Posted on July 23, 2010 by jason
On advice – and common sense – we drove right through the capital without stopping. Fortunately, this was really easy as the main highway just went right through. We haven’t seen this yet in Latin America. Almost every city is a roadblock and all highways turn into random surface streets. We were actually surprised when we cleared the city so easily.
It was a bit late to try the border crossing, so we drove to Danli for the night. It’s an unremarkable place, but it does have a few cigar factories. You can literally smell them a block away.
The next day we make our way to the border and find the expected chaos. Trucks everywhere and people walking around in every direction. We are assaulted by ‘helpers’ who are pawing on the car before we even stop. I try to find a place to park away from the chaos and helpers, but they follow me.
I hop out of the car and wave them off and they actually seem surprised. I walk over to the Honduras aduana and into the correct office on the first try. I explain I’m leaving and not returning and they cancel my vehicle papers with little effort. So far, so good.
I walk across (unchecked) to the Nicaragua side and start looking for the correct office, and again I’m followed and have to brush some people off. One guy is trying to sell me insurance (mandatory) so I tell him to wait, and he starts pointing me in the right direction. When I finally get to the correct window, there appears to be a huge wait and the guy in the office is sitting in front of a typewriter, tapping on the keys and manually assembling forms with carbon paper. Not good.
While I’m waiting, I buy 30 days of insurance for $12 USD.
I start talking to the guy patiently waiting at the window next to me and it turns out he’s a helper too. The difference is that he is really calm and pleasant. He has a bit of a speech impediment and talks very slowly, but this actually helps me understand him better. He says he can make things move faster for me, so I decide to have him help.
He knows everyone by name and dashes around to different offices looking for the right people and the right forms. This process seems even more confusing than entering Honduras. One person types up the vehicle paper, then someone has to inspect the car, then we need our personal tourist permits, then we have to find the payment window, then we get it approved at a another window, then return the vehicle window for the final paper. It takes an hour and half, but we skip around a lot and he seems to get us to the front of the lines.
The official fees for the three of us and the car total about $35 USD. I tip him $5 USD, leaving the magic $3 in my wallet. He sees it and asks for another $3. I give it to him – he earned it and it was worth it – and we drive to the gate.
The guy working the gate wants $3 for a municipal road toll (seems to be one at every border) and Angela digs out some money from her secret stash.
We wait at the gate long enough for our helper guy to come running up to tell us we have shorted the vehicle permit lady about 40 Cordobas (about $2 USD.) Why this is discovered now is a mystery, but I have zilch in my wallet. I wave him off and keep inching up a little further to the gate. One more guy here inspects my new papers. He says something into a radio and I can hear the person on the other end say something about a falto of 40 cordobas. I tell him I don’t understand and he walks off.
I keep inching up to the guy working the gate, who hears all of this, but shrugs and opens the gate. We drive through and are quite pleased to finally be in Nicaragua.
First impressions of Nicaragua? No topes. No tumullos. No vibradores. You can actually drive down the road without having to continuously stop for or be jolted by surprise unmarked speed bumps. What a great idea.
We make it to Esteli, which is our stop for the evening. Yet another mountain colonial town, and yet another place to rest while it rains. We were hoping to camp, but we decided to stay out of the mud tonight.
This is another cigar town – famous, actually – but we really aren’t into cigars. After walking around town a bit, we decide we aren’t really into this town either. It’s fine, but we are ready for the beach again.
Posted on July 22, 2010 by jason
We had a blast at Lago Yojoa and we spent lots of time chatting with Bob, the brewmaster before leaving. He took me over to his private collection of Mayan artifacts he’s found in the area (he occasionally builds swimming pools – a great way to find treasures.) He also had to show off a magazine article about some dives in the area based out of his place that yielded treasure.
Bob moved here to follow the American dream – only he had to leave the U.S. to do it. According to him, it’s incredibly easy to do business here in Honduras. He says the cost of the building permits in Portland alone made it impossible for him to set up a brewery there – and I don’t doubt it. For less than that cost alone, he’s built his dream right here on the lake.
