Chacala Mexico, May 30
The azure waters lap against my skin as I stand waist deep in the surf. The small Mexican beach is surrounded by emerald green hills dotted with brightly painted houses, looking like vibrant flowers against a bouquet of green. The beach curves for a quarter mile on either side of me, the white sand glistens under the tropical sun. As the surf crashes behind and warm breezes gently buffet the palm trees I am filled with a feeling of grief.
Outside Catazaja Mexico, May 21
The sweat is pouring down my body. My hands are so sweaty that as I handle the documents handed to me by the SAT officer I leave them damp.
“We are going to take your motorcycles.”
We have been stopped at the junction of two highways in Southern Mexico by the Servicio de Administración Tributaria (imagine the IRS with machine guns). Half a dozen officers stand around in crisp white shirts and blue slacks filling out a mountain of paperwork to confiscate our bikes. Soldiers stand in the background with machine guns. I watch as other cars pass through the check stop.
“We are going to take your motorcycles.”
I make eye contact with Than. The look in his eyes reflect my own thoughts. “This can’t be happening.” Again I ask if there is a bribe we can pay. Roberto, the only one of the half dozen officers to speak english looks at Nathaniel and I and says in his heavily accented english
“We are going to take your motorcycles.”
Palenque Mexico, May 24
I am mad. Pissing mad. I stand in our crappy hotel room, holding the cellphone, resisting the urge to hurl it against one of the garishly orange painted walls. Our trip is over. Best case scenario we may get them back in 1-2 years and have to pay a fine. Worst case, the Mexican government will require us to pay the total price of the bikes which they have estimated at $9600 apiece (we paid $2500) plus a hefty fine for illegally importing a foreign vehicle. I swear loudly. It doesn't help. The injustice of it all seems overwhelming. Than and I have never put so much of ourselves into anything. Not school, sports or relationships. We have poured our time, money, resources, hopes and dreams into this trip. Now it is all over on the fifth day.
Mayan Ruins, near Palenque Mexico, May 23
The massive stone ruins rise above the shamrock green grass under the brutal equatorial sun. The air is still and heavy, matching our hearts as we move lethargically between pyramids and palaces. We try to summon some joy or wonder but instead make some black humored jokes. Gallows humor is the only thing that can make us smile. At another time the ruins of Palenque would be remembered with wonder for the rest of our lives. Instead we will always remember the solemnity, hanging like the humid, suffocating air, over the ruins.
Palenque Mexico, May 24
The heat in Palenque is a stifling, wet blanket. It reduces even the easiest of physical tasks to monumental trials to overcome. I understand now why afternoon siestas are a necessity in this part of the road. Nathaniel and I sit under the shade of a few trees on the edge of the turf soccer field. We suck on plastic bags filled with sweet, acidic hibiscus juice. For the first time since our motorcycles were taken I had forgotten. As we had played futball in the brutal heat of the afternoon, I had completely forgotten that our trip lay in ruins, that our dreams were as dead as Mayan kings in their tombs. That brief moment was the first of many over the next week. I would forget, for a few minutes or even hours and then the reality would come crashing back down.
Outside Catazaja Mexico, May 21
I park my bike, recently christened Rosa, next to Than’s. The SAT’s warehouse is large, full of foreign vehicles, gathering dust. It doesn’t look like any have left recently. I place the bike in neutral with my left foot, then shifting the weight fully onto my right leg I flip down the kickstand. I rock the bike back to center as it comes to rest. The same motion that I have done hundreds of times and thought I would do for thousands more. I pause for a second. My left leg resting on the ground, my right leg on the footpeg. I stroke the gas tank. I don’t know if I will ever see my bike again. I don’t know why this is happening. I don’t know and I don’t understand. I take my hand off Rosa and remove the key from the ignition. I walk away. I glance back at my stead, my Pegasus, my faithful Silver, my intrepid Shadowfax. I turn away, and walk out the door alone. -JF
Saturday, May 21 - Police check station in nowhere Mexico
We were sitting at the intersection of two main highways. To the right was Palenque, our destination that night, and to left was a gas station. We decided to swing into the station and fill up before driving the last 30 kilometers to Palenque. Turns out it was a one way highway which meant that in order to get to Palenque from the gas station we had to go around the loop. Unfortunately the loop took us through the SAT check station. As we pull in Jake looks back from his bike with a confused look. We’re both wondering what a highly sophisticated facility like that was doing in the middle of nowhere. Turns out that it’s a common drug/illegal goods route. A main highway coming from Guatemala meets a main highway coming from the northern coast. Anyway, it was there and so were we. All the vehicles in front of us were being waved through with hardly a passing glance. We both hoped that we would be as well. But seeing our foreign plates they stopped us and asked to see paperwork. Paperwork that we didn’t have, but I don’t want to get into those details.
It quickly became apparent that we were in hot water. We tried communicating with the officers for about 15 minutes with little success. Our Spanish is terrible and their English may have been worse. If we’re ordering food or asking for directions we do alright, but a complicated conversation about official documents and Mexican law was out of the question. Finally officer Roberto arrived, and he spoke our language. He filled us in on what was happening and informed us very matter-of-factly: “We are going to take your motorcycles.” We must have stood out in the suffocating heat for an hour trying work out a solution, but there was none to be had. It was very surreal. Roberto made it very clear what would be done with our motorcycles, but was unclear on what would be done with us. There were a couple moments where I was worried we would be spending the night in a Mexican jail.
They told us to drive the motorcycles behind their police pickup and follow them across the compound to the platform. Just before we got on the bikes Roberto walks up to me and says “Don’t try to drive away”. I laughed. Really? There were officers with weapons all around the compound as well as military personnel roaming around with machine guns. Fleeing would have been lunacy. I reassured him there would be no problem and we proceeded to the processing area. 2 ½ hours later we found ourselves on the curb loading all our possessions into a crummy little cab and driving towards Palenque. -NW
