Nightmare Crossing into Nicaragua

(Part 5 of the Volcano Trail series.)

Another long travel day to cross into Nicaragua. As we neared the border at Las Manos, this local on board our bus whipped out his calculator and offered his services in changing our lempiras into cordobas. Pretty crafty move, as he got a jump on the other money changers waiting at the border and who were left wondering why no one had further need for currency exchange.

Somewhat extortionist fees at this border - $7 to exit Honduras and another $7 to enter Nicaragua. Of course this being Latin America (read: a hotbed of graft and corruption), the official rates were not visibly posted anywhere, and we just relied on the figures quoted by the officials manning the border offices. The tout who insisted on leading the way to the immigration office (like we couldn’t find it ourselves) apparently got $2 from each transaction, with the connivance of the authorities of course. What a pathetic state of affairs. N. got held up for 160 lempiras ($10) based on his idiocy, while M. insisted on paying only $5 – the “official” rate net of the tout's cut.

At the Nicaraguan office, I could see the official thumbing through every page of my passport, in a futile search for a tourist visa. Finding none, he informed me that I needed one and thus would not be allowed entry – which I objected to, having done the research beforehand and knowing fully well that the Philippine passport alone was sufficient to gain entry – after a few minutes going back and forth, our tour leader C. jumped in and forcefully declared that I was not required to procure one since I was a green card holder. Although this logic was faulty, I kept silent and hoped the tactic would work. This made him blink and think twice. I could see his brain working overtime, processing this bit of information, debating inside himself if he should let me enter or not – finally he asked for a copy of my passport and green card, which I readily supplied and I was in!!! What an relief! I raged at the official's appalling ignorance of his country’s rules but calmed down a few minutes later. After all those days enduring cramped public buses, thankfully we had a spacious private van which met us at the border and which brought us all the way to Granada by nightfall – my initial impression of the city was that it was quite vibrant, and there was a festive atmosphere that comes only at Christmas time.

The owners of Hospedaje Cocibolca (ironically, the most dismal of all lodging on the trip) graciously invited its guests to a Christmas Eve dinner – the homemade pork was absolutely superb, and along with the strong flor de cana rum, made for a festive night indeed. Before that, we had our Kris Kringle (Secret Santa) activity – everyone wondered who gave N. his present, and I’m sure no one suspected it was me (being quite a enigmatic personality, according to M.). The most imaginative gift was for tour leader C. though, basically a list of coupon "vouchers" entitling her (“the bearer”) to different things – a day without lifting her enormous backpack, a massage (this caused much hilarity as the gender of the gift-giver was still unknown), and a “stress free border crossing” (pretty sure I have something to do with that). We just sat outside the hotel talking, and taking in the celebration – fireworks everywhere! Just like in Manila. Feliz Navidad!

Rainy Days in Roatan

(Part 4 of the Volcano Trail series.)

Cheers erupted as I entered the waiting room of the bus terminal in San Pedro Sula, with tour leader C. even bounding up to me and giving a big hug. No, I hadn't turned into a rock star, but the reason was in my left hand I was holding my long-lost duffel bag. Congratulations were heaped upon me, and cries of "That small thing caused all this trouble?" were heard as well. Earlier that day, after 6 long days of waiting and constantly calling up the baggage claims office of Continental Airlines, U. and I had separated from the group and made our way to San Pedro Sula airport, where the bag had just arrived from who-knows-where. The others had kindly waited in town so that the whole group could proceed to Comayagua together, and everyone was happy to finally be able to bid adios to the stench of the garbage-lined streets. Rain had fallen recently, making a bad situation worse - the trek to the next bus terminal through mud and water-filled potholes was disgusting. (Eerily reminded me of my college days, when I took public transit through Blumentritt market everyday). Another puzzling feature of San Pedro Sula was that several bus terminals were in close proximity to each other, and one had to know exactly which terminal one's bus departed from - usually a function of destination (e.g. to the North, to the South) - adding to the foreign traveller's confusion. U. and I asked no less than 5 locals where the buses for Comayagua departed from, and in each instance got a different answer. The concept of a central bus station appeared to be light years away.


Not much had happened during the past three days in the island of Roatan, famed for having the world's cheapest scuba diving courses, other than the constant downpours. The island wasn't all that impressive - the sand was dark brownish and the beaches so-so, and for some reason I considered it as some sort of "poor man's Boracay". This pretty much confined us to our hotel rooms and I spent most of the time watching CNN or reading. At dinnertime, we would console ourselves by eating fresh, cheap lobster or another seafood - as if this would make up for the wonderful time we were all having due to forces of Nature. Oh well, we wanted total relaxation, and we got it in a slightly different form - I also busied myself with calling up Continental, and this proved both to be a huge expense as well as a source of frustration, as it became evident that their staff had no clue where my bag currently was, nor when it was expected to arrive - each conversation brought a different excuse and timetable. One day C. and I paid a visit to their office in Roatan airport, whereupon their staff proved displayed both unhelpfulness and a despicable attitude severely lacking in customer service. Fortunately, in one of the later phone conversations, agent Amilcar Fuentes was put on the line, and he proved a great help both because he actually spoke English and he went above and beyond his duties in setting the wheels in motion for the search and eventual retrieval of my bag.

Perhaps the most memorable thing that happened was on the bus ride to La Ceiba. This huge, black man (a rarity) boarded our bus and pretty soon he was preaching about eternal damnation, the flames of hell, and salvation in a manner not unlike that of those fire-and-brimstone preachers on television. I was utterly riveted by his spiel (delivered en Espanol), and followed his every word and action intently. At the end of it, I thought how great it would've been if he had been a pastor in my church during my younger days, instead of the ones who tended to have a soporific effect on the congregation.

Stay tuned for more posts from my Central America trip.