enough to scan a double-tractor trailer truck .
“ What the hell is this thing doing out here ?” I ask myself as I await the green light to enter . It seems more than a bit overkill , especially for a motorcycle .
After having my bike and underwear thoroughly radiated , I make the short trip back down to Immigration to see if my passport has miraculously found its way out of the jungle . I immediately see Doogie Howser & Mr . Unofficial having an impromptu conference at the door of the office . I pull up hoping for good news , only to have them both disappear inside upon catching sight of me . They don ’ t seem to like me much .
Ignoring my usual ritual , I park the bike and head inside . Once there , I ’ m immediately summoned by Immigration Officer # 1 , who unceremoniously hands me my passport without saying a word . Joyfully reunited , I flip through it , hoping beyond hope it ’ s been stamped . It has not ! But even that can ’ t dampen my renewed optimism , I have my passport back ! After 3 hours , I consider this to be progress , even if I am sent back to Honduras .
I look back up at Immigration Officer # 1 , expecting instruction or an explanation . Instead , he flatly announces ,” There is your passport sir ,” in perfect English .
“ Oh , you speak English , that ’ ll make things a bit easier . So … what ’ s going on exactly ? I ’ m not sure I understand .” “ You asked for your passport .” “ Yes , I did , thank you . It ’ s just that
I ’ ve never …” “ You need to fill out the paperwork for your motorcycle with customs .” “ But you haven ’ t stamped …” “ Fill out the paperwork with customs first , then come back .” I cross the room to customs and cheerily relinquish the forms , along with my original passport . The agent does not appear impressed . He briefly flips through the passport before dropping it on the heap of documents and shoving them back under the glass .
“ I can ’ t give you a permit for your motorcycle until you have a visa to enter the country .”
Of course , I already knew this , and I suspect he knew I knew this . Neither of us are willing participants in whatever this game is , but neither of us seems to have a choice .
Before I can plead my case , a hand flies over my right shoulder from behind knocking loudly on the glass partition mere inches from my spinning head , scaring the living shit out of me and the customs agent alike . It ’ s Mr . Unofficial , and the look on his face requires no explanation . Without hesitation , the agent reaches back under the glass , retrieves my paperwork , and starts furiously typing away .
Temporary import permit in hand , I proceeded cautiously triumphant back to Immigration . “ Progress is success ” I tell myself .
I attempt to hand my paperwork back off to Immigration Officer # 1 , who has long since abandoned his newspaper , but before I have a chance , he points to the unmanned window next to him . I take one large step to my right , and stand there , paperwork in hand . Unfortunately , Immigration Officer # 2 and his booty pictures are nowhere in sight . After a couple of minutes , one of the officials who has been holding court around his desk , approaches , and motions for the documents .
I comply and watch as he walks back to his desk and immediately picks up the phone .
“ What ’ s with all the phone calls ?” I wonder aloud .
After a brief conversation , and some enthusiastic head-nodding , he hangs up the phone , opens his desk drawer , drops my paperwork ( passport included ) into said drawer , pulls a key out of his pocket and locks the drawer . I continue standing there , stupid grin plastered across my face , as he exits the building .
I turn and lock eyes with Immigration Officer # 1 . I almost see a hint of sympathy . He shrugs his shoulders , pulls his newspaper out of the trashcan , and pretends to read it .
I continue to stand there , grinning uncontrollably , unsure how to react .
I begin to feel lightheaded again . I take a quick physical inventory and realise that every part of me is soaked . Sweat is actively rolling down my back , puddling in my boots . The document folder I ’ ve been clinging to for dear life has grown soggy . My stomach growls .
Relief in the form of food and water is just outside , undoubtedly cooking in one of my side boxes . Reluctant to leave the building , for fear of whatever horror awaits me outside , I sheepishly proceed to a window just in time to watch the immigration official with the key to the drawer drive away .
In the last four hours my passport has gone from being hijacked in the jungle to locked in a desk drawer . I ’ m not sure if this counts as progress or not .
In a slight panic , I start looking for someone to talk to . My American compatriots are nowhere in sight . Perhaps they got their walking papers . Perhaps they too were taken into the jungle . Perhaps … when suddenly , like a beacon of hope , I see a Rastafarian tank top in the distance .
“ Worse comes to worst ,” I reason , “ I ’ ll just join the commune and kayak my way out of this mess ”.
I burst out of the Immigration office ready to pledge my allegiance to “ The Fam ”, stopping short as a group of soldiers drag the contents of Jed ’ s van onto the melting asphalt in one giant heap . Ouch ! Even
TRAVERSE 106