Denied Mexico…



Upon our return to Maine for the summer we were invariably asked by everyone, “What sorts of adventures did you all get up to this time?” We could have focused on Base Camp, our school bus that we bought from the local district, and converted into our magic carpet ride, when our sailboat Tiny Bubbles II sold. We could have focused on the manatees that accompanied us as we swam in springs in Florida, the epic climbs of Hueco Tanks, just outside El Paso, or the glorious time we got to spend with friends and family— we could have focused on that…


What stuck in our minds were our failures. We had failed in our search for our next boat, and we had failed to enter Mexico. It’s true, Mexico told us we were, “demasiado pesado,” or too heavy. Too heavy? 
“Sí.” We had already been rejected at the previous border town of Ciudad Acuña, but we were told our luck could be better 50 miles south in Piedras Negras. 
So Close, Yet So Far — Piedras Negras Border

The woman in the border office that clicked away on her computer with our vehicle registration in her hand shook her head no, there was no way we were getting our TIP (Temporary Import Permit) for Base Camp. 

Yes, our ride weighs in at over 13,000 pounds, which unfortunately is a tad over their 7,700 pound limit for our vehicle class. The trick is to register the bus as a Motor Home, at which point weight no longer matters. We left Maine as a school bus, and we were now a Skoolie. Before the border attempt we had exchanged emails and phone conversations with Maine Vehicle Registration, and I was informed that we would need to return to Maine to take care of the paperwork, plates, and registration. 

I fumbled with my phone, and tried to show pictures of our marginal “Motor Home,” but she continued to shake her head, no, and pointed to the category “BUS” on the registration. 

I walked out of the Banjercito government office dejected and over to the second floor railing, not eager to deliver the news to the family… 
That’s where my First World problems became clear. I was peering down on a floor full of people. People under foil emergency blankets. People who wanted nothing more than to get across the border to the country I was being kicked back into. What struggles had they been through to arrive here? Were they from Honduras? Haiti? Venezuela? Had some of them crossed the Darién Gap? So many questions passed through my mind, and the image still haunts me.



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