Final Installment....

I was led into the cool, dingy office where a large uniformed man sat behind his rickety metal desk. El comandante briefly explained the situation. With a frown, the man behind the desk gestured me towards a molded plastic chair and took my passport. Slowly, he read through every page, turning it sideways and upside-down when necessary to read the myriad of visa stamps from across Latin America. “Argentina….Chile….Peru…Mexico…” he read them aloud until reaching the most recently marked page, displaying my Guatemalan visa.

Looking up, he remarked “I just don’t think there’s anything we can do. You’ll have to stay here.”

I looked around the room, letting the word “here” hang in the air while contemplating the absurdity of this concept. Slightly more desperate feeling that before, I began to retell my story, emphasizing heavily the fact that I’d tried in good faith to remain legally compliant, and that I’d never intended to break any rules.

“You’ve already been granted favors! Your visa was already renewed once! You’re asking for an awful lot of exceptions to be made…” he replied, stern and perturbed.

That comment irritated me – getting my visa renewed once in Guatemala wasn’t any sort of diplomatic favor. It was perfectly legal and acceptable. At this point, el comandante (who I was beginning to mentally demote from the position of comandante, as he was clearly subordinate to Capitán Grumpypants behind the desk) stepped into the room. “She’s a nun…” he commented to no one in particular, before ducking back out again.

“Oh really?” asked Grumpypants, as a doubtful eyebrow shot up towards his receding hairline. Not sure what to think about the morality of impersonating a nun, I just smiled and shrugged my shoulders.

The forty-five minutes which followed are somewhat of a heat-stroked, stress-drenched blur. I was interrogated with regards to my travels and my work in Guatemala, before being told they’d do me a favor and let me go with a 1,500 Lempira fine. I wasn’t exactly sure what the Dollar-Lempira exchange rate was, but 1,500 of anything seems like an awful lot. Anyhow, they certainly weren’t going to be accepting Visa, and I only had about 120 Lempira on hand. Going along with the accidental nun story, I pleaded poverty, extracting a small handful of Honduran bills and coins from my pockets and placing them on the desk as proof. At this point, the two men retreated to a next-door room, evidently in the illusion of finding auditory privacy. They were wrong about that, as I easily heard the ensuing conversation, wherein the acceptance or rejection of a cash bribe was discussed. To my chagrin, they decided that was a bad idea, and returned to the office after reaching that agreement.

The longer we sat discussing my migratory woes the closer lunch hour approached. Of this fact el comandante was acutely aware. Several times I heard him remark, after stepping out of the room for a mini-conference, “She’s a nun! Just let her go, and then we’ll go eat lunch.” Comments such as this were what steeled me in argument, as they made evident the fact that these men clearly had the power to just wave me across the border. Once I knew that, I was going to make it happen. It became something of a challenge, one which I knew I could win if I held out long enough.

The boss wasn’t totally convinced that I really did belong to a Holy Catholic order. I can’t imagine why. Finally, he decided that the only way to determine if I was in fact a nun, and did in fact deserve a courtesy crossing would be to give me an Official Honduran Immigration Services Nun Test. The intent: proving once and for all if I was faking it. Passing would earn me a five-day visa for getting back into Guatemala, where I could complete all of the necessary paperwork to get OK’d for an extension. I was never told what would happen if I failed, and I decided it would be wisest not to ask. At any rate, I had my hand gripped tightly on my backpack and was prepared to make a run for it should my answers be determined unsatisfactory.

As you may already know, I am not a nun. This truth had me a bit nervous about the Official Honduran Immigration Services Nun Test (which, by the way, was made up on the spot by Capitán Grumpypants.) Luckily, after several months of living with two American nuns, I had at least a bit of ammunition to go off of. I was asked to recite the Hail Mary and the Our Father, in both English and Spanish. Easy enough, although my nerves nearly ruined the charade. I was quizzed about my order (The Order of the Blessed Virgin Mary, also known as the BVM sisters of Minneapolis Minnesota), our mission in Guatemala (Misión Católica de Santo Tomas la Unión, apoyado por el Diócesis de Helena, Montana, EEUU), the name of the Pope (Benedicto el XXVI) the name of my Bishop (Monseñor George Leo Tomas) and the Guatemalan Bishop overseeing our mission (I didn’t know this one, but I figured they didn’t either, so I said something generic like Jesus de León Gonzalez. That was a bit of a gamble.) When they asked me who the Archbishop of Honduras was I nearly panicked, then realized it was silly to think I’d know that even if I was a nun. After all, I’m an American, and I live in Guatemala. As nonchalantly as possible, I scoffed quietly and said “Why would I know that? This is the first time I’ve ever even been to Honduras!”

After a barrage of such questions Capitán decided he was satisfied, and leaned back in his chair. “Well,” he sighed, seeming almost defeated, “I suppose you’ve passed.”

I couldn’t believe it!! I’d just passed a Nun Test!! I still can’t decide if that’s a fact to be proud of or not, but at the moment I was ecstatic. I had to fight to hide the surprise and triumph I was feeling, instead nodding knowingly and saying -

“Por supuesto. Que Dios le Bendiga, Señor.” “But of course. God bless you, Sir.”

El Capitán shuffled through his desk drawers, eventually locating an inkpad and stamp. Just like he could have easily done 45 minutes earlier, he pulled my little blue passport towards him, carefully rolled the stamp across page 17, and blew on it to dry the ink. Then, in careful ballpoint pen underneath, he wrote the date and a note – “Valid for 5 days.” He began to pass it across the desktop to me but, apparently clairvoyant, stopped and pulled it back. Looking at me first, he took the pen and drew two little lines, one on either side of the “5.” Now the note said “Valid for -5- days.” There went the plan which had already sparked in my mind, placing a 1 in front of the number and granting me legal visa status until after I left for home in ten days. Bummer, but at least I got this far. I could worry about the rest back in Guatemala.

In the meantime, I had some very curious and slightly concerned travel companions waiting for me in the hot sun, eager to hear all about what I’d just pulled off. Within a quarter of an hour, I was on a bus zooming through El Salvador, bobbing my head to bachata and enjoying the sweet taste of hard-fought-for freedom.