Mexico 2.0 Part 2: Border Crossing Drama and Christmas Eve in La Pesca (12.24.2022)

Nearing the Border

We had hustled through the US, making miles and pushing hard, spending too much money on uncomfortable motel rooms, all to get within striking distance of the border before Christmas. The plan was to wake up very early, get to the border ASAP on Christmas eve, hopefully cross with no troubles, and then drive for ~three hours down to a La Pesca, a fishing and resort community on the gulf. We harbor fears of border towns in any country, so our plan was to cross and drive as far as possible during the daylight hours to minimize risk. That was the plan…but nothing goes to plan.

We woke up later than we wanted, maybe 7:30 instead of 6AM, and from there on it felt like our feet were stuck in the mud, each stride forward taking an absurd amount of time, probably because we were nervous, apprehensive, like a swimmer standing on the pool deck next to an empty lap pool early in the morning, knowing they have to train for their race but not wanting to leave the security of their dry, warm towel.

Packing the truck was a process, even though we took almost nothing out the night before. The pre-drive check seemed like it took forever, making sure fluids were topped and paperwork was hidden and decoy paperwork was visible. Navigating McAllen wasn’t easy, and a last-chance supply mission to Walmart dragged on and on, only for us to forget to purchase most of what we’d deemed necessary when we stopped there. By the time we were approaching the border it was after 11AM, and we hadn’t eaten anything, so we stopped at a bakery whose hand painted sign proclaiming Abierto welcomed us to next step of the adventure. We were close, and Mexico was reaching for us.

Waiting in the Walmart parking lot, full of anxious energy

Christian loves taking photos of me when I’m not looking or ready.

Crossing the Border

We have very, very few images of the border crossing because recording or photographing borders is usually a bad idea. We even disabled and stowed away our dash cam because less trouble is less trouble. Crossing the bridge headed south for us was quick, with essentially no wait, and the only thing slowing us down being an inexpensive toll and a serpentine route through some jersey barriers masquerading as tank traps. The bridge itself isn’t very long, and before we knew it we were there, in Mexico.

We pulled over immediately, still in the world of the border crossing, before the lanes of traffic left the bureaucratic zone and morphed into the cacophony of downtown Reynosa. We had learned in Baja that traffic laws loosen slightly at the border, because everyone is moving at a snails pace over the aggressive speed bumps, and the lanes aren’t really lanes, but just suggestions. We asked for directions to the Banjercito, executed a super professional 8-point turn in traffic to navigate some turns much too tight for a 1996 crew cab long bed F-350, drove past some heavily armored and lightly caring Mexican Marines, and got to a shaded, secured parking spot to start the import process for our rig.

I left Chelsea in the truck with Gracie and approached the import hall with little idea of what I needed to do. The states of Baja Norte and Baja Sur are in a special administrative zone that doesn’t require temporary vehicle imports (one of many reasons why we refer to Baja as Mexico lite), so this was an aspect of Mexican bureaucracy we hadn’t encountered in our last trip. Luckily, there were two young employees at the door of the office ready to receive non-Spanish speakers and assist with the process. This was an absolute lifesaver, a blessing straight from the hand of God, as we would not have been able to enter the country without the help of our translator and guide Mariana. I think she was an employee of the Banjercito, or maybe part of a program from the Secretariat of Tourism, but whoever is funding that program should keep it up. Mariana was enormously helpful.

Once inside the office, things started off well. There was essentially no one in line, no crowd, the A/C was pumping, people were in masks, there was a discernible flow to the operation - all good things. Mariana and I waited in line for a few minutes, a stack of paperwork I assumed I would need clutched in my hands, everything from vehicle titles to rabies vaccination paperwork. We got to the front of the queue and I handed my papers to Mariana who handed them to the uninterested guard at the desk, who then handed them back to Mariana who then handed them back to me with a matter-of-fact, “Your truck is too heavy. You can’t go to Mexico.”

I had failed to imagine there would be a weight limit to the temporary import permit.

Mariana argued my case, I stood silently, she told me I had to go home, I asked about big RVs crossing the border, she argued my case again to another man at another desk, the man told her to tell me I had to go home. This went on for a while, until Mariana shrugged and said “Let’s try to get the paperwork for your motorcycles.”

