Felize Ano Nuevo! (If you understand Spanish diacritical marks, you'll find that title funny)

Well, dear readers, if ever you existed I’m sure you’ve now found other places to focus your precious internet browsing minutes, far far away from the realm of Jenna Emerson’s blog. Yup, it’s true, I’ve pretty much dropped off the blogosphere map. Oopsi do. I apologize, and please allow me to explain myself. A variety of things happened within the past several months, which resulted in an incidental halt of blog production. They include…

1) My Guatemalan visa expired. This required a trip across an international border to renew. Said “short trip” turned into a three-country, 10-day jaunt, producing copious stories and absolutely no time to write them all down.

2) I returned from this little excursion to find that while I was away, Sheila had returned from her visit to the states. Although no one else had previously expressed any concern or even interest in my decision to take off for a few days, Sheila was furious that I had done something outside of her command or control. This fury, while slightly irrational, ballooned into a veritable Persecution of Jenna Emerson, a proceeding which involved far more people than it should have and was unfortunately blown rather out of proportion. Once she calmed down a bit, and we actually talked face-to-face about the issue, it was evident that she’d had a crazy moment and overreacted. A swing was made from trying to have me unceremoniously sent packing back to the states to the usual support and acceptance.

Up to this point, I haven’t divulged much with respect to Sheila’s craziness. This is not because her lack of general sanity is a minor issue. Quite the contrary, in fact. Although she’s a wonderful person with all of the best intentions, she’s also easily the nuttiest person I’ve ever met, ever, bar none. However, she also was a regular blog reader, so I couldn’t exactly expose that information without running into some rather dicey personnel issues. Now you understand why this blog has become “by invitation only.”

Anyhow, this little maelstrom kept me pretty busy as I tried to smooth things over, and then…

3) I was off, to the states, where I spent Christmas and New Year’s. I was quickly absorbed into the activities of making Christmas fudge, Christmas cookies, Christmas dinners, Christmas pies, Christmas Carmel Coated Yule Logs, Christmas presents…and spending hour upon hour of quality family, friend and Ricky time.

Although all of that blissful relaxation and much needed socializing ended just a few short days ago, sitting here in the same ‘ol Guatemalan dining room listening to crickets, munching on pineapple and enjoying the warm night air, it feels like it was some sort of surreal dream. School “started” today, although students were still in the process of enrolling. That means we have no idea how many students there will be, and therefore, no idea how many sections of each class we’ll need, and therefore, no class schedule yet exists. I have a feeling it will be several weeks before things are really going full-swing. We’ll see how well I put up with this crazy school teaching business this time around. After having such a great time working at the hospital, I have my doubts that I’ll put up with hating my job so very much. What that means, exactly, I’m not sure. Time will have to tell.

So, anyhow, now I’m back on the blogging horse, and my first mission is to share a bit about my visa renewal adventure of late November. Had the titles not already been taken by some other schmuck, I think I’d give this particular escapade the handle “A Comedy of Errors,” or perhaps, “A Series of Unfortunate Events.” Sadly, I think both of those names are spoken for, so I’ll just tell the story without a title.

To begin, I’ll provide the reader with a short primer on Central American migration laws, including details which only became clear to me after I embarked upon my journey.

In order to work in most any foreign country, a worker’s visa is required. In the absurdly tangled bureaucratic tape which has most of the Guatemalan nation knotted up at any given point in time, acquiring such a visa is a royal pain. In order to avoid filling out endless government forms, paying 10,000 quetzales worth of taxes in Q200 or Q300 increments and waiting for months while my passport, driver’s license, DNA saliva swabs, mother’s maiden name and first born child were all held hostage in the immigration office in Guatemala City, we skipped the legal visa procedure. Instead, I’m here with a tourist visa, which is good for up to three months. When my first three months were up, I survived a harrowing trip into the metropolis with Sister Mary in order to pay my small fine and renew. However, following that event, I was no longer eligible for a rubber-stamp extension. After six consecutive months in the country, it’s required that visitors cross an international border, and have a passport stamp to prove it. The idea here is that if you’re really just a tourist you’d never want to stay in tiny little Guatemala for more than six months, and if you’re faking being a tourist you should go through the arduous process of validating you presence here.

All of this I knew, which is why I decided to make a quick run over to the ancient Mayan ruins of Copan, Honduras before my number was up.

What I didn’t know is that the four Central American countries of Guatemala, Honduras, Nicaragua and El Salvador have agreed, within the past several years, to have totally open, fluid borders. Just like traveling between the pre-9/11 USofA, Canada and Mexico didn’t require any sort of stamping, going into and out of these four Latin countries is a relatively document- and paperwork-free process. With this little preface completed, let our story begin…



Blessedly, my Guatemalan life had been busy, pleasant and fulfilling in the weeks leading up to November 25th, the day my visa was set to expire. The 18th through the 22nd a medical conference was held in Mazate, full of scientific talks, delicious meals, live music nightly and free booze. I’ve made friends with a Guatemalan medical student, Pamela, who’s the perfect balance of crazy and intelligent which I require in friends. I was in no big rush to embark on a weekend of lonesome solo-traveling, after finding such fun things to do here at home. Rather than worry about making plans for an upcoming adventure, I figured that my ever so travel-savvy self could easily hop on a bus make plans on the fly as necessary. I didn’t know exactly where I would go or what I would do upon arriving; I imagined that everything would fall into place on the road. No worries, thought I, I’ve got this Latin American traveler game under control.

