“Papers, please”

I looked at my GPS. According to the map, the border between Mexico and Guatemala was 2 miles to the south. Yet here I was, looking at a very real guard shack with very real border guards carrying very real machine guns.

I stepped off my BMW motorcycle and took stock of the situation. It was a standard town in the south of Mexico. Tiny shops surrounded a guard shack, street vendors selling their wares, and a big tope (speed bump) with a length of chain stretched across the road. As far as Central American borders go, it was pretty legit.

I was in the middle of an epic journey that would take me solo from Pennsylvania to Panama. Inspired by globe-trotting friends, I had bought a motorcycle, learned to ride it, and immediately ridden south of the border. My first 10,000 miles of riding experience would be in Central America. Exiting the USA, my itinerary would take me through 12 border checkpoints and 8 different countries. And this was my first real challenge: The border between Mexico and Guatemala.

“Papeles, por favor.”

I snapped back to reality. Crossing the border is like going to the DMV. In Spanish. While also keenly aware that there are people around who want to rob you. Or worse. Did I mention that I only spoke the most basic of Spanish?

But here was this guard, looking bored, asking me for every important piece of paper I had on me. Behind him, a bored teenager played with the safety of his AK-47. I opened my saddlebags and began digging out my important papers.

Driver’s license, title to the bike, registration, temporary insurance paperwork, Mexican temporary registration, passport, trans-migrant paperwork. I gave it to the guard. He went into the shack and started stamping papers. Everything seemed normal.

But my 6th sense was tingling.

Something didn’t feel right. Everybody around me seemed to be minding their own business. This is not how it works at Central American towns when somebody rolls in on a nice motorcycle. I was used to getting mobbed by beggars and merchants. I was used to having someone offer to guard my bike for me. I was used to having “guias”, (guides) offer to help me through the formalities… for a fee. None of that was happening.

The guard came back and ushered me into the shack. We went through a door in the back which led to a commercial office. Another man was sitting behind an official looking desk. He spoke to me in broken English.

“Everything is in order, but you are missing the insurance”, he said. “In order to proceed to Guatemala you will need to buy it. We sell it here for $400.”

Oh shit.

All of a sudden everything made sense! I wasn’t at the real border. I was at a fake checkpoint surrounded by criminals. And they had tricked me into giving them every scrap of important paperwork that I would need to continue my journey. They were heavily armed. I was thousands of miles away from help, in a land where I didn’t speak much of the language.

I contemplated just how screwed I was.

If they wanted my motorcycle they would kill me and take it. If they wanted to kidnap me and hold me hostage they could. I needed to get out of there, and fast. But I knew that without my papers I wouldn’t get far.

But I had an advantage.

They didn’t know that I knew. I made a list of mental priorities:

1. Don’t die.
2. Get the hell out of there without arousing suspicion.
3. Seek help at the real border, just a few miles down the road.
4. Get my papers replaced at an embassy.
5. Don’t die.

Thinking quickly, I adopted a confused and scared tone. “I’m so sorry that I didn’t buy the insurance. I didn’t realize it was necessary!”

“Oh, it is very necessary”, countered the officer. I pulled out an expired credit card, the type I often carry when traveling abroad. I handed it to the man. “Please forgive me. Here’s an American Express.”

Here it should be mentioned that he was sitting behind a desk with a single ancient desktop computer that wasn’t even plugged in. Chances of these scammers having credit card processing was hovering around zero. I was right. He smiled and said that they only take cash to buy the insurance.

My gambit worked. Now that these people trusted that I had fallen for the bait, it was time to get them on my side. I put on my sad face. “I don’t carry that much cash to borders.”

“Why not?” The man asked. “Because there are dangerous people at borders and I’m scared to be robbed”, I replied. He broke into a wide grin. He totally understood what I was saying. I went on to explain that if they could point me to the nearest ATM I would get the money, buy the insurance, and be on my way.

The man nodded. He took all of my paperwork, wrapped it in some newspaper, and handed it to an obviously low ranking kid in the criminal organization. “Jośe here will take you to the ATM.”

Objective 1: Don’t die. Completed.

Objective 2: Get out of there without raising suspicion. Completed.

Now I knew for a fact that the only ATM in the area was across the border, in Guatemala. My original plan was to get to the border, get help, and eventually get my papers back. But now that I had this low level thug following me with my all important paperwork a better plan presented itself.

We walked out to my motorcycle, sitting untouched after 15 tense minutes in the guard shack. The kid hopped on the back.

“Vámonos”

Let’s go. I wheeled my bike around and headed for the border. Now a new set of problems dawned on me. I had this street thug on my bike. What if he wanted to slit my throat as we rode? I started to intentionally hit potholes and weave, forcing him to hold on to the grab bars. “Lo siento,” I kept calling back to him. He cursed my name and held on tighter as we rode on into the afternoon sun.

And there it was.

The REAL border. Surrounded by a real town, flanked by thousands of people coming and going, transacting business, and hawking their goods. I was home free. All I needed to do was get to the officials, lose the kid, and maybe they’d even be able to recover my paperwork.

We got up to the border checkpoint. My friend held back. He was obviously scoping things out before he showed his face at the real office. I walked up to the window. Calling him over, I asked him for my papers. The border official watched from behind the glass. He pulled out the papers and headed them to the official. I got the bike officially out of the country, stamped myself out, and then…

The official didn’t give me my papers back. He called my thug babysitter back into the office, they exchanged some words, and the rat bastard returned all my stuff to the kid who was robbing me.

Well damn. I could have figured that everybody is somebody’s cousin around here. Time for plan C.

