Entering Nicaragua

The first thing I noticed about the border between Honduras and Nicaragua was that there is no bridge at the Fraternidad/El Espino crossing point. There is a raised barrier and a cement post striped in yellow paint and suddenly one country ends and the other begins. 

The Hondurans were charming and easy as we said goodbye and I will confess my stomach was churning as we drove the fifty yards from the Honduran customs building to the “Welcome To Nicaragua” sign. They have a fearsome reputation for being bloody minded and awkward at Nicaraguas border. We have spoken with travelers who took five hours to cross here’s after being subjected to probing interrogations by angry officials. 

You aren’t supposed to wield cell phones in the border offices of any country (including the US) and in a left over from Cold War years photographing border facilities  is forbidden so our pictures in this post have a rather poor quality which you can attribute to my feeble spycraft as we attempted to document our arrival in Nicaragua. 

Before we even arrived at the border post a man in a hut came out and inspected our passports and gave us an entry form to fill out. Then the disinfectant was sprayed on our wheels.  Then an officious police woman motioned me to follow her so I got out and walked to what looked like a Girl Scout gathering under a tree and from among the women sitting in a circle another angry looking policewoman with a giant bosom asked for my entry forms I had just been given. She stamped them and handed them back. She stared and I hoped I was going to get a spanking but she motioned me away with a bored look. I backed out of the August Presence feeling like a school boy in the study of yet another disappointed headmaster. I was educated at a school resembling Hogwarts and the trauma never leaves you. 

Then we did immigration and I joked around with the Immigration lady and I had them all smiling pretty quickly so that went well. It was ten o’clock on a Sunday morning and there were just a few truckers in the building and no lines. We were stamped into Nicaragua. Okay then. $26 in US currency. The exchange rate is about 36 Nicaraguan Cordobas (“baskets”) to the dollar but we had none and no one wanted any. And being Sunday there were no currency exchange touts wandering around. That was weird and annoying. 

A young customs agency hung out and kept us up to date with our progress. Soon she sent me off to the “eh scanner” a modern expensive US donation to fight the war on drugs. Again there was no line and I drove in, parked the van and watched as my home got x-rayed. Everyone was patient and kind and helpful as I had roughly no idea whatsoever where to stand while these weird operations were underway.  Then we had to wait for the results. In the meantime Layne went to the duty free shop for some light shopping - rum beer and chocolate - and I went off to present Rusty’s papers to Agriculture. They had a cute dog in the office which they offered to me to adopt. I’d have loved to but Rusty (and Layne) would have thrown a fit…They too were friendly and cheerful and took $11 after they inspected my dog and pronounced him nice (and disease free just like his vet papers said). 

Our tactic at border crossings is to settle in and ostentatiously show we are in no hurry by reading a paper book (no cell phones remember?) so Layne got out my copy of “A Single  Wave” a collection of Webb Chiles’s disasters at sea and I got a colorful Italian comic book which sat large in my hands as I stretched out. We were soon interrupted by a posse of young customs agents who needed to show activity. Their inspection looked fearsome but it was as cursory as any checkpoint we’ve ever been through. They opened the toilet door and recoiled at the sight of our toilet. Binoculars are illegal in Nicaragua (!) and ours are safe behind the toilet and will stay out of sight as long as we are in the country. One unpleasant you g man asked if we had a drone and he was fierce. They too are illegal in Nicaragua and overlanders routinely ship theirs across to neighboring countries. I said no I’m too old, they are toys for youngsters. He scowled. I avoided answering if I had a camera. We carry four plus two cellphones and two iPads all capable of taking pictures. And that was the only brief moment of Cold War grumpiness at the border. We passed the scanner test and the inspectors found nothing objectionable. Welcome to Nicaragua! And we were done in two hours. 

The only guy touring for business was Martin who offered to clean the van. I gave him five bucks and he did actually nice job. Then he showed me pictures of his lovely dogs. I told him to look me up next time we’re at the border for another clean. 

We showed our receipts on the way out as usual and we were free to wander Nicaragua for 60 days. All done in under two hours and no stress at all. 