We went back to the front of the queue and I handed my papers to Mariana who handed them to the even more uninterested guard at the desk, who then handed them back to Mariana who then handed them back to me with a matter-of-fact, “You have too many street-legal vehicles. Your wife can bring a motorcycle but you can’t. You are bringing the truck. One of your bikes can’t go to Mexico.”

Somehow, through the silence of bureaucracy and without any monetary lubrication, our truck was now allowed to enter, but only one bike could accompany it, because we had fully registered the motorcycles and paid an Idaho roads and highways tax. The registrations has too much information on them - if the bikes weren’t street-legal we would be home free. I tired to press my luck but Mariana and the guard now showed a level of denial that they hadn’t shown before, so I inhaled, thanked them for their time, and walked out to Chelsea, the anxiety in my chest growing stronger by the moment.

I explained everything to Chelsea, I explained what I could to Gracie, and we brainstormed.
Go back to Idaho? “Absolutely not,” said Chelsea.
Drive all the way to Baja? “Absolutely not,” said Gracie.
Put one of the bikes in storage? “Absolutely not,” said I, “Let’s give it another try.”

I composed what constitution I had, and tried to imagine what my travel mentor Pablo would do in this situation. Well, he probably wouldn’t have brought a giant unnecessary truck and two motorbikes on an overland journey, but if he had he would calmly walk back into the office and ask “What should I do?” And that’s exactly what I did.

Mariana met me, and offered advice, “Let’s try again.” so we bypassed all the guards and desks at the front of the office and went straight for the banking area of the Banjercito, the area where the papers got signed and the fees got paid. Mariana said to me quietly and clearly, “Do not say anything,” and that is exactly what I did.

Over the next half hour our truck papers got signed and issued without a problem. One motorbike got imported even quicker, and for free because it was being transported by the truck. Lastly, the paperwork for the second motorbike was slid across the desk, and Mariana explained that it was a dirt bike, even though it had license plates and turn signals. At this point, Chelsea was also involved, having needed to come inside for her tourist visa. She offered up a few photos of the motorbikes on dirt roads with Gracie riding on the back. The officer shook his head and walked out to look at the bike, only to see the comically enormous rear tires of our TW200s, tires so big they ought not to be allowed on paved roads anywhere. Seeing our point, the officer walked back in, gathered even more officials above him and went back out to have a quorum around the tailgate of the truck. Eventually, he came back in with a stoic look, grabbed the paperwork and wrote “OFF ROAD” on our bike’s titles, and walked away. And just like that, we were in.

The one “stealthy” photo we grabbed of the entrance gate at the border.

The truck, parked and waiting for permission to continue.

Gracie was amazingly patient throughout the banjercito debacle.

Scammed!

Leaving the Banjercito felt like a giant breath of fresh air. We had our paperwork, we had our permits, we paid our fees, we had all legal and necessary documents to do what we wanted to do where we wanted to do it - success! We tossed the paperwork in the center console, and drove off…

… only to be stopped maybe a kilometer later by the flashing blues and reds of a police car. We were on a three lane divided road, essentially a highway, complete with a separate frontage road for residential and business traffic, doing 60kph (37mph) confirmed later by our dash cam footage, and there was a blue and white sedan behind us, tight on our tail, lights flashing, pulling us over. I immediately assumed it was a secondary component of the border crossing - perhaps the registration was checked and enforced once we left the border area, as there was no mandatory stop in the border, only optional places to apply for paperwork.

Still totally discombobulated from the permit ordeal only minutes before, Chelsea and I put on our N95 masks, locked our doors, and rolled down the window. A man wearing a white polo, blue slacks, and what looked to be a radio walked up, and as we explained we understood very little Spanish, he shoved a radar gun in our window that read 89 KPH and asked for my license and registration. Complying while playing dumb, I gave him my real license (I keep a voided copy for this EXACT reason, but I was so stressed out from the Banjercito I hadn’t sorted my things out yet in the center console), and he asked me to step out of the truck.

