From Mexico, we travelled down the Caribbean coast into Belize, eventually landing in Placencia – a supposed American vacation town with towering resorts and a lake. Kidding. It was the ocean. We found a little oasis with hammocks right on the sand. I spent hours flopping around in the shallows with my goggles like a kid, doing handstands and backflips, yelling at my sister to watch.
It reminded me of the beach where I grew up – when the swell would flatten and I’d trade my surfboard for a bodyboard, mostly floating on my back, waiting for the waves to come home.
While the ocean was calm, crossing into Guatemala was anything but.
The plan was a simple three-hour border crossing. We were feeling good: hitched to the border smoothly, the immigration line empty. But once on the Guatemalan side, mindlessly walking through a wall of cars we were told there was a nationwide protest over car insurance, and all roads were blocked. We weren’t getting anywhere.
That’s when we met an American couple also stranded. The key difference? My sister and I have a high tolerance for discomfort. Hours in the sun? No water? Been there. The Americans… less so. They probably would’ve turned back around and paid the double exit fee if it wasn’t for our stubborn determination.
We were told we might be able to walk through the blockade. So, we set off on a 5km uphill trek, hoping to smile our way across. Halfway up, a guy offered us a lift. We jumped in. But at the top, guards firmly told us, “No.” So back down we went.
The Americans started debating hotels, bribes, going back to Belize. We, however, had already picked out a service station we were ready to sleep at if this continued through the night.
Then a taxi driver told us the road might open by 6 p.m. – seven hours away. Easy. By hour three, I was napping on concrete, my sister deep in her book. The Americans wearing a little.
Then hope arrived: a chicken bus appeared, dropping off five Polish backpackers who had somehow crossed the blockade. If they could, why not us?
We asked their driver to take us up. He agreed – for 10 quetzals, we thought. But at the top, he demanded U.S. dollars. Politely, fuck off. At the blockade, we tried the charm approach. No dice.
“But the Polish?” we pleaded.
They deliberated, then agreed: wait one hour, and we could pass. We turned to go, but they pointed to a shady cliffside area.
“Sweet,” I thought. “They want us to stay cool.”
Then someone lifted a gate of twigs and motioned us inside.
That’s when I realised – we were being put in a makeshift Guatemalan jail.
To be fair, it was kind of deluxe. Shade, music, they even brought us cold water. We weren’t the only ones paying owe dues, some locals were too.
Then came chaos: a Scottish man approached yelling, “This is a Guatemala issue, not a me issue!” trying to push through the protest. That display of entitled tourism must’ve done the trick, because moments later the protesters waved us through – with cheers.
We were across. But no cars were heading our way. We wandered down the line of stalled traffic, hoping someone would take pity. Nothing. A chicken bus finally appeared – but the “express” version wanted $250. Not happening.
Eventually, another, slightly-less-scamming bus rolled up. After some desperate “por favors,” we squeezed on. Overpriced, but a win.
Until it wasn’t. Another blockade. This time, preventing us from continuing by land, we’d need to take a boat.
At the dock, 30 other stranded travellers were already waiting. They had arranged boats and promised us spots if there was room. When one arrived, the American couple from earlier bolted on without a word. I’m not an “every man for themselves” kind of person, but they clearly were.
Luckily, there was space. The boat ride lasted two hours. The driver made out with his girlfriend while a grown man panicked about his missing life jacket. I gave him mine – he acted like his life was worth more than mine.
As I tried to withstand the urge to drink from the side of the boat like a dog (it’d been 12 hours in 35 degree whether without water) lightning bugs danced across the surface. My first time, it was the kind of moment that made the rest of the day fade, I was here, with lightning bugs.
We finally docked – exhausted, dehydrated – only for the boat driver to announce a price hike. Everyone lost it.
I handed him the original amount, smiled confidently, and ran. Not proud, but not paying more.
Two steps later, we found our hostel. A bed had never felt so good.
We were dusty, sun-stung, half-delirious – but grinning. That’s the thing: the messier the day, the better the story. One border, two blockades, three near breakdowns, and a brief jail stint later, we were in Guatemala. And finally heading for a beach that had waves not made by the speedboats flashing past.
