issues that only your “ helper ” can solve . These solutions always involve bribes to “ overlook ” issues that never really existed in the first place . Most helpers won ’ t waste their time with someone clearly disinterested . But some people just won ’ t take a hint .
After filling out a battery of forms , I wait until summoned by an immigration officer . I don ’ t notice my helper shadowing me until he attempts to interrupt from over my shoulder . Startled , I turn and shoo him away . Unphased , he takes a halfstep back and continues to hover . Moments later , I have an exit stamp in my passport . Onward to Customs to finalise my departure .
Every overland border crossing in Latin America involves four separate offices , each with its own requirements , which vary by country and , more often than not , the official with whom you are dealing . Immigration ( for people ) and Customs ( for vehicles and goods ) for the country you are exiting , then again for the country you are entering .
If you ’ re lucky , these offices are in a central location . Usually , they are in separate buildings , some separated by walking distance , others by miles .
In this case , Customs is on the other side of the room , not affording me the opportunity to ditch my helper . With paperwork in hand and helper in tow , I approach the agent and hand over the requisite forms . Shuffling through my passport , he requests my Temporary Import Permit from Guatemala . My “ helper ” lets out an exaggerated groan from behind me . The game is afoot .
Fortunately for me however , my paperwork is in order .
Thumbing through my document folder in an attempt to satisfy the unusual request , my helper suddenly grasps at my paperwork ! Like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar , I slap his hand with the unintentional strength of a day-drunk stay-at-home mother . Everyone within earshot is visibly startled by the exchange , me included .
I watch as my helper ’ s permanent frown grows even more cartoonish in its proportions , before he slinks away , never to be seen again .
Oddly , the customs agent no longer seems interested in my paperwork from Guatemala .
Officially out of El Salvador , crossing over Rio Goascoran into Honduras , I am briefly in no man ’ s land . Luckily for me however , my brief stay and short , albeit beautiful ride through Honduras , is entirely uneventful . Both immigration and customs are trouble-free . Onward to Nicaragua !
“ Nic ” or “ Nica ” as it ’ s often referred , poses a bit of a problem for overlanders . WikiOverland and iOverlander are rife with stories of refused entry for any number of reasons . Lack of Yellow Fever vaccination , or accepted forms of documentation , a valid destination in the country (“ Just passing through " doesn ’ t cut it ) and possessing a drone ( potential tools of espionage ), being chief amongst them .
Since there is no getting around Nicaragua , it is imperative to cross your T ’ s and dot your I ’ s well in advance . That in mind , I was armed with plenty of paperwork , solely reserved for this border crossing - including my one and only hotel reservation for my 6-month journey .
As I would soon discover though , they wanted none of it .
Apparently , my hotel reservation was the least of their worries .
Evidentially , I ' m not “ Mr . Current Affairs ”.
Ignorance begets bliss , and I am pleasantly surprised to find the Nicaraguan frontera of El Espino virtually abandoned ! No miles of parked big rigs , no busloads of migrant workers , no lines of sweat-soaked humans lulled into complacency by the pace of humid bureaucracy , nothing !
I park and begin my ritual , muttering " No Gracias " to no one in particular . As I approach the sole building in which to conduct business , a man with a nondescript laminated badge hanging around his neck approaches and begins speaking . " No gracias " I interrupt , weaving past him and proceeding towards the office . Steps later , a 16-year-old in camouflage with a VERY official looking AK-47 slung around his neck , gives me the universal " stop right there gringo " hand sign . He immediately grabs my passport and hands it to the gentleman I just side-stepped . Shit ! The gentleman who now possesses my passport looks like every other helper I ’ ve encountered - no uniform , no discernible dress code , no clipboard , nada . Just an unofficiallooking ID dangling from his neck .
Mr . Unofficial studies my passport before motioning to follow him into the office . Once inside , he tells me to sit and disappears into a plexiglass enclosure lining the far side of the room .
Just as my ass contacts the bench , a loud rap on the plexiglass summons me . I approach , and a uniformed immigration officer slides a form under the glass . I stand there in anticipation of my passport . Eyes fixed on his newspaper ; he simply dismisses me with a flick of his wrist .
" Odd ," I think to myself . " I guess they do things a bit differently here in Nicaragua ."
I fill out the paperwork , complete with the " address of residence " of my all-important hotel reservation . Standing there , with some expectation that the man on the other side of the desk might actually review my form , or ask a perfunctory question or two , I watch as he picks it
TRAVERSE 101