He also told us the next time the beer’s on him. Nice. It was great beer.
We headed out with a plan to make a break for the Nicaraguan border – skipping the Caribbean entirely – and drove the 4 or so hours towards the capital of Tegucigalpa and then to Danli. First, we had to go through the ole’ triangle scam. From what I’ve read, it wouldn’t be a trip to Honduras without it. Heck, I was beginning to worry that we wouldn’t get to experience it after encountering so many honest cops.
We were an hour outside of the capital when we get pulled over at a random checkpoint. There are cones in the road and a few officers point you out and wave you over to the shoulder. They ask for you vehicle permit, title, and license. Previously, the officers would take a long look at the documents, ask a few questions about where we were going and would send us on our way.
This time it was clearly different. As we are slowing down and pulling off, I can actually hear the guy say under his breath “California!” as he is staring at our plates. He asks for the usual paperwork, but then walks in front of the car to where his buddy is standing. They are grinning like Cheshire cats and absolutely beside themselves. Angela and I actually have the time to do a double take – look at each other and acknowledge what is about to happen – and then watch them some more. I tell her to get out a book and start reading – she knows…
The partner guy walks up to my window and asks “Triangles?”
Game on.
This is the oldest scam in the book. Everyone who drives in Honduras seems to get caught with this one. I’ve heard stories of people paying bribes of hundreds of dollars and being threatened with imprisonment, etc. It’s ridiculous, really. Jailed for lacking orange safety triangles? Get real.
Some other folks told us about how they were prepared for the triangle trick, so they had two of them, but then the officer insisted on three and again they were ‘forced’ into paying a bribe. We know someone who claimed to have been pulled over 12 times in 100 km. Yet another guy told us he talked his way out of the triangle scam, but them they told him he didn’t have enough reflectors. Not only did he pay a bribe, but he drove away with CD’s taped all over his car as extra reflectors. What a boob. I’m sure the cops all had a good laugh over that one.
I wouldn’t believe all of the these stories if I hadn’t heard them first-hand from the people claiming to be the victims.
Anyway, I make him ask for the triangles four or five more times, just answering “Si, tengo.” each time. A little frustrated, he then moves on the the fire extinguisher. Again, I just say “yes, I have it” and stare at him knowingly.
He asks me to get out of the car and show him, so I do. They are both behind my seat and it takes 5 seconds. I can tell he’s thinking about my next possible infraction when the first guy comes back with my vehicle paperwork and points to a scribble on the page. They both look at each other and grin again.
Fuck! He’s right! The border official did scribble a little on the dates and then corrected them. At the time, I was so anxious to get away from the border that I didn’t really think about it. Making her fill out a new form and getting all the copies could have taken hours. Regardless, it wasn’t a problem at the other 4 or 5 previous police checkpoints, so I’m not too worried.
Anyway, I start to explain my case, but he wasn’t going to listen.
“Five dollars!” he interjects in plain English.
Are you kidding me? Five measly bucks? That’s the best I can get for my story?!
These guys are buffoons and I’m not having it. You can tell the bad cops because they are just so bad at it. I still can’t believe he started at 5 bucks.
He holds on to all my documents and I think he tells me he will keep it until I pay. He is supposed to tell me I have to drive to a police station 100 miles away and pay a fine and get my documents there unless I pay him immediately – maybe he does – but I’m not really listening.
Now the two guys are together and they join forces. The obvious ‘bad’ cop starts telling me my paperwork is invalid and the ‘good’ cop continues asking for money. I look him in the eye and say “No” each time. I continue to re-start my case about the border official. About how I’ve talked to lots of other police and there has been no problem so far, etc.
They keep persisting and so do I.
Then he wants to search the car. “No problem” I say and open the back. “Solo ropas.”
The whole game, of course, is to scare or inconvenience me until I pay. Still not having it.
