up without looking , and simply sets it on the un-manned desk behind him .
Unsure of what to do , I continue to wait .
Immigration Officer # 1 continues to read his newspaper . Seated within arm ’ s reach , Officer # 2 is flipping through booty pictures on his phone . Everyone else in the plexi-shoebox is huddled in the corner , having a casual conversation . No one appears to be doing anything official whatsoever .
My immigration form is one of a dozen stacked on the unclaimed , 1950s-era desk , along with a colourful array of passports . Studying the booklets , I realise mine is not amongst them . My brow involuntarily furrows , releasing a torrent of sweat into my eyes , just as I hear “ Whose motorcycle is this ?” from behind .
I turn around to see a man shrugging his shoulders as he disappears outside . A few steps behind , I exit the building to find him inexplicably trying to push my bike backwards - in gear , kickstand down , steering locked . This generally doesn ’ t end well .
“ Whoa , whoa , whoa !” I shout rapidly approaching , praying my bike doesn ’ t get dumped in the roadside drainage ditch .
“ Is this your motorcycle ?” he asks . Fighting the urge to hold my arms out , as if to say , “ who the fuck else dresses like this in 100 % humidity ,” I simply answer “ Yessir . Is there a problem ?”
The gentleman starts rattling off way more Spanish than I am capable of understanding , punctuated by vigorously pounding on my aluminum side boxes and making slightly sexual hand gestures . From what few words I ’ m able to understand , he wants to inspect my bike , before taking me out to dinner . I try to explain that I haven ’ t even made it through immigration yet , but he just shakes his head , shouting
“ No , no , no , no …” as he disappears into the Customs office .
I fear my insistent friend has put the cart before the motorcycle , so to speak … but I follow , nonetheless .
I enter to find my insistent friend in an animated conversation with a customs agent . I approach and produce the typical paperwork - copies of registration , driver ’ s license , passport , etc .
After a brief examination , the agent holds up the coloured copy of my passport and simply shakes his head . Embarrassed , I briefly consider trying to explain the situation , but resign to simply saying “ I don ' t have my passport .” With that , he shoves my paperwork back under the glass , and goes on about his business .
This seems like the perfect excuse to revisit immigration .
Still engrossed in the “ seeking arrangements ” section of the local newspaper , Immigration Officer # 1 eventually looks up .
“ Sorry to bother you , but Customs has requested my passport .”
Immigration Officer # 1 stares at me blankly . I smile .
This exchange continues entirely too long .
Having won the staring contest , Officer # 1 finally sets down his newspaper . He proceeds two steps to the desk directly behind him , picking up the stack of passports . He shuffles through them briefly before nonchalantly stating “ No tengo .” ( Spanish for “ Go Fish ”).
“ Perdon ?” ( Spanish for “ Where the fuck is it ?”) I ask . He fans the passports out in his hand as if to call my bluff , confirming what I already knew . My passport has disappeared . Mr . Unofficial !! With sudden urgency , I sprint back outside . Sure enough , Mr . Unofficial has resumed his post in the shade , waiting on no one in particular . We lock eyes , but before I can approach , he simply points up the highway , towards Honduras .
Is he demanding I return from whence I came ? Has my passport been stolen through some elaborate ruse and smuggled out of the country ? Are we being descended upon by an army of zombies ?
I peer up the lonely , jungle-lined highway piercing no-man ’ s land . No zombies … I take a few steps and round the front of the building . I see Doogie Howser MP , the kid with the AK-47 who originally demanded my passport . He ’ s hiding from the sun in a sandbag bunker , talking on a cell phone , with what appears to be an American passport in his hand . Why does the kid have my passport ?
I watch from a distance as he produces yet another cell phone from his pocket and starts thumbing through the small , dark blue booklet in his hand . Just barely within earshot , I can faintly hear him attempting to pronounce and spell my name in Spanish .
I creep forward , attempting to eavesdrop , just as Mr . Unofficial lets out a shrill whistle , alerting Doogie to my presence .
Doogie freezes and looks me directly in the eye . He hangs up the phone , casually crawls from behind his sandbag barricade , crosses the highway , leaps across the ditch , scurries up a faint trail , and disappears into the jungle . I have no plans on pursuing . My confusion has officially turned into concern , and I retreat to the bench inside to escape the heat and collect my thoughts .
“ How ’ s your Spanish ?” a voice comes from out of nowhere .
I turn around and see a man sitting on the bench directly behind me , facing the opposite direction . Though I can ’ t see his face , he ’ s wearing an unmistakable Rastafarian tank top that immediately triggers a hint of recognition .
He was part of a curious bunch .
TRAVERSE 102