- 'GRINGO.' I hear a loud shout as my minibus pulls to a stop in the small pueblo of Guasole on the Honduras side of the border with Nicaragua. Followed by a stampede of about twenty money-changers and tricycle taxi drivers sprinting towards the open passenger side window of the minibus in which I have been sitting.
Large bundles of money are waved under my nose. By the time I finally manage to force my way out of the minibus door, my rucksack is already sitting waiting for me in the luggage compartment of a tricycle taxi. The driver wants to charge me 1 USD to cycle 300 metres to the border. Then he wants to charge me 10 Honduran Lempiras (30 pence) to cycle me 299 metres to the border. Then he rides alongside me as I walk the 299 metres to the Honduras-Nicaragua border. The midday sun is beating down mercilessly, and my t-shirt is soaked by the time I get to Honduras immigration and the tricycle driver has sworn at me for not giving him a tip for riding the 299 metres alongside me as I struggled in the heat with my rucksack.
I am already in a bad mood about being called a Gringo by the time I have passed through Honduras immigration, decide to change the Honduran Lempiras I still have in my wallet into Nicaraguan Cordobas and realise I don't know what the exchange rate is and am therefore about to be completely ripped off. I am in an even worse mood when I then get to the Nicaraguan immigration office and the bored looking official behind the counter tells me I need to pay him 12 dollars. I am not a Gringo, I mutter to myself. Why should I pay in US dollars to enter a country in Central America? Why should I pay anything when there are no signs in the office to suggest there really is a entry fee that is supposed to be paid?
- 'No soy estadosunidense.' I shake my head firmly. - 'No tengo dolares conmigo.'
The immigration offical stares back at me blankly, and tells me again that it will cost me 12 US Dollars to enter Nicaragua, and to step aside so he can serve the large queue standing behind me. I step aside, cursing Nicaragua in general and the moustachioed git behind the counter in particular, whilst holding my soaking wet t-shirt out to stop it sticking to my stomach. Then I slip the twenty US Dollars that I still have from my roadtrip in July into my passport and rejoin the back of the queue.
- 'Dame su nombre.' I slide a piece of paper and a pen across to the bored moustachioed immigration official after he has smugly taken my US money and stamped my passport. I tell him that I am Scottish not American, work for the British government and will be following up with his superiors on why I need to pay in US currency to enter Nicaragua, particularly when there are no signs on the wall to suggest an entry fee is necessary, and he has just given me a receipt for two dollars.
This tips the moustachioed immigration official over the edge. He slides my pen and blank piece of paper back across the counter, says a few things that I don't understand, culminating in one sentence that I do: that if I didn't want to pay the 12 US Dollars to enter Nicaragua then I should not have ()$·/%"!·$ come to the country.
I put my pen and paper back in my pocket, pull my wet t-shirt out from my stomach again, smile ruefully at the queue of wide-eyed Latin Americans that have been watching the extranjero arguing with the moustachioed immigration official, and then quickly hurry across the border into Nicaragua before I can be extradited for being a tight-fisted Scotsman.
