Border Crossing

Border Crossing

I knew I was screwed before I even got on my bus. One hundred and sixty dollars? I thought it was only one hundred and forty!

My bus conductor stared at me expectantly. Mumbling, I reassured her I was completely prepared to get my visa at the Bolivia-Peru border. “Okay. But if you don’t get your visa on time the bus will leave without you.” Normally I would panic and fret, but seeing as how it was still three hours to the border I took a stress nap while our bus wound around sapphire-blue Lake Titicaca towards Copacabana.

 

Beautiful Blue Lake Titcaca

The problem wasn’t simply that I had to pay to get into Bolivia. The problem was that I also had to pay to leave Peru. I’d spent eleven months living and working as a volunteer in the San Martin region photographing and recording native tribes. I stayed eight months past my tourist visa which meant at a charge of one dollar a day I owed the Peruvian government roughly two hundred and forty dollars as well as a decent excuse.

For anyone familiar with border crossings they’re not normally stressful. I envied the Canadians and Brits surrounding me as they stamped out of Peru and stamped into Bolivia. Only my government, I complained, would have a contentious relationship with the beautiful Andean nation. The line filed ever-onwards with me swept up into it’s lazy-river current.

At the Peruvian exit desk the border agent eyed me. “You’ve stayed way past your tourist visa.”

He raised an eyebrow at me. Dry-swallowing I humbly blushed and smiled back. “Yes sir.”

 He had to pull out a calendar and calculator to figure out just how many dollars I owed the Peruvian government. Meanwhile, the bus driver loomed over our bus group as a Polish woman walked in and out of the office, getting her exit visa in what felt like an eye blink.

I handed him the two hundred and forty three dollars owed as well as my Andean card stating my initial entry. He looked up at me as I watched another of my group move from the Peruvian exit line into the Bolivian entry line. Sweat hadn’t formed on my brow, but my hand wouldn’t stop shaking. I could get deported, I rationalized.

“What were you doing in Peru for so long?” The customs officer asked me.

“I’m not going to lie sir. I was working as a volunteer in northern Peru and- “I began in perfectly accented Spanish. (You don’t spend eleven months in Peru without learning the language. At least I had that going for me.)

“No no no.”

He raised a hand out to stop me. My throat constricted. I surmised my excuse wasn’t valuable enough to free me from the bureaucratic chains. I was going to be sent back. At least I still had some Peruvian currency to take care of my needs, I thought. My visa money could be put to use. I wasn’t totally screwed.

“You met a beautiful Peruvian woman and decided to stay an extra couple months for love.” He nodded contentedly. In the space of a pregnant pause I realized what he was saying. I nodded vigorously.

“Yes sir! Absolutely sir!” He stamped my exit visa. I let out a half-deep sigh. The first part was over with. I even let out a stress-laugh. Love, it seems, had literally set me free.

What happens if you exit one country, but you can’t enter another country? Do you technically exist outside of international laws? I pondered this as I hopped in line to enter Bolivia.

This part of the process I had prepared for. I had all my paperwork: my shot record, the visa application filled out, a passport-sized photo, and something close to the amount of money I needed. While in line I kicked myself for not withdrawing more money from the ATM the night before. I counted my money while in line. One hundred and sixty dollars exactly. Not a penny more. I let out the other half of my deep sigh.

The visa office called me forward. I presented everything. The agent smiled and nodded. This wasn’t the first time an American had applied for their visa while on the border. Over my shoulder I could feel the burning gaze of my bus conductor. Her attention singularly focused on my exposed back through the clay walls of the customs office.

The Agent filed my paperwork. They took their own photo of my smiling face. The process was flying by. No calls were made to the American consulate. No bag inspections occurred. Easy as one-two-three. I found myself humming the Jackson Five’s tune and laughing at the bus driver for rushing me. The elation I felt at successfully navigating the labyrinth of paperwork in such a rapid manner bubbled through my entire system. I must be some kind of backpacking hero.

“I’m sorry we can’t accept this bill.”

The earth stopped moving.

“Do you have a different bill? They have to be free of wrinkles and tears.” The agent continued.

No. Shit.

“Unfortunately it’s Sunday and the banks are closed. You will have to try the money changers.” He suggested. I raised a pointer finger.

“Just- hang on. One second!” I dashed outside with my ever-so-slightly-torn twenty dollar bill.

Every money changer gave the same story. They had too many ripped bills. They couldn’t trade one of my bills for one of theirs. Please, I begged, if I don’t get a clean twenty then I won’t get into this country. I had already given up all my money, I said. If this didn’t work I’d be left at the border with no money, no entry visa, and no means of getting back to anywhere. Existing in a bureaucratic purgatory between two countries was my backpacking nightmare. Sorry, they all said, they just couldn’t make that trade.

