Crossing from Bolivia to Argentina
– May 01, 2011
It was 5:30 in the morning
in the cold, scantily lit border town of Villazón in Bolivia, about 40 degrees
F, maybe less. The night bus from La Paz to Villazón was almost as bad as the
Greyhound. At least Greyhound has some regulations in regards to, uh,
cleanliness? Whatever, the bus ride to Argentina was a nightmare because
someone had left their window up all night—or it could’ve been broken, a baby had
cried through most of the night and I had woken up twice to check if my toes
were still there not because It was freezing out there. It was because I wasn’t
prepared for the weather to drop that low. Which made me hiss, “you idiot”
under my breath half a dozen times.
This was a nine-hour bus
ride!
When the bus finally
arrived at its destination, I jumped out of my seat and scuffled into a line
with the other passengers heading for the exit door. And before I could take
both of my legs off the bus, a man yelled into my face, “Buenos Aires!!!” About
three men yelled this into my face because they were recruiting passengers to
fill their bus. Their shouts left a visible white fog in the thin atmosphere.
And yet, that doesn’t begin to describe how cold it was.
Outside, I clutched the
grey pashmina around my neck with both hands, feeling the icy gravel puncture
through the cardboard soles of my dinky sneakers. I cursed myself for ditching
my three pound blue sweater, I cursed myself for not packing extra socks, and I
cursed myself for not buying hiking boots when I had the chance!
I stood there for a minute
watching the conductor pass out luggage and when I spotted my razor blue, four
foot by two (almost my height) backpack, the conductor helped me fasten it
around my waist. I thanked him and waddled to the bus terminal’s waiting area
where I gathered information about the exit procedure for Americans.
Traveling with an American passport has its cons, I learned this a while ago
when I made plans to travel to Brazil and learned that there is a special $100
entry fee for US passport holders. The case is similar for Americans heading to
Argentina, Bolivia and Chile. This is bad karma and a courtesy derived from the
inhumane and ridiculous time consuming scrutiny that the Transportation
“Security” Administration (TSA) sets on anyone—citizen and non-citizen—who just
so happened to fly into an airport in the United States.
I heard plenty of horror
stories from fellow American travelers who paid hefty visa prices and
additional “city clean up” fees. I heard one story from a writer from Colorado
who waited in Paraguay for five days because the Bolivian Embassy wouldn’t give
him a visa. And sometimes, border patrol can hassle you for money when you try
to leave the country. This is why it’s good to do your research before you
travel. That is something I need to work on.
I had 500 Bolivianos
(Bolivian currency) and it might be enough to buy a ticket from the bordertown Juliaca
in Argentina to my final destination: Buenos Aires. My main concern was: will
the Bolivian border office charge me a fee for leaving the country? And will
the Argentinean border officer waive the $140 entry fee that they demand for
air travelers? I asked my cab driver this and he had no clue.
As my cab driver drove the
four blocks to the Bolivian Migration Office—I got a cab because it was too
cold—I marveled at the Bolivian women carrying loads of fruit baskets, blankets
and clothes on their backs. Thick leggings with a pattern of brown, pink, yellow
and green stripes concealed their legs. Long fluffy skirts bounced below their
knees as they walked in their black Mary Jane shoes and tall black bowler hats.
My cheeks
flushed when I compared their stamina against mine: seeing how I had to pay
someone to drive me for a measly four blocks because I couldn’t stand the cold,
my energy was zilch! These women are Eskimos adapted in their own
Antarctic.
My driver pulled in next to
the Bolivian migration office, I paid him 4 Bolivianos and scurried into the
office—it was like walking barefoot onto an ice-skating rink. Inside the
small office there was: an outdated calendar taped to a wall, a tall portrait
of the president Evo Morales and a brown table with scratches. Sitting next to
the table was your typical blue-eyed American. His feet were tucked under his
life-sized backpack and his shivering arms were crossed. He had been
waiting there since 5 am; it was now 6:30.
I sat on the scratched
table and began the usual conversation with the encounter. Where are you from? Boston but I live in Buenos Aires now.
Is that where you’re headed? No, I’m
going to Tucuman for vacation, what about you?
His name was Justin and he
had taken up a job in Buenos Aires teaching English shortly after graduating
from college. He told me about the culture and people in Argentina. Nothing new
really and definitely not something that I was looking forward to, just the
same old: Argentineans are snobby, don’t expect to be greeted warmly, they
consider themselves European and less Latino.
After some time, someone else
stepped into the office. He was the receptionist and the first thing he said to
me was, “Do you have any respect? Get off the table.”
I said, “Well
señor, maybe if there were more chairs this table wouldn’t bare all the
scratches from the poor people who have nowhere else to sit”.
He
ignored me and disappeared into his office.
Justin and I did not see
anyone else for another half an hour and around 7:30 we huddled in front of the
¨Exit Bolivia¨ window so to block the people who tried to cut us. The same man
who rebuked me for sitting on the table reappeared at 8 o’clock and finally
opened his window to stamp our passports. It was quick and there was no exit
fee, they didn’t even charge us for sitting inside their office! (They do
this at bus terminals throughout Bolivia and Peru).
I stepped outside the Migration office and embraced the sun, it had made its
full rise and yet it was still freaking cold. I waved at the throng of
sleepy Americans, Israelis, Europeans, Argentineans and Bolivians forming a
line. I suddenly became antsy, my instinctive morning can of Red Bull had
kicked and no weather could stop me from doing what I was about to do next. I
sauntered the 10-meter long dusty road that lead to my final destination.
The first sign that I was
in Argentina was the tall, white police officer wearing an army green jumpsuit.
He looked young, handsome, with blue eyes and was incredibly tall for a Latin
American. He gave me a flirtatious smile, I blushed because it has been 24
hours since I last combed my hair.
I asked him, ¨La
oficina de immigracion?¨
He gestured his right arm
over my head, ¨Asha¨.
He said, over there. In all of Latin America, the way we say “over there” is:
aya. With the exception of Argentina where they pronounce it with a shh sound: asha. When this incredibly
handsome man said, asha instead of aya, I did not expect my head to float into
a pink cloud. It was like a sweet welcome. Once the pink cloud disappeared, I
returned my focus the Migration of Office of Argentina.
The Argentinean man who
stamped my passport was also tall and didn’t look bad either. He didn’t ask me anything; he just smiled and quickly skimmed
through my passport.
Next, security check, an
equally tall and white Argentinean man asked me about the contents on my
backpack.
I
said, “Trapos y ropa sucia”. Clothes and dirty laundry.
I gave him permission to
open my daypack, which he carelessly ran his hand through. He said, “listo”.
Ready.
Crossing over to Argentina
was effortless! I frolicked the extra 200 meters to the bus terminal in Juliaca
but my exuberance came to a halt when I learned that all the buses to Buenos
Aires would leave at 2 pm meaning that I would have to miss the first day of
class. Had I purchased the bus ticket in Villazón, it would’ve been cheaper and
the bus would’ve left sooner. But I didn’t feel comfortable buying a ticket
from a guy who yelled, “Buenos Aires” to my face. As a result, I had four hours
to kill. Maybe it was meant to be because during those four hours, I met Dave
and Sam; two guys who were searching for a deck of playing cards and
alcohol. Their plan was to get drunk and pass out during the 24-hour bus
trip.
