I can’t wait to get out of Central America. The corruption here is disgusting.
I’m talking, of course, about the border crossing. I hire a guy, because I get a feeling this crossing’s gonna be tough. Exiting out of Costa Rica was a breeze. I’ve been so far very impressed with Costa Rica.
The harder part came from Panama’s side of the border. I first got my car signed off and my passport stamped. Then I went to go get my tourist card. I went back next to the first stop, and along the way paid a $1 tax to a lady sitting on a chair. I did something I don’t quite know exactly what, perhaps to get my tourist card verified with my passport. I went to the other side again, this time to get my vehicle permit. I wait about 10 minutes, and next the inspectors want to look at my car. They take a look at the car, and the inspector goes to the other side to talk to the other one and says, unload everything you have and take it upstairs for inspection.
I don’t really think much of it. I don’t really care about having to take everything out and taking it up, except I don’t understand why I gotta take it up the stairs when clearly there’s an open patio right there next to where I parked. The guy I hired talks to me and says, wait a minute, I know the head cop, I’ll talk to him. He comes back and says, “he will inspect the car right here if you pay him 7-8 bucks, I don’t know”
The entire process until then was confusing enough that I appreciated his help. But for him to team up with the cops like that, it was just purely disgusting. I then go into my mode of making them feel intimidated. Until then I had shown no negative emotion other than just looking like I’m tired. But that’s when I start talking to them about my Army life. I tell them I got the boots they were inspecting in the trunk from Iraq. They look surprised, and I later show them my boonie hat. Later on, I show them my desert camouflage backpack. They do a half assed job of inspecting and ask me to go into a room. They ask me how much money I have first, (I say maybe about $400), and they count all my bills. They give it back to me and I tell them that the hat I was holding was from Iraq in 2003. The head cop puts it on wrong, and I turn it right for him. I later even show them my ID card and give them some Nicaraguan cigars I’ve been trying to ge trid of because I just had too many. They stand there, somewhat in awe, knowing that I knew they were corrupt as hell, yet treating them like kings. I hope my hospitality in light of their misconduct helps the next American tourist in passing through with much more ease. I give the money to the boy helping me out when we’re alone, paying another $1 for exterior fumigation.
I asked the boy of 20 years named Elias what he will do with the money. He says pay for school, for high school, he says. The problem is, everyone that I ask says they’re going to pay for school. But I really doubt it. I bet if I return some 20 years from now, I’ll see him again in the same corner of the border, waiting for me just as he had done today.