I'm in Juarez, Mexico, speaking French to a border official. I don't mean to be, but my Spanish is still weak. This is the first of many borders, my husband, Chris, and I will be crossing, and the official start to our 28,000-kilometer roundtrip adventure. Our trip from the United States to Central America really began six months earlier. Weary of the rat-race pace of our San Francisco lives, Chris and I decided to make a break from our urban existence. We didn't want a mere vacation.

We wanted an adventure that would push us past borders -- both external and internal. We reasoned that our Ford Explorer, 'Rex,' must be as weary of yuppie life as we were. His existence had so far been made up of countless jaunts to Williams-Sonoma and Safeway, with only occasional trips to Lake Tahoe easing the monotony and almost never requiring four-wheel drive or a foot of ground clearance. So we decided to put Rex's model name to the test and give him a chance for some real exploring -- including terrain not usually seen outside those rock-climbing, engine-gunning SUV television commercials.

Traversing Mexico, our route takes us through Guatemala, El Salvador, Honduras, and Nicaragua, then into Costa Rica, where we settle for three months in the remote Pacific Coast town of Dominical before returning.

Once over the border in Juarez, we veer southwest toward Creel. We had read somewhere about a secluded resort, 'perched on the rim of the Copper Canyon," called Hotel el Tejaban, and after one noisy night in Creel we're game for solitude. There is no hope of calling for a reservation since the hotel doesn't have a phone. So we strike out from Creel turning Rex onto a dirt path marked only by a faded wooden sign reading 'El Tejaban, 27 km.'

For nearly three hours we inch along the spines of a massive network of canyons. Rex gets a workout clinging to ancient burro paths pounded out in the days when Spanish colonists enslaved the indigenous Tarahumara people to mine precious metals. On our way we see modern-day Tarahumara dressed in vibrantly colored fabrics, making the long trek on foot from their cave dwellings to Creel.

We motor up and over the last peak and come upon an enormous glass-enclosed structure balancing on stilts over the rim of the canyon. In an area of the world where everything from heating to cooking is done over fires, the absence of smoke billowing from the chimney leaves me chilly with dread.

Standing next to dirt-encrusted Rex, we faced the probability of camping the night on a barren mountaintop in 20-degree weather, our meager provisions totaling one Balance bar and half a liter of water. Suddenly, we hear the faint wheezing of a motor.

Tears of relief fill my eyes as a man on an ATV rounds the corner. 'El hotel esta abierto?' I gasp, desperately. 'Si,' Jose replies calmly, assuring me, 'We're open." Like a shepherd coaxing in lost sheep, he unlocks the gates, ushers us into a marble rotunda, and lights an enormous fire pit while we marvel at the wraparound view of canyon walls tinted misty mauve and periwinkle in the twilight.

As magical as the scenery is at El Tejaban, we begin to feel like characters from The Shining after a few days -- the only people at a grand resort in the dead of winter, miles from any signs of civilization. So we saddle up Rex and roll on to Zacatecas, dipping and weaving for hours on end through the Sierra Madres Occidental.

Whatever I had imagined Zacatecas to be, it is far short of the reality. Giddy with discovery, we saunter along cobblestone streets, poking through markets and galleries and drinking in rich hues of colonial-era buildings and dizzying details of the cathedral's Churrigueresque façade. These heartland cities where the Spanish settled were, not coincidentally, also the backdrop for Mexico's struggle for independence in the early 1800s. That fierce determination is heralded in nearly every town today by streets and buildings bearing the names of that era's heroes.

We become obsessed with this historical mélange, seeking deeper meaning to every experience we encounter in colonial Mexico, from the Diego Rivera and José Clemente Orozco murals we study in Guanajuato and Mexico City to the four-day cooking class we take in Cuernavaca. Just as Rivera superimposed images of pre-Colombian life with European conquistadors and the postindustrial age, Mexican cuisine has been shaped by each step in history. From the Mayan contributions of corn and tomatoes right up to what our instructor only half-jokingly calls the 'post-blender era,' Mexican food is a complex, dynamic cuisine with colorful regional inflections -- much like its people and culture. We take with us a renewed desire to sample it at its most indigenous on the rest of our trip.

