical breeze.

The rest of the evening consists of being flopped out in the living room, enjoying the comfort of three fans set to high. Next stop: sleepy town.

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