You know how you worry about stuff and the more you worry the less it comes true? I should have known I was being an idiot worrying about this border crossing. 

A Night In Honduras

On the road Saturday afternoon in Honduras we slotted ourselves into the flow of traffic on the Panamericana the Pan American Highway where “pan” from the Greek means “all” as in all the 17,000 miles of highway from the US through the Americas, the Andes to the fjords of Chile and the Argentine Patagonia…Around here it’s labeled CA1 - Central America 1. 

Google Maps told us we had about three to four hours of driving to get from El Salvador to Nicaragua across a hundred mile neck of Honduras which gives this country modest access to the Pacific Ocean through the muddy brown waters of the Gulf of Fonseca, a body of water where El Salvador Honduras and Nicaragua meet.

Our plan was to honk through Honduras pausing to sleep one night and then warily approach the Nicaraguan border at El Espino mid morning on Sunday well rested well nourished and ready to wait out the minutiae of a border crossing known for its bloody minded persnicketyness. My hope was that Sunday might catch them relaxed with less commercial traffic and if we aren't impatient we may disarm their wariness. On the other hand they might be direct and charming if we have prosperity ducks all in a row! Exciting! We are ready having done our part: 

So our visit to Honduras was planned to be necessarily brief so we filled up with fuel and water in El Salvador with gas at $3:99 a gallon and we found regular in Honduras to be about $3:80 a gallon not enough of a difference to worry about. We changed ten dollars at 25 Lempira to the dollar at the border so we could buy snacks on the road like grilled corn. 

As we drove we checked possibilities for stopping for the night. iOverlander had a few sketchy options, street parking and gas stations which are okay but we like to stop at gas stations closer to dark and not spend hours parked in day light near the pumps. 

One issue for travelers in these modern times is figuring out how to get phone coverage as you go. Typically overlanders stop to buy local SIM cards for their phones when they enter each new country. It’s a clunky system because you have to find an office (without a phone map!) by remembering to set up your route before you cross the border and lose your coverage. Also local phone companies won’t sell you contracts and in most countries you need a local credit card to add time to your local SIM card. And then we discovered Verizon’s monthly international plan.  

At $80 a month it’s more expensive than buying time locally at 5 gigabytes at a time but boy is it convenient! With unlimited data just like at home when we cross a border we get a cheerful “Welcome to Honduras!” message and our phone doesn’t miss a beat. We just keep driving. I’m certain AT&T and T-Mobile must have similar plans for people on the road. We are lucky we can afford them and can kiss Claro and local phone offices goodbye. Between that and Starlink we are connected. 

Sometimes friends tell us when they go on vacation they like to unplug which is fair enough. We are at home not on vacation. 

We travel with Google, air conditioning, refrigeration and clean pure water without a care in the world. And we pass pedestrians bumping loads of firewood home to their shacks. I can’t get over the contrast. 

Since independence in 1810 the countries of the Central American federation have signally failed to get their lives together. They tried to form a federation with San Salvador as their capital but that fell apart. Mostly these days they argue on the football field and soccer determines the winners. The Pool not heated but  wonderful: 

I knew we’d figure something out before dark and sure enough we located Las Tekas, a public bath and gathering space alongside the PanAmerican. For $20 US ( no Lempira needed!) we got a safe place to park for the night. Mitchell is 76 years old and retired to life on his farm. His wife rules the roost in their town house in Choluteca but out here he strides around like a Honduran peasant carrying his machete. 

Rusty figured this was a bit of all right and next to exploring a place with no visible local dogs. 

The restaurant was closed to accommodate a religious revival “My wife’s thing,” Mitchell shrugged. “There will be some singing but they should shut up soon,” he added and they did in point of fact. We had plenty of food inside our well insulated van. 

There was that pool and no point in wasting the refreshingly cold water. Followed by a sparkling cool shower, followed by a dinner of salad and roast chicken bought roadside. 

We had the whole place to ourselves except for the music which shut down miraculously at eleven when god sent rain to send them all home. But they had their revenge.

Gunshots at five am rang out sitting us up straight in our beds wondering what the hell was going on. Then more loud music. It turns out the thunderclaps and music were a wake up call to get the religious camp moving. At 5am. And us. 