By the time we reach the southern city of Oaxaca, we're mesmerized. We weave our way through the sprawling Mercado Abastos alongside men carrying on their heads door-sized planks piled high with breads and sweets. Villagers swathed in brightly patterned shawls hawk fried grasshoppers dusted with chile powder, known locally as chapulines (perhaps a bit too indigenous for us at this point). Rows of women with tall, cloth-covered baskets offer peeks at the enormous stacks of steaming tortillas, their colorful dresses combining with a kaleidoscopic array of nearby produce to create a circuslike atmosphere. We buy a big bag of peanuts, still warm and charred from roasting, and spend hours marveling at the spectacle all around us.

After 10 days of enjoying sensational food and snapping up crafts in the surrounding pueblos, it is time to leave Oaxaca -- this time on the historic Pan American Highway. Conceived in the 1920s, the Pan American is a system of highways snaking 26,000 kilometers between Alaska and Tierra del Fuego. Construction began in 1935, and the highway was expanded during World War II when fear of enemy attacks made access to Alaska, the Panama Canal, and Latin American ports of vital interest to the United States and its Central and South American brethren. The artery remains the main commercial route through Central America today.

While we are traveling only 2,800 kilometers on this famous piece of pavement (and dirt), it will lead us through six countries in just about as many days. In places, the road is pocked with potholes and crumbling at the sides. We cringe each time a semi comes barreling down on us, leaving us teetering like a top in its wake. But Rex is equal to the task and seems to be holding up well in our explorations.

The week of borders is a blur. Everything is gray and dusty. Children stare through the window at us, and we stare back. In these border towns we grow to regret the division between us -- a barrier that seems much greater than a pane of glass.

About 200 kilometers into Nicaragua, we glimpse the Pacific for the first time from a high, gusty ridge. To our left floats a huge plume of vapor, a deep midnight blue silhouetting the volcano behind, with vibrant green sugarcane fields illuminated in the foreground by the low-lying sun. The setting is stunning.

At dusk we arrive in Granada, a charming colonial town on Lake Nicaragua that fits perfectly with the Cuban beat of Buena Vista Social Club on Rex's CD player. Our thirst-quenching lemonades are replaced with cool cervezas in the balmy night as we gaze at the central square from rocking chairs on the porch of Hotel Alhambra. Just one more border to go, and we'll be in Costa Rica.

Nearly four months later, we find ourselves in the same chairs, on the same porch, this time reflecting on our stay in Costa Rica instead of anticipating it. Immersed in nature, with so few human distractions, our journey quickly turned inward. The action of traveling was replaced by contemplation; doing it was replaced by being -- which was exactly what we had come for.

We felt that in the hectic, whirlwind life that we had left behind, we had somehow grown deaf to the rhythms of nature, and we identified deeply with Thoreau's solace-seeking mission at Walden Pond. Our 'jungle house' provided solace aplenty -- perched on top of a mountain with peekaboo views of the ocean through two crisscrossed valleys below.

For hours, we would sway in hammocks rocked by refreshing ocean breezes, measuring the productivity of our days not by what we got 'done,' but by how many toucans we spotted, how deep our talks went, and what wonderful news we received of family and friends during weekly runs to the Internet cafe in San Isidro del General.

During our stay in Costa Rica, we missed the passion for food that we found so abundant among the people of Mexico. But we did discover the delights of La Capanna, a tiny Italian restaurant run by Sicilians Rosanna and Fausto with their friend Fabio. Hours would pass while laughter and conversations collided over the intoxicating, garlicky aromas wafting from the rustic open kitchen.

When we finally start back toward United States, crossing the border into Nicaragua is easy. But at each border crossing we dread the haunting faces and hands grabbing at us as we bicker with each other and our tranimitadores -- pushy go-betweens hired to handle the red tape. Spotting a bag of miniature Snickers at a Shell station outside of Granada, I have an idea for going about it in a different way.

As we drive up to the Honduran border, I roll down my window and ask the young boys, 'Does anyone like chocolate?' They nod enthusiastically and approach one by one to claim their treat. By the time we reach Guatemala, I'm bonding with border kids over pictures of friends and family. It's amazing how simply lowering a window can remove barriers between people and let the world in.

