In frustration I
called out in my stunted Spanish “Yordy, we’ve got to organise your parental
permission paperwork or you won’t be let out of the country!” Liz had managed
to rustle up everything we’d need, I honestly didn’t know how she’d missed
this. Yet, like the rest of us, Liz makes mistakes too – though I’d never say
it to her face, and I’ll plead blackmail in court if you forward this blogpost
to her!
It was 6pm on
Thursday evening. There was no sign of Liz, nor three quarters of our center’s
inhabitants. In 10 hours I, my 4 kids, our 8 Nica-youths, our Aussie volunteer
and American GAP YEAR Leader, would travel all the way to El Salvador on an
evangelistic outreach, which they assured us to be only a 12 hour bus ride.
I scrambled into the
car with Yordy, Ericson and Eliazer. We needed a lawyer, but no problems, I
know dozens in Managua. Well, at least 3… Our first bet was just down the road.
He’s a lawyer by day and a pastor by night. He sends his gorgeous little angel,
Itzel, to Capital Edge Community School.
We pulled up in a
tornado of dust. Itzel and her family live with the rest of the family:
Grandma, an aunty (or 2), and 3 kids whose father has abandoned them. Nothing
unusual for Nicaragua. There is rarely a father amongst family members.
Itzel’s mother came
running over.
This is going to
sound a bit “up myself” but it really is an honour for the locals when I come
to visit – I’m not more special in God’s eyes, and it’s not that I think I’m
better than them, they just really consider it an honour that I, an expat,
takes time for them in their neck-of-the-woods.
I try not to let it
go to my head, but I’m somewhat Cedro Galan royalty. I gave her my hand to kiss
on bended knee and instead of kissing it, she shook it violently, causing my
teeth to chatter. Hardly a royal now – well, not a Prince William royal, though
possibly a Beautrice or Eugine royal…
The usual
formalities, “how is your family?” which is hardly necessary, seeing’s as
though they’re all standing in front of me smiling broadly. “And the Pastor?” I
inquired. Not at home. Off somewhere sharing the love of God with indigenous
folk in the southern autonomous region of Nicaragua. Pooh! Well, for me and
Yordy – not so much for those receiving eternal salvation. “He has a plan, he
has a plan…” I remind myself. “All things work together for good…”
We hug and kiss and
then I behave a bit naughtily, misusing words and pretending to trip, which is
really funny for everyone, including me, until I’m being propelled with such
force that I can’t stop myself, ending up knee deep in gray water (though it
looks more like brown water, if you get my drift…). I produce a groaning noise
“gaaaaaaah”, which remains unheard
through the boisterous laughter.
I behave like a
nutbag, just to give the locals cheer and a topic of conversation for the next
hour or two – their lives can be rather droll and Nicas don’t laugh and laugh
over nothing like Samoans. However, if you give Nicas a reason to laugh, and
once they get started, it’s difficult for them to stop. We hit the road, once
again.
One down, 2 to go. I
arrive at the home of a lawyer, whose wife works as the business manager of the
school Liz and I used to work at. They’re brilliant people, very hard working.
So hard working, it turns out, that the lawyer isn’t home. “When will he be
back?” I ask through the son to the mother, who is working diligently on
dinner. At 9pm… “Yikes, he’ll be our plan B” I instruct myself.
On the road again, I
just can’t wait to be on the road again. We drive to our lovely Peruvian
lawyer, Alejandro. We are warmly welcomed in and take our seats. In order to
complete the paperwork, Alejandro needs Yordy’s mother to sign a document.
Yordy’s mother is in Costa Rica. “Thanks Alejandro” I say shaking his hand.
“Will catch you later…”
We need a dodgy,
crooked lawyer, someone willing to be civilly disobedient for the cause of the
Gospel - we head to our Pastor’s house, Norlan. When I arrive, Norlan is hardly
dressed, clearly having just arrived home from working in the community.
I love Pastor
Norlan. A good time ago he was in a car accident and nearly lost his arm. Three
doctors wanted to amputate, but the fourth, a Christian doctor, agreed to do
everything in his power to save Pastor Norlan’s arm.
