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Last year, during a seven month period the author drove nearly 25,000 miles in a 1988 Toyota 4Runner from Connecticut all the way to the southernmost city in the world – Usuhaia, Argentina, passing through some of the world’s most beautiful scenery on some of the world’s worst maintained and most dangerous roads. He ended his 12 country odyssey in Paraguay, where he sold his car and flew home to the USA, forever changed by his life on the road during what was a truly remarkable undertaking. While a full recounting of his journey would require many volumes, the author has agreed to provide us with glimpses and insight into what he experienced. This is the second in a series of five articles. After a relaxing few days in the Lake Atitlan area of Guatemala spent recovering from a car crash in Mexico and my near arrest by corrupt police, I was looking forward to reaching Honduras and enjoying the famed scuba diving of the Bay Islands.  As my previous border crossings into Mexico and Guatemala had been routine and relatively hassle-free, I anticipated no problems entering Honduras.  I got an early start from Puerto Barrios, a Guatemalan town close to the border, hoping to cross into Honduras quickly, either spending the night in Omoa or perhaps going all the way to La Ceiba. A Guatemalan customs agent was unsure about the rules regarding car importation into Honduras, although he vaguely mentioned something about having to be accompanied by a Honduran agent to a processing center in Puerto Cortes to get the necessary documents. I dismissed his comment, assuming that I’d find some way around it.

The Honduran border

The post consisted of a blockade manned by four soldiers and a few shabby buildings. I decided to take care of my passport first (generally personal entrance and the importation of a car require two different sets of procedures), and walked over to stand in line at the appropriate building with some other people who had come by bus. I was told by the official there that I needed to speak first with a customs official about importing the 4Runner. 

I walked to the importation office to speak with the official on duty. He explained that the normal procedure, since he did not have the authority to issue permissions at the post, was for a customs agent - for a fee of 300 Lempira (equivalent to $20 USD, yet nonetheless a large sum in a country where an average monthly salary is 900 Lempira or $60 USD) - to accompany the car to the port city of Puerto Cortes and obtain the  necessary permissions. However, he told me, about ten days earlier the permissions for foreigners to bring in foreign-registered cars had been suspended, due to illegal importation and sale designed to avoid heavy taxes. Going to Puerto Cortes would therefore be a waste of my time and money. I insisted that I had to get cleared for legal entry into Honduras that very same day, and he replied nonchalantly that I was free to do as I pleased, although I would receive no refund.
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The permit

I had my passport stamped by the other officer and paid the 300 Lempira fee for an agent to accompany me to Puerto Cortes, then moved my car to the other side of the blockade and waited. About one-half hour later a smiling officer arrived in uniform carrying an automatic shotgun. Olivia and Kate, my two English friends, got in the back of the truck to allow the customs agent to ride in front. I made an unsuccessful attempt at joking with the customs agent about riding “shotgun,” yet the origin of the term was difficult to explain in Spanish, and the agent seemed more disposed to chain smoking than idle chatter. After arriving in Puerto Cortes, a large, seedy, and dangerous city, I hired two ayudantes to assist me with the paperwork and navigation of the port’s maze of government offices.  Olivia and Kate decided to wait with my car, and I set off with my ayudantes. After much searching, we made our way through a series of corridors with peeling paint and suffocating heat to the main customs office. While I was waiting to see the head administrator, I saw an American and a Swiss man arguing with the sub-administrator. They were trying to get permission to import their Landrover, and the argument quickly escalated into a shouting match, with the red-faced sub-administrator finally losing his temper and ordering an armed escort to take both men to the border for summary deportation.