Outside the truck, I think he explained I had to go with him to the police station, to which I said I didn’t understand. We kept at this, he would try to explain, and I would say I didn’t understand. He lured me back to his “cop car” because he had my license, and he kept showing me the very simple looking radar gun that had a display that only showed “89 KPH”. He got in his car, rolled down the windows, and told me (I think) to get in the front seat because we were going (I think) to the police station. Thankfully, at this point I knew enough not to get in the car. The “cop” kept showing me the radar gun, kept pointing to the unchanging display, and then eventually handed me a ticket, which I have no doubt was a real ticket for speeding. Except that this ticket was for the day before. And the registration on it was for a Honda Ridgeline.

At this point, I started to realize what was going on. I was being shaken down. Not robbed, but scammed. The panic mostly dissipated, frustration and annoyance taking its place and offering a a moderate helping of indignant courage. The cop was going on about “100 US Dollars” after I muttered “Dinero? Dinero?”, but that was before I saw the ticket. I told him, in my broken Spanish, “Look, look, I have a dash camera, it shows my speed,” only for him to say “No, no, dinero, 100 dollars.” I reached into the cop car, which I then realized looked suspiciously like a normal sedan on the inside, devoid of a camera, or a cage, or a radio, or anything, grabbed my license and registration, threw the ticket back in his center console, and gave the man a twenty dollar bill. He waved at it sheepishly, I yelled “FELIZ NAVIDAD, SEÑOR,” and walked off. We drove away, and he whipped a U-turn, lights still flashing, looking for his next victim.

The “cop” checking our license plate before showing us how fast we weren’t going.

Driving to La Pesca

We were overcome by waves of relief, anger, gratitude, and resilience as we drove away from our run-in with the “law.” We were a little jittery, but as we made miles and escaped the clutches of stop and go traffic, we settled down and eventually were quite thankful for whatever lesson we had just learned for the low price of $20 USD.

We were sticking to our plan, as it was really the only plan we had - keep driving until we hit the Gulf. We had fuel, food, and water, but we didn’t know if we had enough daylight to make it to La Pesca - our ETA put us a few minutes past last light, according to Google. We were roughly 330km from our goal, but it was 1:30PM, so things would be tight. Reynosa traffic turned into the open road, and we were thrust back onto a highway cutting a black ribbon through emerald fields of agriculture.

I had to quickly adapt to the rules of the road in Mexico: straddle the broken white line on the far right whenever possible, essentially keeping two wheels on the shoulder, allowing for traffic headed the same direction to use most of the actual lane, and some of the oncoming lane, which hopefully wasn’t occupied. Chelsea kept reminding me of the rule she learned while living and driving in Greece - just follow the car in front of you, and don’t get hit.

We lost very little time on the drive, with my eyes glued to the road, and Chels focused on the navigation and the ETA. Finally, we got to our turn off the Mex 180 highway, and onto a coastal access road and the final 50km. The speed limit dropped, the sun was at our backs, and the road was filled with unmarked, unpainted topes, speed bumps, harsh enough to damage the stalwart suspension of our built-Ford-tough truck if we weren’t careful. We were close, and we started to relax - as long as La Pesca was a real place, we’d be there near enough to sundown to be ok.

Some of the city traffic as we made our way south through Reynosa.

Some examples of the traffic flow on the highways

Finally, a sign for our destination.

A particularly angry tope that we barely slowed down in time for (see our current speed from the dash cam!) when we saw it jump out from the shadows.

The beautifully colorful town of La Pesca…a welcome sight on Christmas Eve.

Our Room at the Inn

It was Christmas eve, the sun was setting over a calm, Gulf-coast estuary, and all was right in the world. As we neared the GPS coordinates marked on iOverlander, we saw what we were looking for: a large grassy field behind a fence, a small family sitting by their house near the gate, and a few very obvious RVs tacitly heralding the acceptance of campers on the property. What a relief.

With little fanfare we asked if we could camp and wished the caretaker a merry Christmas, dumped the dog out of the truck, and found a parking spot. The sun dropped behind the horizon, as if it had been waiting for us to arrive before turning off the lights. We got to setting up the roof top tent for our first night of camping for the trip, over 2000 miles from Donnelly Idaho, but feeling more at home than we had in years.

Christmas Eve dinner - tortillas, avocado, cheese and a freeze dried camp meal.