Crossing the border into Nicaragua

This adventure began when my wife’s sister decided to attend a wedding in Nicaragua. We asked her if she would be kind enough to bring some small items that we were missing here in Honduras. She kindly agreed to do so and gave us the local Nicaraguan phone number of a friend in Ocotal, who had offered to hold the package until we could pick it up. After a couple of weeks, we contacted the friend and agreed to pick up the package the next day.

After a cup of strong coffee and a donut, we left just after sunrise for Nicaragua. It was a pleasant drive through pine clad mountains and winding roads almost devoid of traffic so early in the morning. We turn south at Danlí, through the small town of El Paraíso, and finally arrive at the Las Manos border crossing.

The first thing that piqued my curiosity was the long line of trucks. Dozens and dozens of cargo trucks of all sizes and descriptions were parked along the sides of the road for at least half a mile. Nothing was moving and there was no driver in sight. The possibility occurred to me that they could be at the border organizing paperwork to get into Nicaragua and considering the sheer number of trucks waiting, it must be endlessly slow. My wife, her uncle, and I agreed that it would be better to find a place to park and walk across, rather than risk a long line waiting for a vehicle permit. We could take a taxi to Ocotal, a few kilometers further south.

Approaching the Honduran immigration office, we were besieged by “processors” who offered to fill out the official paperwork and take us to the front of the line, all for a fee, of course. After about three seconds of looking at the line, we agreed. It cost us a few lempiras, but suddenly we found ourselves in front of the immigration officer, a very attractive young woman in her twenties. I immediately felt better about the whole situation, but not for long.

My wife presented her identification, the girl stamped an official-looking piece of paper and motioned for her to go over to the Nicaraguan side. Her uncle presented her identification, the same paper and stamp, and saluted. I presented her with my US passport, she looked at it and immediately asked for seventy lempiras. I asked why I have to pay. She said very succinctly that it’s to get permission to leave Honduras, and if I were at the border trying to extend my visa upon re-entry, she wouldn’t do it. It wasn’t much money, so I wrote it down for the “special gringo price” and walked away feeling grateful I wasn’t married to her.

I met my wife and Tio at the Nicaraguan immigration office. Now the Nicaraguan processors clamored to do the paperwork. They didn’t particularly want Lempiras, but they took them anyway. The procedure was exactly the same for Ada and Tio. They presented their identification, obtained stamped paper and a cordial “Welcome to Nicaragua.” I presented my US passport, and the man at the window put a look on his face that would have made Mordecai Jones proud. Before even looking at any paperwork, he immediately asked for twelve US dollars. It’s almost three hundred Nicaraguan córdobas. Again, not much, but irritating when I’m the ONLY one in any of the lines paying ANYTHING! I was listening to the Spanish equivalent of “For you, only today!”.

I explained to the Nicaraguan immigration officer that I have been living in Honduras for some time and do not have US dollars. After consulting with a couple of his companions, he reluctantly said that he would take cordobas in his place. I told him somewhat impatiently that I don’t have cordobas either, only lempiras. Being the helpful gentleman that he was, he pointed me in the direction of a man standing under a tree about twenty feet away, who said he would exchange money for me. The moneychanger pulled out a huge stack of cordobas and said that he would be very happy to change my money, but only if he had US dollars!

While trying to get my blood pressure checked, I went back to the window and explained to the officer quite forcefully that I don’t have dollars and can’t buy cordobas. I have ONLY Lempiras! Rather curtly, and with a look of disgust, he extended his hand and demanded three hundred lempiras. He made a pretty good interest considering that twelve dollars is around two hundred and forty, but finally he was in Nicaragua.

There were no taxis available, so after a wild bus ride we arrived in the sleepy little town of Ocotal, picked up the package and prepared for our return. Mother Nature did her best to slow us down with a quick downpour, but she gave her reason enough to pop into a local restaurant for a couple of cold Nicaraguan beers, which were actually pretty good. Afterwards, we paid for a taxi to take us back to the border in Las Manos, and found ourselves in front of the same window again.

Once again, Ada and Tio were quickly processed and greeted. When it was my turn, the immigration agent only asked for two US dollars this time. He obviously remembered me from earlier in the day, and with an exasperated expression he said that he would settle for forty lempiras. This I gladly paid and was allowed to cross over to the Honduran side.

In the Honduran office was the same pretty girl with the same bad attitude. Looking at my passport, she again asked for seventy lempiras, this time as payment to ENTER Honduras after being out for four hours. I put the money under the window. My wife’s patience had come to an end by this time, and she began a heated exchange with the immigration girl in fairly loud Spanish, most of which, fortunately, I did not understand. I was a bit worried because my passport was still on the other side of the thick bulletproof glass, and I had visions of never seeing it again. The immigration lady was obviously quite irritated with us, and after a flurry of paperwork and rubber stamps, she shoved my passport under the glass and waved us on.

While I wait for my permanent residence in Honduras, I must go to the immigration office in Tegucigalpa every thirty days, pay twenty dollars and obtain a visa extension. I do this faithfully to avoid any problems with the authorities, and as we drove back to Danlí, I idly fiddled with my passport just to pass the time. Then something strange caught my attention. Right under my last visa extension was a legally and officially stamped ninety-day visa! This is completely against immigration policy in all C4 countries, but there it was. Maybe the girl was so nervous that she made a mistake, I don’t know. The bottom line is that I paid a total of around twenty dollars in fees and got sixty dollars in visa extension. A silver lining indeed! For once, I was quite happy with my wife’s short Latin temper.