The bad guy is getting frustrated and then starts acting like he is going to rip up my paperwork right there. He makes a ripping hand gesture with my papers as the other guy repeats “Five dollars!”
Again, I just say “no” and stare at them like they are the stupidest people I have ever met in my life.
If I went to the local station with my ripped up vehicle papers and these two moron’s badge numbers, they would be out of a job sin demora. Once you encounter a few Honduran cops, you know these guys take their profession very seriously and they deserve a lot of respect. If these two idiots got reported, they would get their butts kicked. They know it, I know it.
I stare some more.
A few awkward seconds pass… they look at each other… then they hand me back my papers and both simultaneously extend their hands for a shake.
Game over.
For some reason I shake their hands and say gracias, hop back in the bus, and am on my way.
BodesWell – 1
Bad Cops – 0
Posted on July 21, 2010 by angela
Bob, the owner and brewmaster, built the actual brewery in a shipping container in the 3 car parking lot – also where we camped. It was pretty sweet set up, and further proved Jason’s theory that shipping containers can be used for anything. He’s hoping our next home will feature one. If it has a brewery inside it, I’ll be more interested.
The bathrooms here are shared by giant slugs, and more of the suicide showers. We survived, but there was a pool that Bode declared ‘bath enough.’
We set out the next day for the Pulhapanzak waterfall. It was really nice and we got close enough to get completely soaked. The path was muddy and slippery and Bode was going down every 5 seconds, so we opted out of the trip that takes you behind the falls. We talked to some folks later that attempted it, but had to bail out when they had to swim through a pitch black cave in freezing water.
Since everyone at the hostel was game for the same trip, we ended up stuffing 4 additional people in the bus for the afternoon. Climbing hills was a little tougher than normal, but otherwise all was good.
We also took a hike to The Blue Hole. The short hike was really nice, and took us through old coffee plantations, around Mayan ruins, over a raging river and through jungle with orchid-covered trees. The variety and density of plant life here is really astounding. However, the Blue Hole is optimistically named. In reality it was green and a dengue-fever breeding ground. At least the hike was nice.
Posted on July 20, 2010 by angela
Balnearo Aguas Termales was only 4km from town and a great way to start the day. A long drive is better when you start off at a natural hot springs.
We had been given a tip by a reader to take a short-cut to the lake from near here, but we asked around in Gracias and they all said it couldn’t be done – we should take the direct western route that actually lead us south a bit. Oh well – can’t argue with advice of the locals.
It wasn’t long before the pavement ended and the road was pretty rough. But, it was scenic and interesting so we really didn’t mind. It was kind of like a time-machine. How often do you drive past an ox cart? Or ten?
Our final destination for the day was to camp at a brewery on Lago Yojoa. At one point, I turned to Jason and said, “this better be some pretty amazing beer.”
Yep, 6 hours on a bumpy road from Gracias to Lake Jojoa to go to a microbrewery. It took us another hour once we were at the lake to find the small D&D hostel brewery. They let us camp in the parking lot and had the infamous ‘pay at the end of your stay’ rule that is so common around here. Dangerous at a brewery.
Fortunately, the beer is simply great. Bob shipped his gear from Oregon and now makes about 6 tasty brews (and 4 fruity soft drinks) for travelers.
Bode immediately found some cool folks so we joined them and swapped travel stories while the sky unleashed torrential rain and thunder. It is the rainy season.
The best part? Watching Bode learn the art of playing a didgeridoo. And I thought we packed ridiculously large things.
Later, our buddy Joe walked in. We met him in Suchitoto. He’s been on the road for…. 17 years.
Posted on July 16, 2010 by jason
Our first impression of Honduras was unanimous: GREEN. It’s beautiful and incredibly green.
We crossed late and wanted to make it all the way to Santa Rosa tonight, but it was getting dark and foggy quickly. We climbed up to about 2000 meters on the drive and were pretty much in the clouds. We were going pretty slow and eventually it got dark. We violated one of our major rules – don’t drive at night – but managed to follow a random car to Santa Rosa centro. The ole’ “these strangers must know where they are going” trick fortunately worked for us this time.
