My Mexican tourist visa was set to expire in three days. All I needed was an additional month and though I’ve heard that the consequences of not renewing your tourist visa aren’t all that extreme, I didn’t want to be on the wrong side of Mexican legal system. When I inquired about the most efficient route to renewing it, the marina manager suggested I visit the border town of Talisman.
“You just walk across the border into Guatemala, then walk back.” He explained. “You don’t want to go to the immigration office. You’ll just end up waiting all day. It’s a lot of paperwork and a lot of waiting in line. Nobody likes to wait. If I were you I’d just cross the border…” His fingers walk, mid-air. “…and come back. Same day.” He slides his hands together as if to wipe off dust or flour. “Easy, no problem.”
Three other people (including two immigration officials and a taxi driver) would tell me the same thing, because despite what Guillermo told me, I still wanted to see if I could renew my visa without leaving the country.
After two unsuccessful attempts to renew or extend my visa at local immigration offices over the course of two days, I finally conceded to crossing the border.
The border crossing at Talisman from travelwithkevinandruth.com.
We approached Talisman by taxi late in the morning. Before the taxi driver
could put the car in park, a crowd of men were competing for my attention,
leaning into the window, a chorus of voices gradually rising to a crescendo
“What do you need?” “Where are you going?” “Do you need to change money?” “Let
me help you.” “I can help you.” “You need to change some money.” “How much
money do you need to change?” “I’ll bring you to the immigration office.”
Panic in my eyes, I looked at the taxi driver for comfort
and reassurance. “Where is the immigration office?” I asked.
If he answered my question, I couldn’t distinguish his voice
from the other voices crowding the taxi, insisting that they be the ones to
help us. Jeff leaned forward. “No thanks. We don’t need help.” He waved his
hand. “We’re okay.”
We set out on foot and the men pursued us. Three men
established themselves at the front of the pack and the others fell away. Two
men insisted we exchange our Mexican Pesos for Guatemalen Quetzales, their
“official” badges figuring prominently in the conversation. Eventually we
relented and changed 300 pesos (about $24), which we figured would be enough to
get by, but not so much that, in the event we were getting screwed, it would haunt us. Satisfied, they fell back with the others, leaving a single man who
walked out in front of us. Looking back over his shoulder he beckoned us to follow him “Let’s
go!” It was the one English phrase he had mastered.
Despite how many times we told him that we could get by without
his help, he insisted on walking with us. He had soft features, gentle eyes, a
slight frame. An easy yet reserved smile beneath a faint moustache. Melvin was
Guatemalan by birth, lived in Guatemala City, a 4 hour drive away, and worked
at the border for a week at a time. He didn’t have many years on us. We thanked
him for his help and folded a small tip into his hands.
“I’ll wait for you over there.” He pointed to the bridge
that connected the two border towns.
“No. It’s okay. We don’t need your help.” We maintained.
Sure enough, he was there, waiting, ready to lead us through
the maze. The 200 yard walk across the border was besieged by people trying to
change our money, sell us things, give us advice, lead us to their business. A
steady stream of “no thanks” issued from our mouths.
Melvin led us to the Guatemalan immigration office, a blue,
austere, concrete building. We were the only gringos in sight and it felt like
the whole town was gawking. The immigration official in the blue box couldn’t
be bothered by my presence.
Photo of the Guatemalan immigration office from travelwithruthandkevin.com.
“Excuse me.” I said in my most cheerful voice. “We need to check into Guatemala from Mexico.”
Without lifting his head, his eyes glared up at me. He held up his finger, instructing me to wait. Despite his rudeness in the interaction that followed, I tried to maintain a pleasant disposition. He wasn’t impressed.
From behind me, Melvin chimed in: “Be sure to ask him when you can check out of Guatemala.”
Confronted by this question the immigration official looked at the calendar on this computer. “Tomorrow.” He said nonchalantly.
“Tomorrow?” I asked, incredulous. “But everyone in Mexico said that we would be able to walk across the border and then check back into Mexico on the same day.”
At this point he lifted his head, cocked it to one side, and glowered. “You’re in Guatemala.” He sniped. “Guatemala is not Mexico. We have different rules in Guatemala. Mexicans don’t know Guatemalan rules.”
“So when can we leave?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“We can’t leave today?”
“No.” He was getting impatient.
“What are we supposed to do?” Things were not turning out how I’d expected.
“Get a hotel room.” Obviously.
“We don’t have any of our stuff. We weren’t planning to spend the night.”
