Nogales Border Crossing: My First Ride Into Mexico

Ben Gurion Airport, Tel Aviv.

Final call for boarding.

Seatbelts fastened. The plane races down the runway and takes off. Fifteen hours is a long time. I try to sleep, read, plan the ride—and then the plane lands.

6:00 AM, Los Angeles time.

Morning of February 9, 2026. LAX Airport, Los Angeles, California. I step out of the airport with a large bag full of riding gear on my back.

It’s still early to call Eyal, my friend from military service who has been living in California for years. I left the motorcycle with him after buying it in Miami and finishing my previous journey in Los Angeles.

7:00 AM, I call him.

“I’m in an Uber on my way to your office,” I tell Eyal.
“I’m on my way,” he replies.

Eyal had already arranged for the bike to be serviced.

I arrive before him, and within minutes he shows up. We’re both happy to see each other again. We sit for coffee and catch up.

“Come on, Harel, we’ve got a busy day,” Eyal says, and we head out to get the motorcycle.

“Oil leak,” Eyal says.

I bend down and see oil dripping from the rear shock. How can that be, I think. The bike is second-hand, but it has only done 7,500 miles—that’s nothing for a GS 1250. I ride behind Eyal to the BMW service center.

They immediately identify the issue: the shock needs to be replaced. But it’s not in stock, and it will take a week to arrive.

“You’ve got a room ready,” Eyal says. The bike stays at the garage, and we head to his house.

It’s such a pleasant surprise to meet Michal, Eyal’s wife. We sit for coffee, and I can’t help but tell her about the miracle of the product she makes—BLUMENS. It’s a natural cream, and it saved me.

I tell Michal that when I returned from my trip in Sicily and boarded the ship, I was hit with severe pain. Later, it turned out to be kidney stones. I had the BLUMENS cream with me, and when the pain became unbearable, I applied it to the painful area—and somehow, almost miraculously, the pain eased significantly.

Michal explains what the cream is made of, and that it contains only natural ingredients. Amazing, I think to myself. Since that experience, I always make sure to carry one with me.

This is my fourth day with Eyal’s family, and I get to know them better—Neta, Eyal’s children, and Ben and Eleanor, Michal’s children. We eat together, go out together, and the connection with all of them grows stronger. What an incredible family.

I’ve known Eyal since we were 18. We went through a lot together in the military, but I never really got to know his family. Naturally, they made me feel like part of it.

The motorcycle is ready. Tomorrow, I’ll hit the road—to Arizona.

The border town of Nogales.

I’ll cross into Mexico there. I plan to reach Sonora, then Chihuahua, to Copper Canyon, and continue along the Sierra.

The bike is packed. I feel a pinch in my heart as I say goodbye to this amazing family I’ve grown attached to over the past week.

“I always come back,” I say, and head out.

I cross California, enter Arizona, and ride through a vast desert—the Sonoran Desert.

I ride alongside giant cacti that accompany me along the way. Before dark, I stop in Yuma, take a simple hotel room after a full day of riding.

A long shower, then I go out to eat at a Thai restaurant in town.

Fatigue takes over, and I return to the hotel to sleep.

At 8:00 AM, I set out again. I plan to reach a small town in the Arizona desert, set up a tent, and from there continue another day of riding to the border town of Nogales and cross into Mexico.

Toward evening, I find a place to set up my tent. I set my alarm for 4:30 AM.

The Arizona desert night is so cold that I have to get out of my sleeping bag, put on pants, a wool hat, and my jacket just to warm up.

The alarm goes off. I pack my gear and head out. The temperature is below zero, and I ride into the sunrise.

I’m tense about Mexico. As I ride, I replay all the travel warnings in my head—Level 4, the most severe: “Do not travel unless absolutely necessary.”

What are the dangers? Kidnappings for ransom, gangs setting up roadblocks, robberies—descriptions that only increase the pressure building inside me.

I ride toward the sunrise, watching the sun slowly light up this part of the world.

I reach the outskirts of Nogales and move toward the border crossing.

My heart is pounding. I think maybe I’m making a mistake. The thoughts are there, but I’m on autopilot. The fear is like background noise—I hear it, but I don’t listen.

I read that it’s best to arrive early, otherwise there’s a long line of people, which could delay me and force me to ride in the dark—something that’s very dangerous in Mexico.

I pass the American side and enter Mexico.

 

Where the hell is passport control?

I see armed soldiers with helmets and covered faces. It looks and feels like a war zone.

I ask a policewoman I come across, “Where is passport control?”
“It’s not here,” she replies, explaining: I need to go back to the border, re-enter the U.S. side, and drive about 20 minutes to another crossing.

