Day 33: Frontera Echeverria (Corozal), Chiapas, Mexico to Flores, El Paten, Guatamala

Swarming ants and some nice hot coffee, those were the events surrounding waking up today. After giving the tent a good upside-down shake, J hung it in a nearby tree to air it out and prevent any other critters from climbing in.

Next it was off to get our passports stamped at the immigration office which opens at 8am, or 9am, or 9:30. I would say that when you are this far out there you operate on whatever time you want, or the official wants.


While we waited for the immigration office to open, several of the launcha drivers who we had spoke with the day before rode over on their mountain bikes (seems that's how most people get around here) to chat with us and make the final price negotiations. It was interesting to see how things operated with the launcha drivers: the two guys who we had come to an agreement with (the two biggest guys around) stood by us the whole time we were waiting for the immigration office to open. The other guys would come over to say what they had to say but would then basically stand in line behind the first guys. Did they really think the first guys were going anywhere? As we had suspected we would find this morning, there were plenty of launchas available and not many customers to serve. Our crossing would be the money maker for the day, or week, for whoever took us over.

Riding down to the boats was a bit exciting with a steep embankment and a concrete divider to navigate but with a little finesse, or speed, it was nothing. Then it was time to load up. These guys have clearly done this before. They said about 30 to 40 motorcycles come through each year, but I don't know how many of those these two characters have taken.






Now we had to figure out where to offload. The first spot was pretty steep and was all soft sand, not really anywhere to get traction.

Down the river a bit further was a much more gently sloping spot with more rock and less sand. The only trick was getting there as the launchas would have to slip through several narrow twists with quick flowing water in order to reach the spot. My driver expertly navigated the launcha through the skinnies and swung the boat around on the calm downstream side of the little beach. J's driver took a slightly more adventurous route taking the last two twists backward and placing the second launcha perfectly next to the first.



Unloading went as smoothly as loading and soon we were making our first tracks in Guatemala on the dusty road to Bethal where the immigration office is located.

Small clearings in the jungle along the road to Bethal contained small thatched huts (that could not have been more than a single room) with women and children huddled outside. Other groups of women and children were doing laundry or just splashing around in streams our road crossed. So where were the men? It wasn't long before we came over a rise in the road to find ourselves face to face with what is known as "slash and burn". In order to make enough money to survive, the people here (most likely hired by others) cut down everything on a section of land, put fire to it, and then plant crops (corn) or set cattle out to graze. The soil here, while it seems to support the jungle just fine, cannot sustain the crops or the cattle for more than a few years at which time they simply move on to another section of land. The land that has been "used up" does not grow back into the jungle and basically becomes barren land with maybe a few small plants. This of course leads to another whole dilemma as the soil is then extremely suseptible to erosion and even landslides as we saw the remenants of on several occasions.

Upon arriving in Bethal, we came to a halt by a couple of young men who we chilling at a refreshment stand, asking where we might find the immigration office. After them telling us several times and us not understanding, one of them mounted his own motorcycle and led us slowly down the road to the office, not even a kilometer away. The officer in the single story building with a single desk and computer inside, greeted us with a smile welcoming us to Guatemala and stamping our passports. Before sending us on our way, the officer supplied us with directions to Flores/Tikal informing us that with our 90 day Guatemalan tourist stamp we could pass through Guatemala, Honduras, El Salvador and Nicaragua without needing another stamp. "What about Belize?" we asked. With a smirk he replied something to the tune of: "Belize is it's own thing". Apparently, well at least my reading has informed me, Guatemala has never really considered Belize a country and considers it a "territory" of Guatemala even though Belize has declared itself independent on multiple occasions.

The road leading east from Bethal widened as we carried on with a huge plume of dust behind us.


Most of the land along the road had long since been clear cut and was sparsely populated with green areas and cattle. Our momentum came to a halt at a gathering in the middle of the road between a few cargo trucks and several pick-up truck loads of fully equiped Guatemalan soldiers. As we rolled up, one truck driver was being frisked while several others were being questioned. After producing identification (hello laminated photo copies!) and a quick search of one of each of our cases, the soldiers sent us our way with nothing but 10 minutes lost.

After reaching paved roads and turning north, we came to a gas station with an ATM in the parking lot. Ok, time for a new currancy and new exchange rate. US$1 is about 8 quezals. Ok, how much do we need? Gas is 30 something per liter? Ok, 1500 quezals should be good. Oh wait, gas is sold in gallons here. Doh! I guess we will be coming back through this country so we don't have to spend it all.

The next time we came to a stop, some 50 miles northeast up the road, we asked directions only to find we were long past the turn off for Flores. That's funny, we didn't see any signs and when looking at the map it seemed we couldn't miss it. We backtracked 30 miles and found that the sign we had been looking for was only viewable to those traveling in the southwest direction. Sweet.

We found our way through a cooling drizzle to Flores; an island in the middle of a big lake with a little causeway out to it. The whole island takes about 3 minutes to slowly circle on the bikes with just about every square inch of the island used to accomodate what I would describe as a mini-european town.

Dinner, consorting with a tourist group of Canadians, Aussies and one bloke from England, and dessert consisting of Arabic coffee and a sheesha completed the day's adventure before we retired to our hotel, Hospedaje Dona Goya, where I slept in one of the rooftop hammocks while J chose the more traditional mattress in the room we paid a whopping 80 quezals (about $10) for.

Whew, what a day. Goodnight.

-Colin