For a mum backpacking with a three year-old, getting up at 5:15 AM to catch transportation for an eleven-hour border crossing is forecasted to be somewhat of a nightmare. It’s either you tame a raging bull of a child or sleepily carry her dead weight whilst toting three other bags to the colectivo or minibus at the crack of dawn.

Fortunately that day, by divine intervention of the Mayan gods, Luna’s just-been-forced-awake tantrum was non-existent. At six, she was merrily squeezing the life out of cuddling the guesthouse’s resident cat while we were waiting for our transport — which arrived minutes late for we were the last passengers to be picked up. It also seemed that we were the only ones with luggage.

After the driver dumped and securely strapped our luggage atop the minibus, we soon rode under the morning light. About three hours later our minibus stopped at a cluster of restaurants. A couple of fellow tour buses were parked in front, off the highway as well. Our busmates who were all going to the ancient Maya city Yaxchilan on the bank of Usumacinta River headed straight to the resto our driver pointed out. They appeared to expect this stop. Because we were aware that breakfast was not included in the ticket we purchased from the guesthouse, we brought and nibbled our own snacks. The buffet breakie would have been around USD$4-5 each person.

Quarter to 11:00 AM, we arrived in Mexican border town Frontera Corozal. Driver called out to us when we pulled up in front of the customs and immigrations office, “Guatemala? Señor, señora?”. Which was echoed by some of our busmates who prolly had no idea about this border cross arrangement, “Guatemala?!”.

There was no one else at the office when we got there. We hurriedly handed our passports to the lone staff when we heard our minibus drive off. Our luggage! The guy behind the counter wordlessly examined our passports and took our visa/tourist cards, his expression impassive when he looked up at the hubby and Luna. When he got to my passport, however, he smirked. “Pacquiao?”. Yep. On Mexican soil, to all the boxing fans, that’s my name. I nodded. He gave me a thumbs up.

Tip: For border crossers who intend to re-enter soon may ask the official if you could keep your tourist/visa card (granting it will still be valid upon return). It may cost some dollars but at least you don’t have to pay the full amount of about $25. If you didn’t pay for this when you first got in the country it’s because it was included in your airfare. Some officials may agree to this, some may insist for you to turn in your card.

We sprinted out of the immigration office gate and towards the direction of where our bus must have gone. We found it at some parking lot some meters down the road, in time to witness a bloke dragging (because really, the wheels don’t roll on such rocky road) one of our suitcases. The driver was gone. And the guide would have already taken our busmates to Yaxchilan. We grabbed the rest of our luggage and laboriously hauled them towards the bank of Usumacinta River (about a quarter of a kilometer from the immigration office) and onto the lancha.

>Waiting for the bus to Bethel and onwards to Flores.

The lancha ride lasted about 15 minutes. On the Guatemalan side of the Usumacinta River in La Tecnica, we were instructed to wait for another bus that was to take us to Bethel where the Guatemalan immigration office is. And so we waited in travel purgatory — a term I use to call a state when we’ve been stamped out of a country but have not been stamped in another — and waited. The few minutes of expected wait time stretched to more than an hour (Luna had a ball playing with the kids in a public school she trespassed in). Tourists trickled in the waiting shed/tourist information, perhaps the reason why the interval between buses was long.

When the bus arrived, passengers rushed in to get good seats, tossing their rucksacks as they went. Because our life’s belongings fit in six bags of varied sizes, we were the last ones to get on after assisting the driver with some of our stuff. We got seats on the second to the last row, which meant the bumpy ride will even be bumpier for us. And Luna, being exempted from the fare, sat on our laps.

From La Tecnica, the drive was about half an hour to the Guatemalan immigration office in Bethel. Entering Guatemala, there should be no fees but officials will still ask for some dollars (about $5). There should be money changers walking about, only change the amount you’d need for the trip since the exchange rate is expected to be bad. From Bethel, it was another two-hour ride on unpaved road. It was a wise decision to pass up on the buffet breakie, else its unappealing chemical state will be all over the dusty floor of the bus for everyone to see.

The bumpy ride ended with an applause from all the passengers. I clapped in glee me self, perhaps a volume notch higher than anyone else’s. My arse was numb, and back sore from immobility. With our tot dozing on us, and bags between our feet there was really no space to allow us to shift our positions. The smooth sailing cruise of the bus on cemented highway — which I considered then as one of the greatest creations of mankind that time — was a respite.

It went for another two hours, with a break for bathroom and snacks. Finally around past four in the afternoon, we arrived in Flores. Our home for a few days in Guatemala.