We quickly found a place to stay and walked to the normal town square to find a restaurant and grab a quick dinner. It was pretty bad. Bode made friends with the owner and he was adamant to have a conversation with Bode in Spanish. Bode was hesitant to talk, but we’re pretty sure he understood a fair amount. We’re not sure how to encourage him to chat in Spanish. I certainly didn’t do it in English as a child.
The next day I was up at sunrise for no particular reason and decided to walk around the town while Bode and Angela slept. Nobody was up, except for the folks in the church. I was thrilled to buy a $0.50 cup of coffee an hour later when a cafeteria finally opened. Then, I found a farmer’s market and bought some pastel de leche – milk cake! The Breakfast of Champions. Another lady had fried banana chips that I couldn’t pass up for another $0.50.
We made the decision to skip the Copan ruins and the adjacent town – we’ve seen enough Mayan ruins to last a good long while. We heard good things about the town of Gracias (a Dios) so we headed there next. There were only a few police checkpoints along the way. All of these guys were pros and didn’t hassle us at all – they just wanted to see the normal paperwork. We even managed to bypass one police checkpoint by pulling into a gasolineria - I’m sure the drug smugglers haven’t figured this one out.
Gracias is a nice little town and was once the capital of all of Central America. It seems like the Spanish moved the capitals around quite a bit. Nice place with cool mountain weather, and a good place for a bike ride. It was Angela’s turn to be sick, so she recuperated while Bode and I wandered the town. Lots of really nice people here.
Posted on July 15, 2010 by jason
We made a break for the Honduras border, but didn’t miss an opportunity to sleep-in first. After a late breakfast, we drove through the nice town of La Palma and finally made it to the border at La Poy around 1 pm. Little did we know that the border officials take a lunch break until 2 pm.
Anyway, our papers were checked at the El Salvador border and then we drove up to the aduana and parked right in front of the oficina. The border guard followed us to the office and hand-delivered our paperwork to the official inside the office. This guy told us we had to leave the car right there and walk to Honduras and get our Honduras vehicle permit before we could cancel our El Salvador paperwork. Not the procedure we had read, but whatever.
I left Angela and Bode to take care of the bus and started walking toward Honduras. There were all sorts of officials and money changers, but I just kept on walking. Nobody stopped me. About a kilometer down the road I came to the Honduras vehicle permisso offices. It was obvious because of all the truck drivers lounging around, sleeping on the cool concrete sidewalks, watching porn on their cell phones and generally milling about. Here is where I learned that the offices were closed for the next hour. We all waited around and traded smiles. The truck drivers were seedy, but a jovial bunch. If you can laugh at a dirty joke you don’t understand, you’ll fit right in.
We wait and we wait and eventually a car pulls up the window. About ten minutes later, the driver gets out and it was the border official. She is in no hurry. She goes into the office and turns on the A/C, makes a few calls on her cell phone, and finally opens her window.
All the truck drivers make a mad dash to her window and shove their papers through the window, walking away with relief that their forms are on the stack. It’s comical, as 20 truckers try to shove their arms into a tiny window. Having no forms, I just watch.
Most of the guys walk away, confident that their permits are in progress and return to their naps on the shaded concrete. A few guys linger around the window, impatiently trying to influence the order of things. Most of the guys exchange greetings and give the familiar high-five and fist bump – they’re all regulars here.
Not really having a place here, I bide my time and try to get noticed by this woman with all the power. I work my way to the front and ask for the proper formas. She tells me to wait. Twenty minutes later, I assert myself again and ask if I have all the proper copies. She tells me to wait. Thirty minutes later, only one or two truckers have their papers, but finally she asks for my forms. I give her the copies of my title, registration (expired), license, passport, and El Salvador vehicle permit. She shuffles them around tells me to wait again.
