The Tai Chi Border Crossing

Rocinante back in fighting trim, we prepared to leave Guatemala. We had been in Guatemala City for five days, which were pleasant enough, mostly because we didn’t have the car and therefore were unable to get lost. Guatemala City, like most cities in the country, appears to be on a straightforward, Roman-style grid; “Avenidas” go north-south, while “Calles” go east-west, all numbered consecutively. A navigator’s delight, one might think. However, street signs are haphazard and usually absent, there are unmarked diagonal streets and dead ends, dog-legs and jug handles, and to make matters worse, Guatemala City is divided into Zones, so that the exact same street address can exist in numerous spots in the city. And of course there are diesel-belching buses and cars driving at breakneck speed throughout. We had already spent two full afternoons on two different occasions driving in circles, wandering, lost, helplessly through the city. These trips included many stops for incompletely-understood directions, which of course we were only partly able to follow. The wear and tear on our mutual civility in the van was considerable.

Leaving the city, we had two choices: to head south toward the Inter-American Highway and El Salvador, or east and then southeast into Honduras. Both destinations seemed appealing. No one had strong feelings about the decision, until I realized that I could easily and confidently get us out of Guatemala City and onto the road east, but that heading south would require navigational research and a likely reprise of our Flying Dutchman routine. Honduras, ho!

The trip east was short and easy; a couple of hours on the highway, another on a smooth, pretty, rural road, and we were at the border at El Florido. We haven’t had any trouble crossing borders, although it takes a bit of time because there is always paperwork (and fees) for the car. A remote border crossing in a lovely mountain setting, far from the trucking routes, is a much better place to spend an hour than a busy and hot highway spot with harassed and probably underpaid officials.

The officials at this crossing, both on the Guatemala side and the Honduras side, were unfailingly helpful, polite, and patient with our Spanish. We didn’t have to wait in a single line. Nevertheless, the crossing took over an hour, because the gentleman who registered the car for entry into Honduras was the most painstaking, careful, conscientious border official I have ever met. He folded Henry’s passport open, consulted us on which page the visa should go on, lined up the rubber stamp with the edges of the page, and inked in each specific piece of information with great care; each form he filled out was treated with the same respect and care. Even the stack of small bills we gave him for the cash-only fee was sorted by denomination, edges tapped carefully against the desk for alignment, set atop the entry forms with edges perfectly matched; all was then stapled together with the precision of a surgeon. The first time he signed the document, he took a tiny leather case from his pocket, pulled out a round metal box which revealed itself to be a small rubber stamp with a self-inking cover, dabbed extra ink on it from the larger pad on his desk, and then carefully applied the stamp to the edge of his signature. He was required to sign the papers several more times as well, and each time he repeated the procedure, always putting the seal in exactly the same position on his signature, and returning the seal to its case and the case to his pocket. Truly, he missed his calling as an origami master, or perhaps as a repairer of doll’s wristwatches. And through the entire lengthy procedure, he was friendly, welcoming, and helpful.

By the time we left the border and headed into Honduras, afternoon had turned to evening and it was quite dark. Our destination was the town of Copán Ruinas, only ten kilometers away. We arrived there without further incident, although we met some of our first Honduran residents on the way: two old horses, nonchalantly standing there relaxing, right in the middle of the road.