Less than a week after leaving our jungle house, we are ensconced in Meson Panza Verde in Antigua, Guatemala. It is quintessential Antigua -- the heavy, antique wooden door opens to a central garden encircled by a wide, tiled veranda. Chris and I are greatly enjoying our sunsets on the rooftop terrace, watching as the looming volcanic cone of Volcan Agua fades from dark green to lavender to ash-black in the twilight.

We've taken to strolling in this town. Each time we get lost we discover something new -- a textile shop tucked away in a hidden garden, a labyrinth of galleries, a romantic Turkish restaurant set amidst crumbling 16th-century ruins, a group of highland girls in richly textured fabrics playing a game of catch. It is all truly magical.

From here, we make a beeline toward Baja, Mexico -- first back through Oaxaca, then on to the Mexican cities of Puebla and Guadalajara, northwest to Mazatlan, and finally on the overnight ferry to La Paz on the Baja Peninsula. Our pace slows here, the dry, desert heat a welcome relief from the humid, jungle environs.

A sapphire Sea of Cortes set amidst a ring of flame-colored mountains beckons to us and we obey. We're drawn toward a peaceful expanse on Bahia de la Concepcion, where we luck upon a three-room palapa right at the water's edge. We spend our days splashing in the crystalline warmth.

At last, it's time to turn Rex toward the final leg of our journey home.

Driving Baja's expansive central desert in one day, we sidle into Ensenada and feel as if we've landed in a Disney reproduction of Mexico. Gringos far outnumber Mexicans in the hotel zone, and most of the trinkets we encounter are mass-produced versions of the elegant craftwork that we have seen firsthand throughout Mexico.

We opt to cross the border at Tecate to avoid the Tijuana bottleneck, and it turns out to be a beautiful drive through the Guadeloupe Valley, Baja's wine country.

We make it back home, and so does Rex -- although he took his lumps. I drink in the feeling of being a stranger in my own country. We all thirst for a new view of our surroundings. Travel, in general -- and this trip in particular -- quenched that thirst, at least for a time. Now, I note how busy everyone seems; we feel awkward and out of place, happy to be home, but aware that we have changed and need to rediscover our own land and where we belong in it. Borders have been crossed and there is no turning back.

Details, Detals Details
Among our favorite hotels and restaurants on the trip:
• Hotel el Tejaban, Tel: 52-1-146-2-44-42. Web site: www.hoteleltejaban.com
• Posada Santa Fe, Guanajuanto, Tel: 52-4-732-00-84
• Las Campanas cultureal food adventures, Cuernavaca. Web site: www.campanas.com
• Hotel Principal, Oaxaca, Tel/Fax: 52-951-6-25-35
• El Naranjo restaurant, Oaxaca, Tel: 52-9-5-14-18-78
• Meson Panza Verde hotel and restaurant, Antigua, Guatemala, Tel: 502-832-2925
• Hotel Alhambra, Granada, Nicaragua. Tel: 505-552-6316
• Casa de las Tias bed and breakfast, outside San Jose in Escazu. Tel: 506-289-5517

1996 Ford Explorer XLT (Loaded)
• Kilometers driven: 22,544 (14,009 miles)
• Rex's required maintenance (during trip): Rex had two oil changes, a front-end alignment, a tune-up, and his tires were rotated and balanced. He experienced five flat tires, a broken window, and a front-left shock that was repaired. His battery, rear brakes, and various suspension bushings were also replaced.
• Breaking Range: Adequate to avoid cattle, speed bumps, white-faced monkeys, and sloths.
• Off-Road Ability: Waded through rivers, clung to trails in the Copper Canyon, and handled almost daily treks up and down our jungle house 'driveway' with relative ease.
• Steering and Handling: Remarkably stable and tight --- no 'tippy' feeling.
• Acceleration under 6000 ft.: Able to pass at will.
• Acceleration over 6000 ft.: Gasped and wheezed.
• Cargo Room: Plenty of space for six months worth of 'essentials.'
• Seats: Surprisingly comfortable after many, many hours.
• Conclusion: It's nice to know that if you ever have to use your SUV for what it's supposedly intended (not that most people ever will), you can count on it.

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