Chapter 6: Free to Go / Nicaragua

By Paul Fast

Everyone is eager to hit the road again. Our transit through Honduras is entirely uneventful, and the boys are intrigued by the fact that they have crossed an entire nation without actually setting foot on the ground. We head for our second border crossing of the day, hoping for smooth passage, but promptly run into the quagmire that is the Nicaraguan border service. We had become gradually aware of the love that Central Americans have for process and red tape, but this was an entirely new experience.

It appears (to my now highly trained eye), that all one needs to be employed by the Nicaraguan border service is to hang a lanyard around one’s neck, place yourself on the street near a building, and begin to stop vehicles. Once you stop a vehicle, ask for documents (doesn’t matter which one), and tell whatever unlucky soul you have stopped that there is something wrong, and that the document must be corrected or something dire will happen. Five minutes before your victim returns with the corrected, copied or falsified documents, put up a sign saying you are gone for lunch. Return in two hours. At this point direct your victim to another official’s office, because he really needs to sign this form first. Once this critical step has been completed, you may stamp the victim’s form (with a flourish), demand of them a fee in exact change and issue them a small, square paper receipt as a souvenir. You can then provide them with vague, random instruction on where to go next. Ensure all of this is done with a mild look of indifference on your face, and that you spend most of the time perusing your favourite social media platforms. I am indulging in a hypothetical (probably overly harsh) exercise here, but the reality is not much different. We were the lucky ones. Having a family is like having a priority boarding pass, and we are often treated more gently than those around us. The Germans ahead of us are fuming, and I can see them calculating the 12 different ways in which the efficiency of this process could be immediately improved. They were sent through for an extra lap of security that included their entire vehicle being scanned, putting there total border crossing time at over 6 hours.

My curiosity about the red tape leads me into a quick dive on the history of Central American colonization, where I discover that there is a back story. During the colonial period Spain was happily plundering the continent and vast quantities of gold were being shipped across the Atlantic. To ensure that none of the gold was being “misplaced” along the way, local officials were appointed at key ports and cities to track, monitor and account for the movement of the gold. These officials, paid on a miserly, fixed salary, quickly tired off watching the wealth of an entire nation flow untouched through their hands. They began exacting small fees for each transaction, and it didn’t take them long to figure out that the more transactions, the more fees. All of this leading to a zealous love of paperwork, tracking seemingly insignificant details, and an absolute stubbornness for following due process. This brings us back to the stuffy room with a low, stained ceiling stained and my position at the end of a rather long queue. I could go along with all of this if it wasn’t for the corruption. During the 90 minutes it takes me to get to the counter, 3 different guys jump the queue to the front after a quick “meeting” in a side room. The Nicaraguan man ahead of me is livid, and tries to explain to me that this is not the way he would prefer his country to be run.

Despite the rocky start, Nicaragua is a stunningly beautiful country. We drive into a falling sun on well paved roads that are clean with good shoulders. Fat cattle graze in green pastures, and roadside stands groan under the weight of the fruit of the land. The Nicaraguans themselves have a darker complexion than the Salvadorans, and are quick with a smile. We find our way to Laguna Apoyo, where we slip over the rim of a dormant crater and make camp at the edge of the lake that is nestled in its bottom. We spend several days here, washing off the dust and stress of the last couple of weeks. The lake’s clean freshwater has a liberating quality to it. The surrounding crater rim is a verdant, green goblet that cradles the turquoise water in its glass. At nighttime, the locals wade into the water’s edge and use handlines to catch the perch that congregate around their flashlight beams. They beckon to Jonah and I, give us a spare line, and soon we are demonstrating how inept we Canadians are at handlining. This is a good place.

Central America is a spine of active, shifting tectonic plates and we are never far from a good volcano. We make an evening trip to Masaya. Here we climb to an adjacent hilltop to watch the sun set; its dying rays lancing through the translucent sulfur cloud growing from the Masaya Cauldron. When it is dark enough, we climb to the crater rim, where a hole has been opened such that we can peer directly into the bowels of the earth. In the bottom of the crater lies a shimmering, unblinking eye of molten lava. It is difficult to tear my gaze away, and I stare, waiting for the eye to blink.

Our path through this country takes us back to the coast, where we discover a beach that allows wild camping just north of San Juan del Sur. Here we park our truck at the edge of the sand, and undertake a three day battle with the waves. Armed with rented surf and boogie boards we hammer away late into the day, then eat dinner as we watch the sun set. The boys discover their first monkeys, and a large sea turtle visits our camp one night. The beach sand in this place is very fine, and finds its way into every nook and cranny of our bodies and camper. It will take a couple of weeks to get it all out, and we are learning to alternate beach camping with inland camping to give ourselves a chance to clean out, and to trade the hot, humid temperatures of the coast with slightly milder temps of the hill country.

All too quickly our time in Nicaragua is over and we must make our way south again. The Nicaraguan bureaucracy, however, would like to take one last kick at us. At a routine police road check, we are told by a rather uptight, young woman with bright red lipstick and a very serious look on her face that our vehicle insurance was not acceptable. It was unclear why this was an issue. When we asked for clarification, we were advised that she required a paper copy, not a digital copy. After an exasperating back and forth (for the record I was quite calm, Daniella however….), we told her we would drive back to town and print out a copy (which she could put in a gold frame and hang on her wall for time immemorial). This was not acceptable, and she informed us that we would be given a violation and have to pay a fine. At this point I was calculating whether or not we had the room ahead of us to make a run for it, but then remembered that she held Daniella’s license. We argued back and forth for the better part of half an hour, with no progress. Daniella (who had been driving), was not going to budge. Eventually the officer walked away with Daniella’s license in her hand. It was unclear as to what the next steps were. She began checking other vehicles, and it appeared that we had been forgotten. Suddenly a young (he must have been a teenager), very polite officer tapped at our window. He clarified the circumstances, looked at our insurance pdf and handed back the license, stating, “You are free to go”.

Central America is a continent of small countries and many borders. Crossing these in as short a time span as we are continues to be a major challenge. “Free to go” is not a statement that has typified our brief stay in Nicaragua, but we are slowly and surely learning the rhythms, tricks and patience of maneuvering a family of five and one rather larger vehicle through a country that is not our own. Along the way, learning to take “free to go” a little less for granted.