The Guatemalan man on the bus says he’ll bring me to the border. We soon find ourselves on a river with boats made of large inner tubes and mismatched planks of wood. This is not the official border crossing. I remember him mentioning something in broken English about not having papers and thing become clear quickly. I thank him for his help so far and leave to find the real border.
I end up in a blue and white room, blue on the bottom, white on the top. Ants are crawling up a wall to a crack in a window. I’m sitting and waiting with my bags around me. I’m stuck in no-mans-land. Other people keep walking in, getting their stamps, and moving onto Mexico. My curiosities about the Tijuana border were being answered now. It was strange that no one asked for my passport or gave me stamps the week before. I knew this now because I was now being denied entrance to Guatemala for not having my Mexican stamps and Mexico wouldn’t take me back either. I wait in the middle, of the real border. The Guatemalan border guards have hinted at a solution, but don’t speak a word of English. The solution remains a mystery. In time a white man walks into the room. I approach him to see if he speaks English, he does and he can tell me what is happening. Their system is down, they’re going to ignore my lack of Mexican stamps. I’ll be in the country as soon as the system is back up. I take my seat again, without weight.