Things work a little differently in Nicaragua, at least when it comes to officialdom.

Scene 1: Border control

The immigration officer checks my passport and asks for $US5 for the on-the-spot visa. This takes me slightly by surprise since I had been told there was no visa but thankfully I still have some US currency in my wallet. I pull out the five-dollar bill, still newish but with a tear in the corner.
“Do you have another?” the man asks.
“No, I’m sorry, but surely this no problem. The money is still good,” I replied.
“It is a problem for us,” the man answered. “The Nicaraguan banks will not accept this.”
He asked me to go outside to either get money from the bank or from my hosts who would be meeting me in the arrivals hall. So he kept my passport while I went into his country and back again. But the bank did not accept my card and my hosts were yet to arrive, since the flight had landed 15 minutes early. Fortunately I spied Kiwi Jim, who I met at the airport yesterday, and swapped my five-dollar bill for one of his. He’s been here before and had loaded up on pristine currency before he came.
Later I saw some of the local money - some of the oldest, dirtiest and most dog-eared bills I’ve ever seen.

Scene 2: Baggage claim

My impromptu stay in Houston meant that my luggage arrived in Nicaragua yesterday. There is just one man on the delayed baggage desk, with about a dozen anxious passengers filing reports and claims. There are three of us whose bags are already here but he cannot leave his post to go and get them. It is 11.30am and the countdown is on, since at midday the Customs staff will go on lunch break for an hour and if we don’t have our bags we will be locked inside the terminal until they return. There are no food shops and there are people waiting for us outside.
The baggage officer radios for help but the only other airline representative is working on the plane. Meanwhile, over a dozen men in airport uniform are lounging around, sitting on the inert baggage carousel and leaning against the columns and walls. For them it is “cafe cito” time already.
Finally, the officer concludes his business and whisks the three of us through Customs and retrieves our baggage with moments to spare.