22. Xing a Border

22.

After a few days at the Californian’s house, I continue my way south by bus. Soon I come to the little countries of Central America.

All the little countries
Have got their little laws.
At all their little borders
We make a little pause.
Into our little pockets
They reach their little claws.
It would have been much cheaper
If I had stayed at Ma’s.

Waiting at a border crossing I pay the inflated “gringo” price for a tall glass of steaming coffee with the local currency printed on rainbow colored paper—flowers on one side and mustachioed politicians on the other. After a final check of my backpack I am allowed to cross the “frontier”. The customs police mark my bag with a big red X in chalk. I think, “You’ve searched my bag and X’ed in red, but you forgot to X my head!”

Another day, another border; the land sharks here are tired women and children selling handfuls of soiled local and foreign money, oranges, bread and disgusting-looking meat. Buy only enough ragged local currency to get across each little country since it will be worthless paper at the next border! As the land bridge between the continents narrows, the sharks crowd closer—the little ones with nickel and dime rip-offs and the bigger ones with tolls, taxes and tanks.

Customs officers type slow. Soldiers slouch, fingers in their battered rifle’s barrels. Heat and dust. The only things moving are the hands of my wristwatch.

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