“I just feel like we’re here illegally.”
Such was my first thought upon entering Mexico. The border crossing was not like I imagined it would be. We drove through Laredo into the gated border area and got in the slowly moving line with the other cars. As we approached the checkpoint, we maneuvered into the “Nothing to Declare” line and a border guard waved us through. We looked out for the next checkpoint, where we expected our documents to be checked, but instead, found ourselves driving over the bridge and into Nuevo Laredo. And that was it. Nothing stamped, nothing checked.
“Did we miss something? Did we get in the wrong line?” We asked ourselves these questions in a quiet but rising panic. We knew that we had to get a temporary vehicle import permit to drive through Mexico and that the place to do that was a Banjercito in Nuevo Laredo, near the bridge. We reasoned (hoped) that any other other needed documentation could be obtained there as well. We loaded the address we had into our Garmin and followed its instructions straight into a dead end. The information on the screen simply did not match what we could see with our own eyes. Several more loops through downtown Nuevo Laredo and some frantic texting with a friend who frequently makes this trip finally landed us at the Banjercito, where we were able to get our temporary vehicle import permit and visas.
Now that we were in the country legally, we pointed Taiga, our Subaru Forester, out of town and onto the road to Troncones. We had originally planned three days for the drive across the country. We changed our minds, however, and decided to do it in just two. This would give us a free day to spend getting oriented, seeing the village or just relaxing. Maybe we could even get in a few turns on our surfboards.
Before getting there, however, we would run into the first of what is sure to be many small oversights on the trip. This oversight came in the form of a toll booth. Why we didn’t expect tolls on the Mexican highways, I don’t really know. It simply didn’t come up in our research and we didn’t think to specifically ask about it. It shouldn’t have been a problem, except that our unexpected delay finding the Banjercito and the following slog through multiple lines to get our papers printed and stamped had put us in a rush to hit the road. In this rush, we didn’t stop at an ATM to take out Mexican currency. Dumb mistake, but what can you do? Some things just slip through the cracks.
In an instant, the toll booth appeared on our horizon, some 250 meters distant. Oh shit, we said, knowing right away that we were about to be the focus of a small scene. Caught off-guard with stories of bribe-taking officials in our heads, the only thing we could think of was to limit the amount of the bribe we would surely have to pay in dollars. I didn’t even bother trying to pretend that I didn’t speak Spanish.
We explained to the toll collector that we had no pesos and asked what could be done. He called over a guard from a neighboring booth, while telling us that it would cost us $15 to pass. We tried offering him $7. He and the now two guards present were not impressed. They offered to ride with us to the nearest ATM (roughly 15km ‘near’) so we could withdraw cash. This seemed like a potentially very bad idea at worst or a major inconvenience at best. We rummaged through bags and presented $10. They looked at us with tired indifference. Look, the toll collector said, at the current exchange rates, your bill is at least $11. They reiterated their offer to escort us to an ATM. Still thinking that we were being shaken down for a bribe, but out of ideas, we pulled out another $5 bill. The collector accepted this and the guards waved us through. We checked the exchange rates and toll prices online to see how much we had tipped them. The cost in dollars for this toll: $11. No one had asked for a bribe, they just tried to make us pay the correct price. Feeling humbled, we stopped at the next available ATM for some much needed cash. As luck would have it, we found the ATM before finding the next toll.
Our drive across Mexico took us through four or five distinct geographical regions. We passed first through the arid scrubland of northern Nuevo León. The flat plains of the north quickly gave way to rolling hills dotted with fantastical trees that we immediately coined “Dr. Seuss trees”, before learning that they were Joshua Trees and had, in fact, inspired some of Dr. Seuss’s wonderful imagery. The road climbed the hills towards sharp, blue mountains, obscured by the clouds that their massive precipices had trapped. We switched from our stored music to the local radio and climbed the road towards the mountains of the Sierra Madre Oriental.
Chica, chico, baila conmigo, the radio entreated us while kilometer-high cliffs stretched past our car windows. Tucked into these mountains’ folds is Mexico’s big wall climbing area, el Potrero Chico. Due to work obligations, we didn’t have time to stop there right away. We’ll be back, though. The cliffs are calling.
Passing through the mountains, we descended into yet another geographically distinct region, the dry desert plateau of western Tamaulipas and northern San Luís Potosí. We drove into Matehuala, where a friend had recommended that we spend the night, just after sunset. A festival was underway when we arrived, el Festival del Desierto and the hotel restaurant was scattered with people who were clearly members of rock bands. We were too beat from a long day of travel, however, to push ourselves into the festivities. We toasted to the beginning of this next leg of our journey over a light dinner and a very nice tequila and promptly passed out in our small room.
South from Matehuala, along highway 57, the distances between rest stops grew long. A resource that we found while researching the trip claimed that gas stations in Mexico were plentiful and frequent. We did not find confirmation of this claim. Two stretches of desert road each consumed 3/4 of our 14-gallon tank of gas. Sure, gasoline is one thing, but bathroom breaks are also important and we resorted to using some facilities that we might have given a pass had the circumstances been different. We’ve both traveled enough to have used some pretty questionable toilets, but where we landed really scores high on the list of memorable ones.
Finally, the land rose once more into mountains; the Sierra Madre del Occidente, the southern reaches of the Rocky Mountains. Here, the desert ceded to lush vegetation and traffic ground to a halt.
The source of the obstruction was the worst traffic accident that either of us had ever seen. We didn’t witness it happen, but the aftereffect was equivalent to a bomb of respectable strength having been detonated. Two cars appeared to have collided head-on. Each was a twisted wreck of burned metal and plastic. One of the cars had lost maybe a third of its length upon impact. Air bags hung loosely from their moorings. Soon after passing the wreckage, we passed an ambulance. Although its lights were flashing, its siren remained silent and it moved without hurry.
I can imagine one possible cause of the accident. Many Mexican highways are single lane in either direction, with shoulders wide enough to be another lane. The convention for passing is for the vehicle being passed to move over onto the shoulder, while the passing car goes round, often dipping slightly into the oncoming lane. We read that as a courtesy to the passing vehicle, drivers should only get over when they can see that the oncoming lane is clear. In our first two days driving through Mexico, we saw evidence of only partial obedience to this courtesy.
A large network of bridges ferried us over rivers and lakes until the mountains dropped to the Pacific coast. Signs dotted the road, some offering cocos fríos, others adorned with the outline of a surfboard and an arrow.
Several minutes and many topes later, we arrived in Troncones. Fernando, our landlord for the next four months, welcomed us with cocos frios, which we happily drained. His son directed us to a small restaurant (literally someone’s backyard with a makeshift outdoor kitchen) where we could get a late dinner. We had been concerned about finding anything open on Sunday night in a small town. Bellies full of coconut milk and food, we fell onto our bed, already looking forward to what the next day would bring.