Twenty more minutes pass and then something starts to happen. She closes her window and all the truckers come to their feet. She closes the office, locks it up, and one the the truckers I befriended points at me to follow her. She points me toward her car, and avoiding eye contact with the waiting truck drivers, I get in her car.
She starts ranting in Spanish – I get some of it – and we drive back to the El Salvador border. She gets stopped and inspected and she is incensed. Finally, my passport is checked. She can hardly contain herself when they want to search her car. She picks up the phone and calls someone and starts ranting more.
Finally, we make it back to the bus and she starts asking me questions about our car. What size engine? What’s the VIN? What color? Even though it’s right in front of her. All stuff she could have asked back at her office or copied from our title. Then, we go to the El Salvador office and she rants at these officials for while – they laugh. No actual paperwork or information is exchanged.
We get back into her car and I’m eager to point out that my family is waiting patiently, now that we are almost 2 hours into this border crossing ordeal. We drive back to Honduras and we talk about all the places to visit here like we are old friends. She thinks we should go to Tela and El Cieba. Roatan is just too expensive.
We get back to her office and the sleeping truckers spring to their feet. I hop out of her car and assume a position at the end of the line behind the truckers. She takes her time getting back into the office.
Even though the truckers forcibly define a perimeter around her window, she beckons El Gringo up to the front of the line.
This is not met with happiness. They all groan. One guy’s rant rises above the others and they all quiet to listen. “Fuck America.” He’ll burn it to the ground. Maybe he was going to burn me to the ground – my Spanish wasn’t good enough – but the message was received loud and clear.
There was some uncomfortable laughter in the crowd, but a few guys gave me a knowing shrug and I didn’t feel too worried. I loudly apologize since I didn’t ask for any special treatment, and made my way up to the window.
Thirty minutes. That’s how long it took her to fill out The Prize – a single small form that gives me permission to drive into the country. The few truckers that still had energy waited around the window with me, all of us willing her to write faster.
She made a few calls on her cell phone and then told me to go get copies of her form. Where? El Salvador.
I ask around for assurance and everyone agrees. I start the trek back across the border. It has started raining, but it doesn’t really matter. The tienda with a copy machine is actually a bit past the border officials and guards. For $0.10 a copy, I get lots of extras. I walk back past the bus – we are now almost 3 hours in – and I assure Angela that all is well. They are reading the Secret Seven and doing art projects in the bus.
I again walk a kilometer or so back to the Honduras immigration office and find that all the truckers see me coming and have formed a human wall around the window. Not wanting to get my ass kicked, I sit back and see that some of my new patient buddies have gotten their papers completed.
I bob and weave so that she sees me behind my patient brethren and eventually she calls me up front. More groans.
She takes the copies and again picks up her phone. Lot’s of talking and more going over the forms ensues. She need a stamp, but she can’t find it. Finally she finds it, but it stamps as a blob and she spends ten minutes cleaning it and testing it. It clearly hasn’t been used in a long time.
When it finally meets her standard, she stamps an entire page of my passport and fills it out – then adds her personal stamp – twice – and then verifies that everything is there again. With no small amount of pride, she then presents me with my vehicle permission and completed passport stamp (none for Angela or Bode) and all my new buddies grin.
One more thing. We have to pay about $35 USD in fees. She happily points out the printed amount on the forms and I manage to dig out just the right amount of cash. My buddies were clearly concerned when I was having trouble counting out the full amount. I’m pretty sure they would have pitched in if I was short. There was a sign indicating that I had to pay another $12 USD or so, but I was never asked for it.
Done. Walk back to El Salvador. Again.
Back in El Salvador, the official finally takes my forms and examines everything. This kills me – he makes copies and then spends ten minutes comparing the copies to the originals. Finally, he stamps it and we are done – he waves us on.
I hop into the the van and we are almost giddy. It’s 5:30 pm and we have no idea where to go, but we think we are done with this mess. We start the bus and drive about 100 m to a checkpoint. Not done yet, we have to pay $3 USD each to exit El Salvador and we have to pull over to park. We follow the official into the dark locked office and he struggles to find the right papers and we eventually pay our exit fee and get stamped receipts.
