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This adventure began when my wife’s sister decided to attend a wedding in Nicaragua. We asked if she would be kind enough to bring a few small items we were lacking here in Honduras. She graciously agreed to do so, and gave us the local Nicaraguan telephone number of a friend in Ocotal, who had offered hold the package until we could come and retrieve it. After a couple weeks, we contacted the friend and agreed to come pick up the package the following day.
After a cup of strong coffee and a rosquilla, we set out just after daylight for Nicaragua. It was a pleasant drive over pine-covered mountains and winding roads nearly devoid of traffic so early in the morning. We turned south at Danlí, through the little town of El Paraíso, and finally arrived at the border crossing of Las Manos.
The first thing to pique my curiosity was the long line of trucks. Dozens upon dozens of freight trucks of every size and description were parked along the sides of the road for at least half a mile. Nothing was moving, and there was not a driver in sight. The possibility entered my mind that they may be at the border arranging paperwork for entry into Nicaragua, and, considering the sheer number of waiting trucks, it must be interminably slow. My wife, her uncle and I agreed it might be better to find a parking place and walk across, rather than risk a long line waiting for a vehicle permit. We could take a taxi to Ocotal, a few miles farther south.
Upon nearing the Honduran immigration office, we were besieged by “tramitadores” offering to fill out the official paperwork and get us to the front of the line, all for a fee, of course. After about three seconds of looking at the line, we agreed. It did cost us a few Lempiras, but we suddenly found ourselves in front of the immigration officer, a very attractive young lady of maybe twenty five years. I immediately felt better about the whole situation, but not for long.
My wife presented her ID, the girl stamped an official looking paper, and waved her on to the Nicaraguan side. Her uncle presented his ID, same paper and stamp, and a wave on. I presented my US passport, she looked and immediately asked for seventy Lempiras. I asked why I have to pay. She very succinctly said it’s for permission to leave Honduras, and if I was at the border trying to extend my visa upon re-entry, she would not do that. It wasn’t a lot of money, so I just chalked it up to the “special gringo price,” and walked away feeling thankful I wasn’t married to her.
I caught up with my wife and Tio at the Nicaraguan immigration office. Now Nicaraguan tramitadores were clamoring to do the paperwork. They didn’t especially want Lempiras, but took them anyway. The procedure was exactly the same for Ada and Tio. They presented their ID, got a stamped paper and a cordial “Bienvenidos a Nicaragua”. I presented my US passport, and the man in the window got an expression on his face that would have made Mordecai Jones proud. Before even looking at any paperwork, he immediately asked for twelve US dollars. That’s nearly three hundred Nicaraguan Córdobas. Again, not a lot, but irritating when I’m the ONLY one in any of the lines paying ANYTHING! I was listening for the Spanish equivalent of, “For you, today only!”.
I explained to the Nicaraguan immigration officer that I have been living in Honduras for some time, and I don’t have US dollars. After consulting with a couple of his fellows, he reluctantly said he would take Córdobas instead. I rather impatiently told him I don’t have Córdobas either, only Lempiras. Being the helpful gentleman that he was, he pointed me in the direction of a man standing under a tree about twenty feet away, whom he said would change money for me. The money changer pulled out a huge stack of Córdobas and said he would be very happy to change my money – but only if I had US dollars!
While trying to keep my blood pressure in check, I returned to the window and rather forcefully explained to the officer that I don’t have dollars, and I can’t buy Córdobas. I have Lempiras ONLY! Rather curtly, and with a disgusted sigh, he held out his hand and demanded three hundred Lempiras. He made pretty good interest considering twelve dollars is around two hundred forty, but at last I was finally in Nicaragua.
No taxis were available, so after a wild bus ride we arrived in the sleepy little town of Ocotal, picked up the package and prepared for our return. Mother Nature did her best to delay us with a quick downpour, but it gave reason enough to duck into a local restaurant for a couple cold Nicaraguan beers, which were in fact quite good. Afterward, we paid a taxi to take us back to the border at Las Manos, and found ourselves again in front of the very same window.
Again, Ada and Tio were quickly processed and waved through. When my turn came, the immigration agent asked for only two US dollars this time. He obviously remembered me from earlier in the day, and with an exasperated expression said he would settle for forty Lempiras. This I gladly paid and was allowed to pass to the Honduran side.
At the Honduran office was the same pretty girl with the same bad attitude. Upon looking at my passport, she again asked for seventy Lempiras, this time as a fee to ENTER Honduras after being away for four hours. I shoved the money under the window. My wife’s patience was at an end by this time, and she started a heated exchange with the immigration girl in rather loud Spanish, most of which, thankfully, I did not understand. I was a bit concerned because my passport was still on the other side of the thick bulletproof glass, and I had visions of never seeing it again. The immigration lady was obviously quite irritated with us, and after a flurry of shuffled paperwork and rubber stamps, she pushed my passport under the glass and curtly waved us on.
While awaiting my permanent residency in Honduras, I am required to go to the immigration office in Tegucigalpa every thirty days, pay twenty dollars, and get a visa extension. I do this faithfully to avoid any problems with the authorities, and as we drove back toward Danlí, I idly fiddled with my passport just to pass the time. Then something odd struck my eye. Right there below my latest visa extension was an officially stamped and legal ninety days visa! This is completely against immigration policy in all C4 countries, but there it was. Maybe the girl was so flustered she made a mistake, I don’t know. The bottom line is that I paid a total of around twenty dollars in fees and got sixty dollars worth of visa extension. A silver lining indeed! For once I was rather happy with my wife’s short Latina temper.
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