The first time I met
Pastor Norlan, he was already in my home, as the guard had let him in (who
leaves a man of God out on the street? Not in Nicaragua, no siree!). I wasn’t
dressed so well myself and didn’t have shoes on. The assistant pastor glared at
me, looking me up, then down, up then down. He was clearly disgusted. I didn’t
care and carried on as I pleased, only just holding myself back from doing
handstands, cartwheels, or something equally as ungodly and highly embarrassing
to the man.
Pastor Norlan raced
out to the gate and opened it for me. I explained briefly that we needed a
lawyer, a nighttime lawyer, and he told me where I could find one – down past Metrocentro
(dead center of town…).
The car whistled
along the road, obeying no road rules – our V8 Toyota drives itself, leaving us
to hang on for dear life (we’re selling it to pay for our evangelism
outreaches). We arrived just as our chubby little Sandanista lawyer was
finishing up with her evening clients. I have to tell you it felt weird, almost
dirty, visiting a lawyer after dark.
“We cannot help you
unless Yordy’s mother signs this document” the lawyer patronisingly explained.
“But she’s in Costa Rica! She’s given permission for Yordy to travel with us and
we can call her so you can confirm the details yourself.” She shook her head.
The thing is, in my experience, there is ALWAYS a way around each obstacle in
life, working at the airport taught me that. Unfortunately, in Latin America,
it seems to me that people give up at the first road block – they need the
equivalent of a V8 Toyota, but in their brains!
I pushed and
prodded, nudged and guided, patronized, instructed, asked questions, and spoke
very slowly in monotone. I danced, sung, performed dramas, chatted in English,
whined in Spanglish, was melodramatic and thoroughly boring. The lawyer did
laugh, but overall was unimpressed.
It seemed Yordy
would not be coming with us to El Salvador. “Gloria A Dios!” I exclaimed. “Are
you a Christian?” she asked. “Why yes I am!” I responded with pure Anne of
Green Gables delight. “Oh well, in that case – let’s complete that paperwork!”
My best and most
favouritist lawyer explained that there are rules that cannot be broken in
Nicaragua, like fraud in an election, and then there are rules that stop bad
things from happening. In our instance, the law was there to stop child
trafficking – that was the spirit of the law.
Our lawyer continued
to explain that if a relative could come and verify the story, bringing their
cedula with them (government id card), and if she could talk with Yordy’s
mother in Costa Rica, then she’d prepare the documentation we needed for our
tour to El Salvador.
Success! Later that
night we arrived home as triumphantly as King David returning from battle with
the Philistines. We sung the theme song from our play, “Created”, as we entered
the driveway. “Let Creaaaation Sing, oooof the KING, Let the Uuuuuniiiiiverse
Resoooooooooound. With a SHOUT of Loooove we will give to youuuuu all the
Highest praaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaise… Forever, forever I’ll sing… EVERYBODY NOW!
Forever, forever I’ll sing… Forever, forev” Liz bore holes through my being
with her contemptuous eyes. “Hello Li” “DON’T YOU HELLO ME!” She called out. It
was close to midnight. Her hair was frazzled, her eyebrows made upside down
semicircles, she was not at all pleased.
“I’ve already
organised Yordy’s immigration papers, Jed and I TOLD YOU THAT!” She proclaimed,
at a smidge greater volume than a whisper. “Woops, have you?” Silence… A LONG
silence… Liz knows how uncomfortable I am with silence – I had to make a noise,
but what? I giggled – wrong move.
“You think that’s
funny? Wasting an entire evening on duplicating work?” Yordy skipped away – why
didn’t I think of that? I started to skip and could feel the glare through the
back of my head. It had worked, I was free.