Culture clash? You bet! Life on the road. Up next Nicaragua. 

And those trucks made the road to the border a wreck. Here’s a sample of the worst bits of Honduras highways:

Eventually Honduras

I have been to La Union twice before in my life and this Saturday morning marked my third visit to this unprepossessing port town on the Gulf of Fonseca. It has not improved much with age though it is now thoroughly modern compared  to past visits. 

In 1986 as a reporter I looked into the state of fishing in the middle of a civil war and found things to be not scintillating. 
In 1999 Layne and I and our two dogs stopped here on a passage from Mexico to Nicaragua.The pharmacists were fascinated by my huge patient Labrador Emma adopted by us from the Santa Cruz SPCA and they wanted to pet her. 
I didn’t try to pull the same trick with Rusty in the same pharmacy a full generation of employees later...
We bought pupusas from a stand that got five star reviews on Google Msps and they were just fine. Lunch for two for $2:60. 

There was a line when I pulled up across the street. That looked promising. We got four to go, one cheese and one bean pupusa each.

Rusty and I walked the streets a bit while Layne went poking around in the shops. 
















It was hot and busy on the sidewalks  of La Union and soon enough Rusty knew when he had had enough, time for his air conditioned bed and a bowl of water. 

A half hour on the worst, most potholed road in El Salvador would get us to the iconic El Amatillo border crossing into Honduras. 




There is a certain sadness leaving a country you have enjoyed, a place whose customs you have had at least a chance to get used to, a country where you know the currency, the stores, the food and that feels at least slightly familiar. Oh and the paperwork in El Salvador is simple. 

Five minutes at customs and I was clear to leave.

Another five minutes at passport control and off we went…

…across the bridge separating El Salvador from Honduras. No eighteen wheelers - lovely! 

Among Latin American travelers the  Honduran border control building at El Amatillo is famous, a monument. I had longed to cross here and at last my wish was fulfilled. 

Except nowadays you don’t drive through, more’s the pity but you find somewhere to park and dodge the touts and money changers who want to “guide” you through a simple process of seeing immigration first. The clerk had lived in Iowa and was delighted by my wife’s birthplace so they chatted and he typed out details and took $3 each. 

Across the famous hall was a young lady finishing lunch. She took out papers and typed out our Temporary Import Permit for the GANNET2 -$35. All done in less than an hour. 

And lest you think our van journey is remarkable of pioneering check out these stickers, only a few among the travelers who mark their passing here. 

We could have easily skipped the quarantine office which we eventually located in a green container among the 18 wheelers jockeying for exit permits for their loads bound for El Salvador. Speaking Spanish saved us and I am not surprised many travelers think there is no pet paperwork requirement at this border. We could have saved $12 and twenty minutes but making Rusty legal saves us worry so we try to do the right thing even when that involves not having a clue where the office might be, we just kept asking and there it was tucked away. 

He came out to take Rusty’s official portrait and shocked he was the little bugger didn’t run away. 

But as usual he refused to pose for the camera. Layne watched from the passenger seat and laughed. 

Even going out of our way slightly to do the right thing cost us twenty minutes and the entire birder crossing from exiting El Salvador to finishing our entry into Honduras took less than ninety minutes. 

The open road! Smooth, straight just a few potholes and no speed bumps. Lovely Honduras! I mean there’s more to this country than the roads and we did notice right away  some differences, older buses and cars, more trash and magnificent views of mountain ridges volcanoes and huge threatening rain clouds. 

And beggars and thin dogs and occasional lunatics strolling up and speaking gibberish. Honduras has been the United States’ staunchest ally through the 20th century and is about the poorest country in Central America. I’m not sure the two are directly related but it makes you think. 

It’s a mere  100 miles from El Amatillo to the Nicaraguan border but we planned to fiend one night along the way and appear fresh and ready for the customs bureaucracy early on Sunday. 

What could be more innocent than two elderly retirees in a van traveling around Central America? 

Up next how to locate a safe sleeping spot in a strange land not equipped with campgrounds or even a rudimentary understanding of RV travel! Are we having fun yet? You bet.