I arrived in La Paz, a town near the southern tip of the Baja Peninsula. I bought a ticket for the overnight ferry to mainland Mexico. Parking on the boat was tight but efficient. It was a mix of seasoned truckers and novice tourists. I locked the truck and headed upstairs to explore the deck. I felt the vibrations from the engine shift as we set off. After a while, I made my way to my room for the night. By morning, we had docked in Mazatlán, Sinaloa.

Earlier that month, in the state of Sinaloa, the Mexican Army had arrested the son of a drug lord. The Cartel took to the streets, blocking highways and burning vehicles, threatening to keep doing so until his release. In Mazatlán, I saw the burned carcass of a car. Given the headlines, and being a first time visitor to Mexico, I decided to stick to more touristy spots. After another day of driving I was just north of Mexico City. I was using my phone to find a place to camp when I saw Omar's Camping Circus. A large white stucco walled building with a roof covered in brightly colored tarps. I entered through a large metal gate. The walls surrounding the compound were topped with barbed wire. I parked in the shade next to a row of tall cedar trees. This place seemed safe for the night.

I made my way south into the state of Chiapas. As I approached the toll booth, I noticed a message taped to the glass. Handwritten in Sharpie on a piece of cardboard, it warned of roadblocks ahead. I drove a little further and found myself stopped on the highway. A few taxis made U-turns through the grass and headed back into town. The sound of air brakes being applied came from all the semi-trucks. First a whoosh, followed by a hard squeak as they came to a complete stop. The heat of the sun baked my truck as I sat there.

I turned the truck off and hopped out. The man behind me in traffic also got out of his vehicle. He pointed at my license plate. "Ah, Kentucky! Go Cats!" he said. I laughed. The "Cats," also known as the Wildcats, are the name of the popular college basketball team from my home town. He introduced himself as David. He used to live in Georgia, a neighboring state to Kentucky. I asked if he knew how long the wait would be. "Not very long," he replied. Every so often, the semi-trucks would turn their engines back on and release their brakes. David and I would jump back into our vehicles and slowly roll forward for about a mile before stopping again. This time, we stopped in front of a house. A bright teal one with white trim and a large shade tree in the front yard. The homeowners set up a circle of plastic lawn chairs under the tree and offered dinner to anyone who wanted it. I didn’t join, fearing I might eat something that wouldn’t agree with my stomach. I hadn’t road tested my gut yet. I just sat in my truck, wishing I would have joined them and hoping we would move soon.

A couple dozen men, some in flip-flops, some barefoot, stood in the middle of the road making sure no one snuck past. They directed traffic by waving and pointing their machetes.

After nearly six hours, I got to the end of the roadblock. Large, dented oil barrels and piles of rocks created a wall across the lanes. A couple dozen men, some in flip-flops, some barefoot, stood in the middle of the road making sure no one snuck past. They directed traffic by waving and pointing their machetes. Every hour, the protesters would roll one of the barrels aside, allowing traffic to pass for fifteen minutes or so, then roll the barrel back into place. Later, I found out the roadblock was a protest against the government’s plan to build a landfill nearby. The locals had figured out that by blocking traffic and disrupting the economy, their voices would be heard. By the time it was my turn to pass through the blockade, the sun had set. I found the first hotel on the road ahead and paid for the night.

I woke up and made my way to the Guatemalan border. I was directed to drive through a building that looked like a car wash, but it misted my truck with what I assumed was some sort of pesticide. I rolled up my windows and turn off the vents. After pulling through, I parked the truck and entered the customs building. I reached into my pocket for my passport and accidentally fumbled all my belongings onto the floor. In my mind, I was an international adventurer, but in reality, I was so embarrassed my cheeks turned red. I bent down and rushed to gather my stuff. The border guard waited for me to shove everything back into my pockets, then handed me a card with a number on it. I sat down and placed the card in my lap and waited my turn. I opened my documents folder and figgeted with my paperwork. Border crossings are a test of patience. “Número veintidós! Veintidós.” Not my number. I continued to wait my turn, reshuffling my documents again and again. From behind a plexiglass window the border guard called me up. I handed him my small pile of documents. Signature, signature, stamp, stamp, stamp. I was in Guatemala.

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