Everybody should thank Ayana for making me feel guilty about my lack of posting

Admittedly, some of my past posts have been rather corny, often concluding with a line like ¨but I will jump at the chance to return to Tulum¨ or the ¨Mexican people are intoxicating.¨ This post will end in no such way (don´t celebrate just yet, I haven´t explained the story!)

I am writing this story from Rio Dulce, a midsize town on Guatemala´s Lago Izabel. A beautiful town located on a gorgeous lake, and most people would declare that I am most lucky to stay here on two seperate occasions. In actuality, this place gets boring rather quickly, especially if you are not some yuppy gringo with leathered skin and an expensive yacht who likes to talk about the ¨perkiness¨of the young Guatemalan senoritas. That is precisely why I decided to leave two days ago for Honduras.

The day started off well. An early start facilitated by two cups of caffeinated water, (aka Nescafe) put me on the road at quarter to eight in the morning. It was raining hard, and within minutes I was already tired from concentrating hard on the road and the creeping semi two feet behind me with archaic air brakes. I got to the border at around 11am, just in time to get terrible exchange rate from Guatemalan Quetzales to Honduran Lempiras by one of the pimply teens waving large stacks of money. Formalities at the border started off nicely, immigration welcomed me to Honduras. Now comes the difficult part, declaring the vehicle and applying for a temporary import permit. At the Aduana (customs) I put on my most pleasant face, knowing full well I was traveling with a car that wasn´t entirely legally mine. The customs officer, another pimply teen, returned my greeting and then informed me that he did not have the authority to grant me an import permit, he only had that ability on Saturdays and Sundays (it was a Monday). Oh, of course, my mistake, would you please tell me where I might be able to find an import permit. Just then a Honduran man with British teeth ambled over to the counter right next to me (privacy doesnt translate to Spanish sometimes), and grabbed my vehicle title and driver´s license. He then informed me that all was not lost, that I could to go to Puerto Cortes (1 hr away) to obtain my permit, accompanied by a custodio, a chaperone to escort me there. This service would only cost me about $30!

His name was Jonathan and he was nineteen years old and no matter how many times I said ¨eh¨or ¨repite¨he continued to slur and mumble. Conversation was pulling teeth, and I succumbed to listening to staticy banda music on the radio. On our way there we were flagged down by the Honduran police. I pulled over and proceeded to stammer and grunt in what I was hoping would be comprehendable Spanish to convey that I in fact did not yet have my papers, but was on my way to get them. Jonathan, being the stellar custodio that he is, looked down at his feet and simultaneously found a more pertinent task inside of his left nostril than helping me with the police. The policeman made me get out of the car, Jonathan got out as well, but still mesmerized by his very interesting shoes. I was able to get across that I was on my way to get my papers, and the police moved on to a new, more important law, the one that states a driver must have adequate precautionary signs in the vehicle at all times, you know the ones people use when they are broken down on the side of the highway. I opened the back trunk and pulled out two signal flairs, and one of those triangles made with reflective tape. Not enough warning equipment, apparently. Meanwhile, while I dug in the back of my car, two pickup trucks sped past the police checkpoint exceeding the speed limit with headlights falling off and bumpers going every which way and while a passenger van came by without tail lights and a ten year old behind the wheel. But of course, they all must have had adequate precautionary signs. The policeman told me they would hold my license until I paid the ¨fine¨, which they said was 600 Lempiras ($30). I did not have any Honduran money left, having paid the custodio for his helpfulness. When I said I had only two hundred Quetzales left, about $26, the officer said that would be sufficient and I could go on my way. He shook my hand and smiled before we left, suggesting that the whole interaction was like one between people in a good relationship.

The drive took about an hour, and we rolled into the port about half past twelve. My talkative friend in the passenger seat got out and collected my documents while I followed behind like a rejected puppy yipping at his heels about how unethical and stupid those policemen were. I followed him into a room with a short, curly haired woman plopped down behind a desk in the center. She looked over my papers with a frown that could have been seen from space and asked me where my registration was. This was a first, I joked, and said I would go to the car to get it, secretly hoping that it was in there. I had a registration card, but of course it had expired in February. Awesome. Sweat began to form little rivers running vertically from head to toe. I brought the registration back upstairs, and with a sigh that could have been heard from space the woman announced that the registration was useless. Luckily, she would do me a favor and infer my car was registered legally because the tags on my license plate were active. I thought I was in the clear, and the world was becoming a more wonderful place by the second. Then the thunderclouds rolled in but in the form of a pimply teenage woman, whose job it was to inspect the vehicle. We walked outside and I opened the door, joking about the dirtiness of the vehicle and trying to lighten the mood. A little background on the vehicle. There are two identification numbers (called VINs) on my vehicle; one is found on the dashboard, and the other is found on the certification label on the inside of the driver´s door. My car is old, and at some point the little plaque located on the dashboard that has one VIN fell off and was lost forever. The pimply woman went straight for that one. Where is it? She inquired. I dont know, I said, but I have another one that says the same damn thing right here on the door. Shen then told me a great little lesson about car engineering, telling me that car doors can be removed and changed, but that little teeny plaques on dashboards held on by mere screws could not be changed. Touche, I said, now what. I was SOL at that point, but had I had some money left in my wallet I would have tried the old greenback salve trick. Alas, I did not, and she sent me on my way after first making me wait another forty minutes in her office while she did absolutely nothing except gossip with her fellow employees. Wonderful. She finally informed me that I would have to return to Guatemala and try again at some other border, and that I would have to pay another $30 for another custodio to escort me back to the border. Luckily, Jonathan came through in a brilliant move, and declared that he had to go back there anyway and that he would go back with me, for free!

My custodio and I drove back in silence, myself because I was out of money and rejected, and Jonathan because he never talked and when he did I had no clue as to what he was saying. I practically shoved him out of my car, turned off the headache-enducing banda music, and drove back to Rio Dulce, my favorite place in the world.

I am sorry if this story was too sarcastic for you, my parents often remind me that ¨sarcasm is the lowest form of humor.¨nevertheless, I felt it was appropriate in describing this day. Moral of the story, don´t enter Honduras with a beater car, insufficient paperwork, and high hopes. However, tomorrow is another day, and I feel that a new border, a fresh tank of gas, and a crisp American twenty will be the difference.