Central America is pretty much exactly like it is portrayed in the movies; sweltering heat, flourishing jungles, machete wielding natives, giant reptiles, ancient ruins, khaki clad archaeologists, and plenty of beans and rice.
But in spite of all this, the most noticeable difference in cultures is Belize’s complete lack of fast food. There is not a single set of golden arches in the entire country. To some this would be a welcome respite from the constant barrage of commercialism and temptation. To a pregnant woman with a craving for French fries, it was a nightmare!
After the first month of beans, rice, and questionable chicken, I was becoming desperate for the familiarity and comfort of two al- beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, and onions on a sesame seed bun.
Local folklore suggested that there was a place where such food could be obtained. Three hours north, in a land called Mexico, was a large city boasting malls, movie theaters, stoplights, and most importantly, hamburgers. This being my fifth pregnancy hubby knew that my need for hormone-laden, pre-formed burgers must be satiated or I would go insane, taking the entire family along for the ride.
He quickly mapped out a trip to the border and we drove cautiously into the city, constantly aware that technically we were not supposed to take our rental car out of the country. I didn’t mention that I had failed to put our rental agreement into the glove compartment.
We exchanged our Belizean money for pesos, but by the time we paid fees and had the car sprayed for bugs there was very little left. Hubby went from bank to bank, but alas, our Visa debit card, that worked with no problem in Belize, would not function in Mexico.
We drove to McDonalds, hoping that the debit card would work, but it was useless. We had enough pesos to buy one cheeseburger. I suggested purchasing one and splitting it five ways, but hubby said there was no way he was spending his last fifty pesos on a cheeseburger. Twelve-year-old son, trying to hide his disappointment, suggested that if he could just smell the McDonald’s he would be satisfied.
I sat staring at the floorboard. How was it possible to be this close and yet so far? Suddenly, I remembered the emergency credit card we’d activated just before leaving the U.S. I was twenty feet from a value meal and it would be at least another month before the opportunity arose again. This was a true emergency.
Hubby somewhat reluctantly placed the card into my eagerly outstretched hand, but to my dismay I found it was still breakfast time. Trying to maintain my composure, I bravely ordered what I thought was an Egg McMuffin. I ended up with an English muffin smothered in…refried beans. I tried to mask my pain by thoroughly enjoying the first fountain coke I’d had in weeks.
As I slowly washed down the last bite of beans I asked hubby if we could stay until lunch time. This man, who says he loves me and has never denied me anything, practically screamed the word no. He was anxious to get back to Belize where we could speak the language, get money from the bank, and no one, not even the police, carried guns.
As we pulled out of the parking lot I caught sight of a Burger King and sweetly suggested checking their lunch hours. With emergency credit card in hand I ran inside and was rewarded by the aroma of flame-broiled Whoppers. Ordering was easy this time. I simply said, “Tres tres,” or three number threes. With a sack full of burgers and fries, we contentedly headed back to the border.
As it turns out, we had not gone through the proper channels when arriving in the country, and we were in fact, illegal aliens in Mexico.
A guard escorted hubby somewhere out of sight and after several minutes I realized he had all of our passports, the car keys, and our only means of currency. I was alone with four children, no money, no cell phone service, no proof that we legally had the vehicle we were sitting in, and the knowledge that being able to count to ten in Spanish was not going to help me explain our lack of passports. My only consolation was the fact that if hubby was thrown into prison, I could eat his Whopper.
After what seemed like an eternity he finally came crashing towards the car, jumped in and locked the doors. “Let’s get out of here while we can!” he exclaimed.
As we barreled across the border he told me they were requiring a fine of 500 pesos. He tried explaining his situation to no avail. They finally located a man that spoke limited English and he repeatedly asked hubby, “Do you understand?” Hubby assured him that he understood, but we only had fifty pesos. With a stern warning, they finally let him go.
The kids thought it was great, just like in the movies. Hubby was about to keel over with a heart attack. And I was never so glad to be entering a country where the golden arches are simply a myth.
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