“My God, what a critical mistake,” I tell myself. I get on the bike and wait in a long line of Mexican cars patiently queuing to enter the United States.

“What do I do now?” If I end up entering at night, I’m finished, I think.

I start riding between the cars until I reach an American officer. I explain the mistake and tell him I don’t want to enter at night—it’s very dangerous to ride on Mexican roads after dark.

“Oh yeah, it’s very, very dangerous at night in Mexico,” he says, and shows me how to bypass the line.

I follow his instructions and reach the U.S. checkpoint. Sniffer dogs inspect every vehicle approaching.

Damn, I think to myself—I’ve arrived in a war zone. Soldiers on both the American and Mexican sides are armed from head to toe.

Meanwhile, I explain my situation to the officer at the checkpoint. He asks a few questions, takes my passport while the dogs sniff the motorcycle, then opens the gate, hands back my passport—and I speed toward the correct border crossing.

I leave the American side and enter Mexico.

What’s going on here? Why am I inside the city of Nogales, Mexico? Where is Mexican passport control?

Thoughts about the dangers of this border city don’t leave me: smuggling routes, gangs, don’t stop in the city.

What am I doing here?

I turn back toward the border crossing and ask a Mexican officer where passport control is. He points to a white building with no sign.

I walk down a corridor that leads me to a counter. A clerk is sitting in front of me.

“Is this passport control?” I ask.
“Yes,” he replies.

I’m surprised—there’s no line. I’m the only one here, I think to myself as I hand over my passport.

Of course there’s no line—I’m probably the only idiot willing to enter a place full of travel warnings.

“I made a serious mistake.”

It’s not that I’m just going for a ride in Mexico—I’m heading into the heart of cartel-controlled areas.

Now there’s no turning back.

The officer returns my passport, and I ask, “Where is customs?”
“At kilometer 21,” he answers.

“Where is kilometer 21?” I ask.
“Another 21 kilometers,” he replies.

As I walk back to the bike, I think—what is this ‘kilometer 21’? Now go find the right building exactly 21 kilometers from here.

I get on the motorcycle and head out, hoping to find kilometer 21.

I’m scared. I ride through the city, and all the warnings I read echo in my head: get out of the city as fast as possible.

Every car that stays behind me for more than two minutes—I’m convinced it’s following me, that at the next intersection weapons will be pulled.

I stop at a small roadside stand and ask where km 21 is. With a hand gesture, he explains. I nod as if I understand—but I don’t understand a thing—and continue on my way.

There it is—a white building, exactly like the man at passport control described.

I pull off the road and stop in front of a blocked parking area. Two girls selling food from a small stand gesture for me to go around and enter.

I walk up to the counter in front of me and hand over the motorcycle documents.

With exceptional kindness and a willingness to help, the clerk handles the motorcycle registration.

A man approaches me and asks if I had any trouble at the border crossing. I tell him no.
“Did anyone ask you for money?” he adds.
“No,” I reply.

Within a short time, I’m back on the motorcycle, riding toward the town of Cananea, where I’ll spend my first night.

I turn left toward the mountains. In the distance, I spot a police checkpoint. I turn on my GoPro—just in case. I think about stopping, but the officer signals me with his hand to keep going.

I ride along a narrow road as massive trucks speed past me.

I’m extremely tense.

At 2:30 PM, I arrive in the town. Nervously, I scan the sides of the road, looking for any kind of threat.

I pull over to the side, open Google Maps, and search for a hotel.

I ride to the first hotel that looks reasonable and stop in front of the gate. The receptionist looks up at me.

“Do you have a room for tonight?” I ask.
“Yes,” she replies. “Forty dollars.”

I pay and then ask, “Is it dangerous here?”
Calmly, she answers, “No, it’s quiet here.”

Quiet? I think. Everything I’ve seen online—and even ChatGPT—warns about these cartel-controlled areas. What is she talking about?

I ride to the room and park right in front of the door. I unload my gear inside. I’m exhausted. I rode a long distance today, and the tension is draining. I’ll go eat something and come back to sleep.

On the way to the restaurant, I keep checking my surroundings for any threat. As soon as I finish eating, I return straight to the room.

I’m worried the motorcycle might be stolen, so I leave the curtain open, making sure I can see it from the bed.

I wake up at first light. The tension won’t let me stay in bed.

I want to reach the town of Banámichi. I check the route—what is this? A travel warning on the shorter road, just one hour away: “This route is dangerous due to high cartel activity.”

I choose the longer route—three hours of riding—and set off.