twenty metres away , I can hear what sounds like hand-blown bongs losing significant resale value .
Turns out Tennessee Jed has his own fish to fry . I ’ m on my own .
After 5 hours I officially give up hope of reaching my destination , another three plus hours away in the rainforest above Jinotega . Riding after dark , in the mountains of an unsettled Nicaragua , isn ’ t the kind of adventure I ’ m looking for . Unsure if and when I ’ ll ever see my passport again , I resign myself to pitching my tent here in no-man ’ s land .
Walking the lonely highway back towards Honduras , I ’ m stopped dead in my tracks by a curious sound . Over the constant hum of the jungle , I can hear a muffled rotary phone ringing somewhere in the distance . I break into a sweat-soaked sprint , praying for my stay of execution .
The comically lopsided ringing of the ancient phone echoes throughout the immigration office . No one bothers to answer . “ You ’ ve got to be kidding me !”. It continues to ring , and everyone continues to not care . Like a barking dog ’ s final whimper , I hear the unmistakable half-ring of someone hanging up . It ’ s my very own horror movie .
My thoughts briefly return to my limited options for the night when the phone rings once again . Immigration Official # 1 glances up as I excitedly point behind him . He turns and appears genuinely surprised that no one is sitting at the desk . With the urgency I ’ ve come to expect , he lumbers from his chair and answers the phone .
Whatever is said is brief , and he offers no response before hanging up . He stands there , staring at the phone , as if trying to process the information , before looking me in the eye and once again shrugging his shoulders . I ’ ve lost count .
He proceeds to a metal cabinet in the corner of the room and retrieves a keyring . I watch anxiously as he retrieves my paperwork from the desk drawer , walks back to his desk , and nonchalantly stamps my passport .
Without bothering to look up , he slides the paperwork under the glass . I excitedly grab it as I ’ m turning to sprint for the door , but his grasp is firm . My fingers slip off the edge of the passport , as I stutter-step away with a hand-full of nothing .
I turn and we lock eyes once again . A broad smile fills the man ’ s face . “ Buen Viaje Señor ” he says with a wry wink as he hands me my paperwork . I simply smile and nod . With a sense of urgency reserved for situations of peril , I scoop my belongings off the bench with two arms and I shuffle outside to my moto . El Espino is abandoned . Tennessee Jed and The Fam are long gone , either well on their way to Costa Rica , or buried somewhere in the jungle . It will forever remain a mystery .
As for me , I set the GPS to Jinotega and put no-man ’ s land in my rearview as quickly as possible . I have a reservation to make . CH
TRAVERSE 108