“You can buy stuff.” He paused. “Or come back another day.” Either way it seemed like we would have to spend the night and from everything I’d heard, Talisman is the last place you’d want to get a hotel room.
“One moment.” I needed to consult with Jeff.
“I thought we could just walk across and back in the same day.” Jeff was as dumbfounded as I was.
“That’s what I thought, but this guy is telling me we have to spend the night.”
“There’s got to be a way.” We resolved to go back to Mexico and ask for some advice from the friendly woman at the Mexican immigration office.
I returned to the Guatemalan customs official, retrieved our unstamped passports and told him that we would likely be back. He shrugged, unconcerned. Melvin interjected, curious about our predicament. We explained to him in Spanish what had happened.
As we were walking back towards the Mexican border, a crowd of people materialized around us. Melvin was trying to explain to us that he could get us checked in and checked out on the same day. “How?” All it would take was money. “How much?”
Suddenly everyone wanted to help. People approached us from every direction, claiming that they could help us. Melvin was losing his grip on our attention, but he had established a sense of trust early on, so we turned back to him in hopes of an answer. This time he deferred to his friend: a short man, with a crisp, bleached white polo, slicked black hair and a Bluetooth in his ear. He was all business.
“This is my friend.” Melvin informed us. “He’ll help you.”
“I work for immigration.” He stated with authority, flashing his badge. “Give me your passports and I can go work out a deal.” Pointing to the immigration office, he continued. “I’ll ask him how much he wants.”
So this is a bribe situation. Maybe we should have expected this.
Jeff and I spoke quickly to each other in English and decided that we would seek advice back in Mexico. The businessman spoke rapidly, explaining the folly of our decision. Something about cameras and rules and how we would surely invite trouble by crossing the border.
The truth? Or a fear tactic?
Even when Jeff asked a question, they directed their answers to me. They could see that my shell was cracking, that I was close to relenting, that I so desperately wanted to trust someone, that I so desperately wanted this to be over. Jeff remained the forceful skeptic as their words started to wear me down.
“Just give me your passports and I’ll go talk with him. I can get you a stamp.” He spoke with certainty.
“We won’t give you our passports. Our passports are very important to us.” I explained.
The businessman nodded and excused himself. He disappeared into the immigration office and emerged a few minutes later.
“I spoke with my friend and it will only cost you fifty dollars.”
“Fifty dollars?” We both asked. “That’s a lot of money.”
“Fifty dollars per person.” He clarified.
“We don’t even have that much money with us.” Jeff responded.
“How much money do you have?” The businessman inquired.
We knew better than to answer that question.
I struggled to make a connection. “We don’t know who to trust.”
“You can trust him.” Explained Melvin, gesturing towards the businessman. “He’s my friend.”
“You can trust me.” The businessman repeated. “I promise. I’ll help you.”
I surveyed the busy scene. Everyone’s eyes were trained on us and for the very first time since we started this trip I looked around at all of the faces in our immediate surroundings and felt that I couldn’t ask a single person a simple question and expect an honest answer.
“It’s just.” I paused. “It’s just that we don’t know anyone here.” The words, spoken aloud, were heavier than I expected. So heavy that the pulled tears from my eyes, made my chest heave and my head spin. We don’t know anyone. We have no friends. We’re totally alone. These people aren’t looking out for us. We can’t trust anyone.
The tears that flooded the corners of my eyes emboldened Jeff. With his hand extended and his voice deep and forceful, he commanded space and silenced the onslaught of questions.
“Don’t cry.” Urged Melvin as he stepped closer, trying to comfort me. “It’s okay. Don’t cry.”
I lowered my sunglasses over my eyes, but couldn’t erase the tracks of tears that fell down my cheeks, trembled at my chin and traversed my neck, threatening to suffocate me. What are we doing here? Why are we so far away from everything and everyone we love? Here I am, crying on the streets of Guatemala. An outsider. A spectacle. A target. Sadness swept over me.
Despite the protestations and warnings broadcast by Melvin, the businessman, and everyone that trailed behind us, Jeff and I returned to Mexico, avoiding contact with the eyes that tracked us.
Jeff explained the circumstances to the lady behind the counter and asked if she could help.
“How much did they want from you?” She asked, apparently unsurprised.
“Fifty dollars per person.” I responded, the tears threatening to return.
She shook her head, smiled and handed me a tissue. “Don’t cry.” Her words were comforting, her smile sincere. “I’ll be right back.” She took our passports and disappeared to the back room. When she returned she slid our passports back across the counter, along with two 180 day tourist visas. “Welcome back to Mexico.”