The small city of Palenque, Mexico was suffocatingly saturated in tour agencies offering identical excursions at equally identical prices. Collectivos (small mini-vans) predatorily patrolled the streets looking for gringos to extort. Slamming hard on the brakes when they found their prey, the van would screech to a halt, a head would emerge from the passenger side and hang precariously out of the window shouting tourist attractions in the hope that someone would take the bait. We’d shake our heads and wave away their invitations.
In a town like this, hunting for a good price was straight-forward enough, however finding a trustworthy agency to get us across the Mexican – Guatemalan border into Flores was not. We spoke with several unscrupulous and unsavoury characters before settling on Tulum Transporta to provide transport and safe passage for just 300 Pesos (£14/$23).
Early the following morning we were picked up outside our hotel in a tall collectivo. The ensuing hour consisted of four more stops to gather passengers before heading down the worn way to Guatemala. The arduous roads ahead were badly riddled with potholes and speed bumps that our driver was having a hard time avoiding. Consequently, we were flung around as the van swerved, stopped and started to get to where we wanted to go. After an unfaltering two-hour onslaught the driver ceased and we took a welcome break with some food.
The $5 buffet restaurant served a tipico Mexican meal with rice, beans, eggs and tortillas. The basic spread when doused in hot sauce and followed by thick black aromatic coffee was enough to revitalise the inanimate.
Getting our fill we re-boarded the bus for another round of abuse. Moving onwards to the border we watched a light mist rest on the landscape and slowly evaporate as the sun climbed to its peak. Small abodes dotted the highways as the children played. Sullen skinny dogs laid in the middle of the worn road wearing a lethargic and empty look. And intimidating military checkpoints carried equally intimidating machine guns.
We soon arrived at a wide clay coloured river. Below us a buzzing port sat on the muddy banks. Small boats were traversing up and down stream, picking up people and dropping off others. The small pier had children aged no more than four or five trying to sell passengers their wares. Of these boats, one of them would ferry us upstream towards the Guatemalan border.
We found the right boat and boarded it with difficulty, having an additional 70lbs in baggage transforms one’s grace and agility into clumsiness and gigantism. We piled all of the bags at the rear of the boat, which also happened to be the guide’s place. With his head peeking over a man-made mountain the ferryman steered the boat out of the port and upstream.
The reddish-brown river was slow-moving and the bright-blue sky was cloudless. Aside from a nerve-wracking unscheduled stop in the middle of the river we arrived at our destination port in a dry 15 minutes.
Upon disembarking, clones of the children we had left a quarter of an hour downstream were swarming around our feet. Hands full of beads and embroidery were shoved to our faces, prices were being shouted at us in Spanish. A couple with wads of cash were trying to get us to change our Pesos for Quetzals. Explaining that it was our last chance to change Mexican dinero, the pair hounded us up a steep hill and continued to badger us until another money-filled boat docked. At the hilltop sat a small light-coloured hut and a bus waiting to move us onto immigration.
Pulling into the policed area we were surprised to see the same pestering couple eagerly waiting for us. Not knowing where they would appear next on our journey we surrendered our remaining Pesos on their terms.
Inside the small dimly lit office, the officials were pleasant enough and we passed the standard checks easily. After giving them $5 (£3) exit tax we received another stamp in our passport.
Leaving behind the troublesome two for Guatemala’s next guests we continued on down the bumpy road onto Flores.
© John Brownlie 2012