Finally, it was my turn to see the head administrator. I stepped confidently through the ornate hardwood door into his office, refreshed by the cool air of the only air conditioner in the building. I stood up straight to look presentable as two of the head administrator’s aides took up position on either side of me. I walked up to the head administrator, an obese man elegantly dressed and groomed, and shook his hand firmly. I then asked his permission to sit down. He nodded his head, and seemed pleased by the formal introduction I had given. Next I handed him a folder containing all the original documents and registration forms for my car, along with Spanish translations, and a notarized paper that I had written back home, in which I explained the purpose of my trip and swore not to sell my car (an important point as attempts by foreigners to illegally sell their cars and to profit by avoiding import duties are not uncommon). He seemed particularly interested in the last paper. Perhaps the five stamps I had requested the notary use gave the document enough of an official feel to make it credible.

After a brief pause that seemed to last an eternity, he finished looking at my papers and relit his cigar. After a few puffs and a stare calculated to unnerve me, he glanced at the two assistants that had flanked me and delivered his verdict: “Si, este si que cumple todos los requisitos.” (“Yes, this one does indeed meet all the requirements.”) 
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“Great,” I thought, “if the head administrator has given me the green light, I’ll be on my way and out of this Godforsaken city in less than an hour.” As far as I knew the only remaining step was to go to the bank, deposit a fee there in a government account, and get a signature from the sub-administrator. I went to the bank with my ayudantes to withdraw more money in order to pay the document fee of 120 Lempira. It was getting to be an expensive day.  We reentered the customs building and went to the sub-administrator to get his signature on the permit. He refused, saying he needed written authorization from the head administrator. He did not believe that the head administrator had made an exception for me, after denying all other requests for entry over the past ten days. Furious, I returned to the office of the head administrator, who, according to his secretary, was not in. After a substantial wait, my ayudantes discovered that he was in fact in his office. Frustrated, yet somehow managing to control my temper enough to be charismatic, I convinced his secretary to go into his office and interrupt his two-hour “lunch break” so I could get his authorization.

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The head administrator obliged, and after negotiating my way through the throng of people outside the sub-administrator’s office, I triumphantly showed the written authorization to the sub-administrator. He gave me a cold stare and mumbled a curse, but had no choice but to verify the signature and send me on to the next step of the process.

It was now necessary for a customs agent to confirm physically the series number on my car engine and record it on my permit application. Prior to this though, I had to return to the bank and take out more money to give to my ayudantes. I handed over 1500 Lempira, to cover all the fees and bribes that were required at each step of the process.

The customs agent took over thirty minutes to locate the series number on my fifteen-year-old, mud-covered engine. He also required an extra mordida (literally a “bite,” translatable as a bribe) because it was already after four o’clock, which was when they usually stopped working.

After standing in line for yet another stamp (one which confirmed that my motor number had been verified), I was told that my car would now have to be inspected. Of course we had to search for the inspector ourselves. I got in my car with one of my helpers and drove to a secure port facility which was manned by some serious guards with automatic weapons drawn. We drove around from one point to another in the facility, the size of several football fields, told at each place that the inspector had just been there. 

Finally we found the inspector, and I was treated to a rare burst of humor in an otherwise stressful day. The inspector, a harried looking man of about thirty, was being followed around by a crowd of eight or ten people shouting and begging to be attended. We were unable to get his attention.

My ayudante assured me that there was a way around it though, and we returned to the main customs building. He told me to wait outside while he went in with the permit application. Lo and behold, a short while later, he came back with the completed permit, which not only stated that my car had been inspected, but “legally” cleared me for entering Honduras with my car, making me the first to do so in the last two weeks. 

The last step was for me to go by the private customs agency for which my two ayudantes worked and pay them. My bill came to 1000 Lempira for their services. When I questioned where my 1500 Lempira had gone, my ayudantes explained that they had paid all of it as mordidas and fees to various officials. Water under the bridge, I figured, as I returned for the third and final time to the bank and withdrew more money. I then found the two English girls who because of safety concerns had been confined to a small area in front of the head customs office for the duration of the day-long ordeal.

After I bought my ayudantes celebratory beers, I thanked them for helping me get the permit. Appropriately, one of them replied, “tu no sacaste ese permiso, lo compraste” – “you did not get that permit, you bought it.”

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