We hopped back on the bike and the kid directed me to the ATM, about 2 miles outside of town. By now it’s dark. And in Guatemala, dark means dark. No street lights. No reflectors. No lines in the road. I still have a potentially murderous thug on my motorcycle. But he’s now a few miles into a foreign country, illegally. The odds are slowly leaning into my favor.

I step off the bike, intentionally parking it for a quick getaway. Stepping into the ATM, I slide my library card. Network error. I print out a slip. I slide it again. Network error. Unrecognized card. I print another slip. Taking it out to the kid, I ask him what the slips mean. He doesn’t know. I pretend to call my bank. At this point he’s tired and hungry. And I’ve been shaking him up on the back of a motorcycle for hours. It’s a war of attrition, only he doesn’t realize that I’m even fighting it.

“My bank turned off the card. They need my passport number to turn it back on.” I shrug my shoulders. “You know how banks can be.” The kid looks suspicious, but at the same time he can understand my dilemma. After all, I’m legitimately trying to get the money to pay the insurance. He pulls out my passport and gives it to me. I open it and read the numbers into my iPod Touch. No, I didn’t even have a phone. But I had something that resembled a phone, and that was good enough for my purposes.

I read the number again. And again, this time with more emphasis. Bad connection, you see. We are in rural Guatemala, after all. The kid eventually gets bored and wanders away. I quickly pocket my passport, grab my knife, and prepare for a fight.

But it doesn’t happen. He seems to have forgotten that he gave me one of my documents back. Game on, kiddo. Game on.

I slide my knife up the sleeve of my armored motorcycle jacket, ready if I need it. But if I can use diplomacy I certainly will. No need for bloodshed today.

I look at my GPS and find the next major town. “The bank says that I need to use a different ATM. Let’s head out so that I can get the money and pay the insurance.”

Now the young thug is getting nervous. We’re straying far from the border, far from his friends, and he’s in a foreign country illegally. But he’s got a mission, which is to get the money and bring me back to Mexico. I can only imagine the consequences for him if he loses me. His problem is that he can’t be outright hostile. After all, I’m a cooperative (if a bit absentminded) victim. We press on.

Bingo!

A shopping mall. It’s still open, and there’s a department store in it. Like many Guatemalan shopping malls, this one has an ATM inside. Also like many Guatemalan shopping malls, this one sells motorcycles. I spot my chance.

I strike up a conversation with the salesman, cooing over the features of some random Chinese 50cc motorcycle. It’s the type that are common all over the developing world. I want to take it for a test drive. Could I trade my fully decked out BMW F650GS for one of these? The salesman’s jaw drops. Of course I could. But he’s gonna need some papers from me before he lets a foreigner test drive it.

I call my friend over. He’s got the papers. I motion for him to give them to the salesman. Then I go over to the bikes again. The young thug is bored and frustrated by now. Why am I buying a motorcycle? What kind of people are Norteamericanos, anyway? When he wanders to the other end of the store I spot my opportunity. I thank the salesman, grab my papers, and swiftly move for the door. My hand is on the starter button before Jośe notices that he’s being ditched. The engine roars to life and I pop a wheelie getting the hell out of there.

I can still see him in my rear view mirror, screaming and crying. “Amigo! Stop! Please!” I make tracks into the black Guatemalan night.

I’m tired, but a surge of adrenaline takes over as I consider how many ways I could have died. Not wanting to be anywhere near that town, I push a hundred more miles into Guatemala before taking a room for the night. I find a hotel where I can securely store the motorcycle in my room, just in case whichever crime syndicate I pissed off has their feelers out looking for me.

I had just outwitted an organized crime ring that had infiltrated even the offices of the border patrol, ditched a low-level thug deep in unfriendly territory, gotten all my papers back, and had them help me across the border in the process. But the best part?

I didn’t die.

**EDIT**

Wow! This answer generated a ton of activity. Thanks for the upvotes. There’s a ton of questions below, so I’ll answer them up here.

1. Did it really happen? Yes. My friends, this is Quora. It’s a persistent non-anonymous platform. Everything you’ve ever written or edited can be viewed by anybody, forever. Not the best place to write lies.
2. Do I write/speak professionally? Yes. I’m a storyteller. Not stories like this one though. I do freelance marketing, copywriting, PR stuff. Want me to make your product just as compelling as what you just read? You know how to reach me. /shameless plug
3. Do I dislike Mexico, Mexicans, etc? No. I love Mexico, especially the Yucatán Peninsula. I lived abroad long enough that I can drink the tap water. Yummy. I love the people of Central America. The vast majority are hardworking, ethical, hospitable, and charming. I learned a ton about family values by immersing myself in the culture. There are criminals everywhere. This story is an isolated incident bookended by thousands of more pleasant (and mundane) interactions.
4. Did I get my bike back? I thought I was clear that I rode it away. While lifting the front tire. Not intentionally, though in retrospect I must have looked somewhere between bad ass and incompetent. Bad ass because, you know, wheelie. Incompetent because I presented my young friend a larger target to shoot at if he so desired. Fortunately he either wasn’t armed or didn’t want to create a scene. You do remember that I had him dozens of kilometers away from his friends, right?
5. What about the return trip? I didn’t return. I lived in Costa Rica for 5 years. I volunteered to run a hippie farm, ran a hotel, volunteered for an organization dedicated to preventing sex trafficking, owned a restaurant, and eventually found a niche watching vacation mansions for US homeowners. That story can be read elsewhere on Quora. I eventually did make it back to that latitude, but I crossed over via Belize. Just in case…
6. What happened to the bike? I traded it for a Jeep in Costa Rica. A CJ7 with an OEM Isuzu diesel motor. I didn’t know they even made them that way. The new bike owner paid the import taxes and hopefully never road tripped north. The Jeep had a cracked frame. The BMW had a cracked fork. Seemed fair to me.