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Crossing to Argentina

ARGENTINA | Sunday, 1 May 2011 | Views [605]

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.  

Tags: argentina, juliaca, villazón

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