Liz and I continued
to work through the night, me on the evangelism tour to El Salvador and Liz on
the medical clinic paperwork, which would make her life a HEAP simpler over the
coming weeks. At 2am the house sprung into action and everyone hustled and
bustled. Of course, due to the excitement the night before, most of the lads only
gained an hour or two of sleep. The preparation to leave became unproductive,
with nobody really doing anything useful. We bundled ourselves into the car
with ease, the 16 or more of us.
 |
| Sezni, Eliazer & Ericson, waiting in the King Quality Terminal (Managua) |
The fresh air of
downtown Managua could not have smelled sweeter. We checked our stuff in,
boarded our bus, and ewwwed and ahhhed in excitement over every little King
Quality feature. The friendly
bus-steward welcomed us aboard and handed out pillows, blankets, bottles of
water and the rest. We settled in for our comfy ride to El Salvador, grandiose
smiles plastered to each never-been-out-of-the-country Nica-youth.
 |
| Fran, Renz, Sez & Anna in Managua Bus Terminal |
Daylight woke me from
my fitful sleep. I was freezing. The a/c was switched to blizzard mode. I sat
up and started completing the customs and immigration forms. I decided, in my
weary state, it was better to have the lads do their own forms, even if it
meant losing their passports and having them repatriated back to Nicaragua.
 |
| Ericson & Rene on the Bus |
The chirpy
bus-steward came along asking for $2 per Nicaraguan national, $8 per Nicaraguan
resident, and God only knows how much for tourists. I decided in my groggy
state, that I no longer liked my courteous bus-steward, he was shifty.
 |
| Jonny, sleeping comfortably in King Quality |
“I’ll pay ours at
the border, directly to the official. Thank you for your attentive service.” I
said as I poignantly rolled over, aloofly look out the window – but just
imagine my surprise when in the reflection of the window I could still see the
effervescent bus-steward staring sharply at me. I was startled and jumped just
a little, shocking my startled body, sending movements in every direction.
“I’ll give you a receipt.” He suggested cunningly. “No, thanks. I will pay
myself.”
 |
| Sitting at the Honduran/Nicaraguan Border |
We arrived at the
Nicaraguan side of the Nicaraguan/Honduran border and got off the bus.
Apparently we had to pay a random woman, on the street, and nobody could really
validate who she was or what we were paying for. How would she know if we had
paid or not, seeing as though there were hundreds of people milling around, no
lines, no order...
 |
| At the Nicaraguan/Honduran Border, half asleep... |
The bubbly
bus-steward told me to pay her and so I paid. We were then hustled to
immigration to pay an additional $3, which ended up being only $2. The
calculating bus-steward raised his eye-brows feigning surprise, “it’s only $2?”
he asked. Yes, I’m sure… 40 people on each bus, 2 borders a day, that’s $80
each trip. I tutted as I walked by him, after all – I’ve never lied, cheated,
or made a mistake in my life!
On the Honduran side
of the Nicaraguan/Honduran border we begrudgingly got off again. Some of the
boys lit up cigarettes, whilst others bought juice or a snack. I wandered
around the back of the bus, only to catch a glimpse of a customs official,
showing his mate things from my bag and laughing. I did my loudest “AHEM” and
almost laughed out loud when they promptly turned around donning childish
faces. I stalked back around the bus and was greeted by our roguish
bus-steward. “You need to pay the immigration official inside” he said smugly.
 |
| At the Border, Honduran side... Rafael, Jocasta, Lorenzy-Ella & Ericson |
I walked briskly,
almost commandingly, into the immigration office. “You need to pay me $21,
please” he said firmly in Spanish. I responded carelessly with “What for?” His
response was even firmer and much more curt, “for entering Honduras.” I took to
his rudeness and raised the bar “but I am a permanent resident of Nicaragua. I
pay what the Nicaraguans pay.” He spat on the floor. “Get on the bus and go
back to Nicaragua” he boomed.
 |
| Waiting around the "Quality", which was renamed on our trip... |
A little shocked I
asked for his name. He advised piously, that he would not be giving me his
name. I pushed for his supervisor’s name and I received a similar answer,
though with a tad more irritation. I asked the useless bus-steward for the
immigration officer’s name. He wiggled his finger so fast I wanted to grab it
and snap it in two.
 |
| Rafael in Honduras |
The Mexican detainee
in the corner began to twitch. There were already blaringly red rings around
his wrists, close to where his handcuffs sat. I left the building quickly and
the infuriating bus-steward grabbed me by the arm. “Where are you going?” he
asked annoyingly. “To the bus” I countered. I’m not paying anything until I get
a name” I said smugly. “Then you’re going back to Nicaragua. “Nup” came my Kath
n Kim response.
 |
| Anna, our QUEEN of chirpiness on KING Quality Bus Trip from Nicaragua to El Salvador |
The immigration
official came out of his office and offered me a receipt for payment. I agreed
to the deal, but felt it strange. If this transaction was in-fact above board
and correct, then why was the official so concerned about handing over his
first name. I later learned, upon my return to Honduras, that all foreigners,
regardless of their immigration status in Nicaragua, have the $3 fee imposed
upon them.