Back in the car, we pull up another 100 m and all of our papers get checked again. Like a miracle, it’s all correct and we area allowed to pass.
We finally drive up to the Honduras border officials. This is just a few guys, a traffic cone, and a gate. They agree that we have all the correct papers and stamps.
Vamos a Honduras. Once again, we leave a country with about $3 USD in our pockets – our magic number.
If you want to attempt the border crossing at El Poy, here are a few tips in hindsight:
- Be nice. It always helps. I don’t understand it, but I was put on the ‘fast track’ by a Honduran border official.
- Wait. Acting like an entitled arrogant jackass won’t help here.
- Try to speak Spanish. I’m really bad, but it helped. At least I earned the respect of a few pissed-off truckers.
We made a break for the Honduras border, but didn’t miss an opportunity to sleep-in first. AFter a late breakfast, we drove through the nice town of La Palma and finally made it to the border at La Poy around 1 pm. Little did we know that the border officials take a lunch break until 2 pm.
Anyway, our papers were checked at the El Slavador border and then we drove up to the aduana and parked right in front of the oficina. The border guard followed us to the office and hand-delivered our paperwork to the official inside the office. This guy told us we had to leave the car right there and walk to Honduras and get our Honduras vehicle permit before we could cancel our El Salvador paperwork. Not the procedure we had read, but whatever.
I left Angela and Bode to take care of the bus and started walking toward Honduras. There were all sorts of officals and money changers, but I just kept on walking. Nobody stopped me. About a kilometer down the road I came to the Honduras vehicle permisso offices. It was obvious because of all the truck drivers lounging around, sleeping on the cool concrete sidewalks, watching porn on their cell phones and generally milling about. Here is where I learned that the offices were closed for the next hour. We all waited around and traded smiles. The truck drivers were seedy, but a jovial bunch. If you can laugh at a dirty joke you don’t understand, you’ll fit right in.
We wait and we wait and eventually a car pulls up the window. About ten minutes later, the driver gets out and it was the border official. She is in no hurry. She goes into the office and turns on the A/C, makes a few calls on her cell phone, and finally opens her window.
All the truck drivers make a mad dash to her window and shove their papers through the window, walking away with releif that their forms are on the stack. It’s comical, as 20 truckers try to shove their arms into a tiny window. Having no forms, I just watch.
Most of the guys walk away, confident that their permits are in progress and return to their naps on the shaded concrete. A few guys linger around the window, impatiently trying to influence the order of things. Most of the guys exchange greetings and give the familar high-five and fist bump – they’re all regulars here.
Not really having a place here, I bide my time and try to get noticed by this woman with all the power. I work my way to the front and ask for the proper formas. She tells me to wait. Twenty minutes later, I assert myslef again and ask if I have all the proper copies. She tells me to wait. Thirty minutes later, only one or two truckers have their papers, but finally she asks for my forms. I give her the copies of my title, registration (expired), license, passport, and El Salvador vehicle permit. She shuffles them around tells me to wait again.
Twenty more mintes pass and then something starts to happen. She closes her window and all the truckers come to their feet. She closes the office, locks it up, and one the the truckers I befriended points at me to follow her. She points me toward her car, and avoiding eye contact with the waiting truck drivers, I get in her car.
She starts ranting in Spanish – I get some of it – and we drive back to the El Salvador border. She gets stopped and inspected and she is incensed. Finally, my passport is checked. She can hardly contain herself when they want to search her car. She picks up the phone and calls someone and starts ranting more.
Finally, we make it back to the bus and she starts asking me questions about our car. What size engine? What’s the VIN? What color? Even though it’s right in front of her. All stuff she could have asked back at her office or copied from our title. Then, we go to the El Salvador office and she rants at these officals for while – they laugh. No actual paperwork or information is exchanged.
