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Night had fallen as we pulled into the federal customs area
at the border dividing Mexico and Belize.
What is it about night border crossings that scares the bejesus
out of me? I wondered as I gazed at a uniformed federale armed
with M-16. His outpost,dark and securely locked, looked like
a third world Checkpoint Charlie, a scene out of a '50s film
noir.
"No pasa," he explained, when I rolled down the car
window to ask for instructions.
"I guess we can't take the car through until we speak
to someone inside," I told Paul, my husband. We moved the
car closer to the garrison and stopped. In what would be the
first of several bad decisions, we left the car parked in the
federal zone.
That night we simply weren't thinking. We were frazzled, bewildered,
rebufffed. . . and scared. Never before had we been at a border
crossing without a tourist visa. Now all we had was a letter
from Mexican immigration asking us to leave the country.
Who wouldn't be scared? We had no idea how the border patrol
would digest that bit of information. Obviously immigration
viewed us as wayward types. What would the border police think?
"Let's go ask and see what they want us to do."
We crossed the pit-holed, two lane road and walked with trepidation
towards the Mexican immigration offices. We needed to start
there to receive an exit visa from Mexico before crossing into
Belize.
Near the entryway of the non-descript government building,
we passed two men in uniform, smoking cigarettes. I could feel
their eyes on me as they sized us up. At borders, I'd learned
to avoid eye contact with anyone; it simplified things.
On entering the flourescent brightness of the customs area,
a man in a brown government uniform asked in Spanish how he
could assist us.
I explained we had a letter from immigration for him, explaining
our predicament. We planned to cross over to Belize for three
days, then come back to Mexico, our adopted home land, where
we now lived and owned a house.
As I explained our plight, one of the men we'd seen smoking
on the front porch came to listen. Then a discussion began between
these two men as to how our situation should be handled. Within
a few minutes, it was obvious that Colonel Hernández, one of
the smokers from the porch, was the man in charge. El jefe.
"Do you have a vehicle?" he asked in Spanish.
I assured him I did.
"Where is it parked?"
I pointed to our car; it was just within sight, parked by the
aduana (customs) station. "Actually, I need to clear the
car before crossing the border," I told him.
"Too late. They close at 3 p.m.," he replied curtly.
"Let me see your papers. These are fine. You can cross
now. I'll stamp them," he continued as he stretched out
his hand towards one of the clerical workers, who instantly
grabbed a rubber date stamp and handed it to the jefe.
Bam-bam! Bam-bam! And we were legal again--ready to
depart Mexico.
"Just leave now, cross over, and return this evening,"
Colonel Hernández commanded, as he handed me the newly stamped
documents. The ink was still wet.
"But I thought we had to spend three days in Belize?"
"It's just as easy to do it this way. You live in Mexico
and you own a home here. I understand your situation and will
appove this. Just cross the border now. You will be back in
fifteen minutes."
"Are you sure it's okay?" I asked, as a small knot
began forming in the pit of my stomach.
"Of course," he nodded, his eyes never leaving mine.
"I am in charge."
No doubt about that. Paul and I exchanged glances. We both
wondered about the car, but here was Colonel Hernández assuring
us all was fine. He had stamped out papers, our exit visas.
We were ready to roll.
"Gracias. Hasta luego," I said without conviction
as we walked out into the now nearly pitch black night. The
razor wire on the bridge gleamed menacingly, and the other aduana
watched us depart as we picked up our pace while heading for
the bridge, the boundary between Mexico and Belize. What it
actually crossed over, I was not sure, so black was the night.
I assumed it was a river.
Once the immigration office was out of sight, I started to
panic. "Paul, what about the car? Is it okay?"
"I don't know. Did that look like a "no parking"
area?"
"God, I'm not sure. I think we better hurry!" I urged,
as we started trotting towards Belize. We could see the immigration
offices from where we were, but the distance looked at least
two hundred yards. In itself, the crossing was poorly lit, fraught
with pot holes, ditches, the occasional rock, and a steady stream
of other travelers who were slowly making their way through
the darkness. Our fellow immigrants were Mexican, some black
Caribes, but not another gringo in the lot.
The closer we came to the Belize border, the more orderly it
appeared, and their immigration offices looked newly remodeled
and brightly lit.
I entered first, now in panic mode, tearing my passport from
my purse, and whispering loudly to Paul, "Your passport!"
Behind a glassed-in enclosure sat an attractive black woman
with fine, high cheekbones, skin the color of dark coffee beans,
and hair neatly plaited in corn rows with bright beads worked
in at the ends. To pass the time, she was paging carelessly
through a fashion magazine. She looked up as we ran in; it was
a slow night for border crossings--no one else was in line.
In fact, the entire building was empty except for her, us,
and a lifeless security guard at the door. On our entry, she
straightened herself and watched us approach, putting the magazine
on the counter beside her.
Full panic had hit, and like a derelict, I threw our passports
on the desk in front of her. It finally occured to me: we were
illegally parked on the Mexican side of the border, smack dab
in the middle of a customs zone. If the Mexican authorities
so desired, they could seize our car.
"What am I supposed to do with these?" she asked,
an edginess to her voice.
"Can you stamp them, please? Mexican immigration said
we could cross over tonight and come back tomorrow with the
car."
"Oh, so that's what Mexico told you? What do you think
we are? Some trivial little country that you people can just
use? You think you can run across the border," she had
that part right, "and have us stamp your passports? Then
scurry back to Mexico? Well, I got news for you, girl. You have
to stay in our little, bitty country for three days before you'll
get a thirty-day extension on your papers. Using us! Why don't
you spend some of your tourist dollars here? We're sick of this--always
back to Mexico they go!"
At that point she started to shake her head and mumble, "People
using us like this--sick of it!" Shewas now moving her
head from side to side-rapper mode.
Talk about an attitude. I grabbed our passports from under
the glass casing before her hands could touch them and Paul
and I were running again, now towards the door, and then back
to the Mexican border.
Once outside, almost out of breath, I gasped, "Paul, we're
in no man's land. We don't have an exit stamp for departure.
Maybe Mexico won't let us back in. And our car is illegally
parked! What are we going to do?"
"Run as fast as you can!"
We dodged diminutive Mexican women hunched over with bundles,
jogged around mothers pulling weary children by hand, tried
to avoid deep ditches that dark, beleagured night. We were indeed
in limbo, some nether region that connects countries--the border
zone.
Belize customs officials, all along the bridge, watched in
wonder as--after having just viewed us run into their immigration
offices, now watched us run back out towards Mexico. They were
no doubt wondering exactly what we were asking ourselves, "What's
Mexico going to do?"
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