It turns out, as is
similar with the Police in Nicaragua, that it is a national offence to question
someone in authority. We laughed about it and shook hands, the smarmy
bus-steward offering his hand up the steps – oh how surprisingly easy it was
for him to come flying down…
 |
| Grumpy Jed, suffering from dehydration, sleep depravation, and wanting to murder b@$*@*# Bus-Steward |
Loads of action
movies later, with Sezni doing kung-Fu and gymnastics down the aisle, and with broken a/c to-boot, we
arrived, nearly naked, at the El Salvadorian/Honduran border. Everything was smooth for the
Honduras side, and we thought all was clear on the El Salvadorian side. Nobody
had said “boo” about our minors, and I was nervous, even though we had the
necessary paperwork.
 |
| Dehydration sets in during Honduras, when the QUALITY bus's a/c broke... Ericson is thirsty! |
 |
| Delirious! |
 |
| Hot & Smelly, Yordy & Francesca... |
Anna, our gorgeous
GAP YEAR Leader from Minneapolis, was a little tense about her interaction with
the polite and professional immigration officer. Anna was on the VERY LAST DAY
of her Nicaraguan 3 month visa. We’d thought that Anna would be okay, because
she was leaving Nicaragua, but her visa could only be renewed when leaving
Nicaragua, Honduras, El Salvador and Guatemala. These 4 countries work in a
kind of pact on many national issues, immigration being one of them.
The immigration
officer returned to the bus and asked Anna to go with him. I got up and told
Francesca to follow. The bossy bus-steward informed me that I was not permitted
to leave the bus. I couldn’t have cared less, and pushed past his arm. He came
sniveling around me, talking at me all the while. I didn’t listen. My mind was
saturated with questions, answers, angles and tactics. We walked into the
immigration office tired, emotional and ready to take someone down.
I have to say at
this point, that even though I was in a murderous mood, not considering it “all
joy” like we’re instructed to do in the Bible, I found the El Salvadorian
immigration office a very pleasant place to be.
There was a staff member of the month award and photograph on the wall,
the immigration officials seemed to have slight smiles on their faces as they
copped abuse from detained, would-be El Salvadorian visitors, and a general
sense of professionalism and positivity was almost tangibly felt.
The immigration
official explained Anna’s plight to us. Her visa had expired. It would not be
renewed by visiting El Salvador. Anna would not be permitted to continue on to
Mexico for visa renewal. Nothing I said, nothing I did, made any difference.
I have a tactic when
in these types of travel situations, to ask the same question over and over
again, using different words, to try and jolt alternative thinking in service
staff, or just annoy them into letting me have my way because I’m nice and
won’t be moved.
I know when I was at
the airport, if I wasn’t being proud and stubborn, that sometimes a customer’s
words actually triggered an idea in my mind. This did not help at the El
Salvadorian border. Fran and Anna must have thought I was really retarded at
this point, because they began arguing for the El Salvadorians against me. I
tried to give them looks and began the nose tapping, but they didn’t tune in to
my queues. On top of that, the blimmin bus-steward started tapping his toes and
his wrist watch. I was REALLY unhappy with him at this point.
And so it was, at
the very beginning of our journey, our evangelistic team would split into 2. We
returned to the bus, dragging our feet. I couldn’t even BEGIN to imagine how
Anna must have felt. What a champion sized bummer! We entered the bus and I was
confronted with Jocasta. I hated to ask, but it had to be done. “Jazz, would
you mind returning to Nicaragua with Anna?” What do I love about living “on the
Edge?” The amazing people that God has sent along… “Course I will!” she said
happily.