We get back into her car and I’m eager to point out that my family is waiting patiently, now that we are almost 2 hours into this border crossing ordeal. We drive back to Honduras and we talk about all the places to visit here like we are old friends. She thinks we should go to Tela and El Cieba. Roatan is just too expensive.
We get back to her office and the sleeping truckers spring to their feet. I hop out of her car and assume my position at the end of the line behind the truckers. She takes her time getting back into the office.
Even though the truckers forcibly define a perimter around her window, she beckons El Gringo up to the front of the line.
This is not met with happiness. They all groan. One guy’s rant rises above the others and they all quiet to listen. “Fuck America.” He’ll burn it to the ground. Maybe he was going to burn me to the ground – my Spanish wasn’t good enough – but the message was received loud and clear.
There was some uncomfortable laughter in the crowd, but a few guys gave me a knowing shrug and I didn’t feel too worried. I loudly appologized since I didn’t ask for any special treatment, and made my way up to the window.
Thirty minutes. That’s how long it took her to fill out The Prize – a single small form that gives me permission to drive into the country. The few truckers that still had energy waited around the window with me, all of us willing her to write faster.
She made a few calls on her cell phone and then told me to go get copies of her form. Where? El Salvador.
I ask around for assurance and everyone agrees. I start the trek back across the border. It has started raining, but it doens’t really matter. The tienda with a copy machine is actually a bit past the border officals and guards. For $0.10 a copy, I get lots of extras. I walk back past the bus – we are now almost 3 hours in – and I assure Angela that all is well. They are reading the Secret Seven.
I again walk a kilometer or so back to the Honduras immigration office and find that all the truckers see me coming and have formed a human wall around the window. Not wanting to get my ass kicked, I sit back and see that some of my new patient buddies have gotten their papers completed.
I bob and weave so that she sees me behind my patient bretheren and eventually she calls me up front. More groans.
She takes the copies and again picks up her phone. Lot’s of talking and more going over the forms ensues. She need a stamp, but she can’t find it. Finally she finds it, but it stamps as a blob and she spends ten minutes cleaning it and testing it. It clearly hasn’t been used in a long time.
When it finally meets her standard, she stamps an entire page of my passport and fills it out – then adds her personal stamp – twice – and then verifies that everyhting is there again. With no small amount of pride, she then presents me with my vehicle permission and completed passport stamp (none for Angela or Bode) and all my new buddies grin.
One more thing. We have to pay about $35 USD in fees. She happily points out the printed amount on the forms and I manage to dig out just the right amount of cash. My buddies were clearly conerned when I was having trouble counting out the full amount. I’m pretty sure they would have pitched in if I was short.
Done. Walk back to El Salvador. Again.
Back in El Salvador, the offical finally takes my forms and examines everything. This kills me – he makes copies and then spends ten minutes comparing the copies to the orginals. Finally, he stamps it and we are done – he waves us on.
I hop into the the van and we are almost giddy. It’s 5 pm and we have no idea where to go, but we think we are done with this mess. We start the bus and drive about 100 m to a checkpoint. Not done yet, we have to pay $3 USD each to exit El Salvador and we have to pull over to park. We follow the official into the dark locked office and he struggles to find the right papers and we eventually pay our exit fee and get stamped reciepts.
Back in the car, we pull up another 100 m and all of our papers get checked again. Like a miracle, it’s all correct and we area allowed to pass.
We finally drive up to the Honduras border officials. This is just a few guys, a traffic cone, and a gate. They agree that we have all the correct papers and stamps.
Vamos a Honduras. Once again, we leave a country with about $3 USD in our pockets – our magic number.
If you want to attempt the border crossing at El Poy, here are a few tips in hindsight:
- Be nice. It always helps. I don’t understand it, but I was treated like royalty by a Honduran border official.
- Wait. Acting like an entitled arrogant jackass won’t help here.
- Try to speak Spanish. I’m realy bad, but it helped. At least I earned the respect of a few pissed-off truckers.