With no other choice I walked up and down the line of entering tourists. I explained my situation to them. Several Canadians stopped and empathized. They offered to pay in Canadian currency. No use, I explained. I’m American so it has to be dollars. Two British women in front of me turned around.

“We don’t need our money to get in. Would you like to use our twenty?” They lifted a plastic bag filled with paperwork, passports, and several currencies.

 

I practically cried as we switched out my bill for theirs. I ran back into the office, presented the bill. The agent took one look at the bill and shook his head. That’s when a cold sweat ran down my forehead. The Bus Driver disappeared. That was a very bad sign.

I apologized and thanked my British friends. Incensed, they handed me a new bill. I immediately went and offered that to the agent who smiled, nodded ‘yes’, and finished my Bolivian visa. No relief followed as I wished my agent to speed up the process of sticking a visa to my passport. The Bus Driver might, even now, be taking off. All of my hope and money went into this border crossing.

The moment the agent returned my passport to me I thanked him and bolted out the door. I slowed down only to thank the British women for helping me. It was more of a quick shout than anything.

I found my bus. Gasping for breath and sweating heavily I stepped up on to the bus steps. Inside, barely a quarter of the bus was full. People continued filing through customs. I lowered my backpack onto my seat and sat there breathing through all the angst. The tension in my body released slowly, muscles I didn’t even know were tense unclenched.

The ride into La Paz passed in a dreamy state for me. Our very first stop in town I ran straight to an ATM and withdrew several hundred bolivianos. Never again, I vowed. Even as I cursed my lack of preparation pleasure filled my brain.

I smiled as the Bolivin alitplano flew by my bus window. Chatter boiled up within me. The poor Polish woman next to me smiled her way through all the menial conversations I could invent, stress practically pouring out of my mouth while I spoke. As adrenaline faded and the sun set my eyes closed of their own accord. I slept while my bus twisted and turned it’s way into La Paz. That was how I almost got stuck at the border of Bolivia with no money in my pocket and no way of getting home. That was how I became, in my own eyes, a backpacker en veritas.

Natural Inheritance

When I first stared down the open mouth of the Cueva de Palestina in northern Peru I couldn’t help but smile. The rusted gate entrance and vine covered stairway made it appear half man-made ruin, half natural wonder. An appropriate adventure, I surmised. My Dutch friend, Sytske, and I stepped up the faded stones and into the cave entrance. Even with our headlamps on we were swallowed whole by darkness.

Our guide, a twenty-something Geography student named Elizabeth, guided us through the faded recesses. We contorted ourselves to climb through narrow gaps. We entered at a higher point since the seasonal rain flooded half the cavern system. Geography classes would cave dive here, Liz explained, to tour the caves. These students discovered almost all of the wet stalactites that shined under our lamplights. They mapped what they could of the cave system. Hard to imagine when our dry tour involved stretching through several holes half my body size (and I'm not a large person.) Thank goodness for our helmets. I bumped my head several times.

We emerged from the caves to find our taxi had ditched us. We were stranded.  A small woman outside the cave invited us in to her home for tea. She held a chicken she had just killed, was preparing some lunch and maybe we would like some as well. Sytske and I nodded. We would be happy to share what little bread we had with the unknown woman. It was only when she led us to the nearby house that we realized she was the cave’s proprietor.

The thousand-year-old stalactites and stalagmites inside were her family’s inheritance for generations. She showed us old climbing magazine articles and photos, of the Cueva de Palestina, one dating as far back as the 1920’s. Spelunkers and climbers have been visiting the cave for the last 30 years in efforts to map what little they could of the extensive subterranean network. She took us by the hand and led us outside as she explained all this.

There, carved into the rock wall behind her home, was an idol of the Virgin Mary surrounded by candles, small bills, and a water basin. Everything quieted down around the shrine. Insects chirped at half volume and our guide all but stopped talking. The old woman dipped her finger in the basin and crossed herself.

Out here, ten miles from the nearest town, this was Sunday service. The small bills were offerings from other cavers or spelunkers left after a successful expedition. I kneeled down to offer my prayers and slid a fifty-cent piece before the Virgin Mary. I swear I felt a breath of air whisper through the caves, but before I could investigate our long-delayed taxi arrived. Just like that, it was time to go.

As we hugged our goodbyes I realized we would not see this woman again. I offered the most heartfelt thanks I could in my semi-fluent Spanish. She returned our thanks with a kiss on the cheek and a warm smile. Sytske and I were welcome to return anytime, she said. In fact, we were invited to dine with her that same night. It was, after all, Christmas Eve and we were now considered part of the family.