I was about to learn a valuable lesson in humility. Bright and early Sunday morning I awoke in Guatemala City, where I’d stayed the night before with my American friends Kammie and Stephanie. I took a taxi to the downtown terminal, where my Honduras-bound bus was supposed to leave at 5:30 am. This was where things began to head south. We arrived at 5:22, only to be told that the bus schedule had recently changed, and the bus now departs at 5:20. Two minutes ago. Miraculously, in the one instance since I arrived here, Guatemala was running on time, and the bus had already left. “Elmer,” my taxi driver, assured me he had a backup plan, and we embarked on a wild early-morning tour of the city which ended as I frantically threw a handful of quetzales at Elmer from the backseat, vaulted out of his taxi and sprinted through a traffic jam to board a bus stopped at a red light. A slightly rough trial before the sun has risen, but I made it.

Panting yet relieved, I asked the driver if this bus happened to be Copan-bound. “No. Copan. No.” was his bored reply. Upon further prodding, he revealed that it was headed for San Pedro Sula, Honduras, a name which meant absolutely nothing to me. Realizing that it’s often necessary to transfer buses any number of times before ever reaching a specific destination, and trusting in Elmer’s advice that this bus was in fact that bus for me, I asked if I could reach Copan easily from there. “Aw, sure” the driver yawned. Convinced by this totally nonchalant response, I found myself a seat and fell sound asleep.

I awoke several hours later. I was well on my way to San Pedro Sula, having passed Esquipulas at least a hundred kilometers ago. No one had cared to mention that a transfer in Esquipulas would have taken me straight east to Copan, creating a total trip time of 5 hours. Just getting to San Pedro Sula would take easily that long, and then I’d have to backtrack south through Honduras in order to reach Copan. Groan.

I was now far, far away from my transfer point and continuing in exactly the wrong direction.

We crossed the border at Morales, and I was rather confused by the Guatemalan border control’s lack of concern for my expiring visa. They took one look at my passport, winked coyly (why? Your guess is a good as mine) and returned it. Unsatisfied, I requested a customary exit stamp, since the whole point of this trip was in acquiring that prize. “Nah” they shrugged, “we don’t do stamps anymore.” Politely, I explained the need for a stamp and my concern for my rather mature visa. “Sorry,” they replied, palms up, “we don’t even have an inkpad here anymore. Couldn’t give you a stamp if we wanted to.” As if to prove the point, the guard seated at a desk rocked back in his chair and pulled open the top drawer, displaying his collection of gum wrappers, broken pencils and a tiny 2005 nudie calendar.

Welp. I suppose you could say I’d hit a snag. They assured me, however, that an expired visa is really no big deal at all, and sent me on my merry way.

A few kilometers down the road, at the Honduras entrance station, it was another story. “YOU are going to have Problems” the polite young Honduran man said, shaking his head apologetically and passing my passport through a scratched Plexiglas window. “Your only chance at avoiding the fine – which is greater than 500 lempiras – is going to the immigration office in San Pedro Sula today and getting a new visa.”

This statement elicited from me a big fat sigh of self vindication. I had clearly made a major planning error early in the day, which had me detouring several hours past my destination. Now, the true reason for this huge trip extension was clear – my travel guardian angel was busy delivering me straight into compliance with international migratory regulations. Perfect. I got back on the bus, no longer angry at myself for the first time since I’d woken up, and enjoyed the surfside view into San Pedro.

Upon arriving in the bus terminal I quickly found a taxi which could take me to immigration before they closed at the end of the hour. Triumphant, I marched into the dingy salmon-pink building downtown, found an available clerk and stated my intention.

The visions of sugarplums legal visas which danced in my head were quickly busted by the cruel reality of, well, reality.

The immigration official calmly explained to me that fact the Honduras fully recognizes all Guatemalan visas, and is unable to provide any exceptions to Guatemala’s migration rules. Essentially, as far as my passport’s concerned, there are no borders between the two countries. I might as well have stayed home. He politely told me that my only chance of fulfilling the visa requirements in time was to take a bus to an obscure port town on the Pacific coast, then an overnight freighter boat to Belize. Such a trip would have taken me several thousand kilometers, hundreds of dollars and countless days worth of bumpy bus ride backtracking away from sleepy little Santo Tomas la U. And I only brought two pairs of socks!

After trying for several minutes to politely persuade the guy that his suggestion was actually quite impractical, and he really ought to just quietly, you know, stamp my passport anyways, pretty please, cute smile, coquettish wink, it became evident that this strategy wasn’t going to fly. I’m pretty sure it would have worked in loveable, corruptible Guatemala, but alas, Honduras appeared to be slightly more serious about rules. Frustrated, tired and concerned about what my next step should be, I found another taxi to take me back, defeated, to the overwhelmingly huge bus terminal. En route, I contemplated my options. Eventually I decided I’d give Guatemalan visa regulations the finger, say no-thanks to an extended solo-trip to rain-drenched Belize and proceed as originally planned to Copan. From there I’d figure out my next move. The Guatemalan officials I dealt with upon enter Honduras had seemed so congenial, surely I’d have to trouble returning home.

It was now 4:00 pm. The last bus for Copan leaves at 3:30. Insert unladylike vocabulary here. After several frantic passes through the massive terminal complex, I finally located the last bus going to La Entrada, a town half way to Copan. I had no desire to stay in San Pedro Sula, described in my guidebook as the gang capital of Honduras and the hotspot of the Latin American AIDS epidemic. Much better, I concluded, staying in a town introduced in my guidebook with the line “If you’re staying the night in La Entrada, something must have gone wrong.”

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The story continues…

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Stay tuned!