The look of fear and surprise on the young hostel receptionist’s face as I hurtled down the stairs and stumbled past her desk spoke volumes.
Is he leaving? He only just checked in! Is there something wrong with the room? Or worse, is he a criminal? Should I call the Police?
I certainly couldn’t blame her. Technically, at this moment, I am a criminal, though I have no Spanish language skills to explain my story or implore my innocence.
I gave her my most disarming smile as I waved in the general direction of the front door.
“It’s okay,” I said, louder than I needed to, “Love the room. Very nice. Must step out for a bit though. Going back to the border post to get my passport stamped”.
I couldn’t wait for her response. I charged outside into the Friday afternoon traffic of Yacuiba, waved down the first taxi I saw and headed back to the border with Argentina.
I’d never been an illegal alien before today.
My heart is pounding and my mouth dry. I wonder what life is like inside a Bolivian prison.
The Taunting of the Travel Gods
I should have known this is to be a special day the minute I realised I’d walked 4 kilometres past the correct Bus Terminal in Salta.
There are only two depots, and of course, with my unbound confidence and unerring navigational ability I knew for sure the right Terminal was this one and not that one. After all, this’s where I’d disembarked when I arrived three days ago.
Wasn’t it?
Ah, no.
The result was the need to perform a half shuffle/half sprint race back along those four kilometres in 30 minutes if I was to catch the only bus to the Bolivian border. With a swinging backpack, daypack and camera bag, and no taxi drivers showing any interest in helping a beleaguered foreigner, I hovered just under complete panic the whole way.
And now, here I was, two kilometres deep inside Bolivia. An illegal alien.
I did make it… somehow. The bus driver and I made eye contact just as he was pulling out of the bay, and I instantly knew he wasn’t going to stop: Argentinian bus drivers love their reputation of always being on time. I ran faster. I manage to keep my balance, despite my bouncing bags, as I yell and wave at him. Mentally I am preparing to throw myself in front of the bus as a last-ditch effort.
With a dramatic sigh and shake of his head, he reluctantly gave in and stopped to let me on board
The Travel gods are not yet done with taunting me, however.
Upon exiting the bus in Salvador Mazza, I had to rush to the bathroom, (7-8 hours with no rest stops), only to realise as I came sauntering out in a much more comfortable frame of mind, I’d left my camera bag on the bus. For the second time that day, I had to run down a road yelling and waving my arms to get a bus to stop. Thank goodness the driver checked his rear-view mirror before turning the corner which would have seen my camera gone for good.
The look of amusement on his face as he handed over my bag veiled what was probably a huge disappointment he couldn’t now offer one of his grandkids a nice birthday present.
And now, here I was, two kilometres deep inside Bolivia. An illegal alien.
Border Crossings… ugh
In my defence, there’s no stand-out signage indicating where the Bolivian Immigration office might be as I arrived at the Puente Internacional border post.
The post itself was a small square-ish white building with foot-traffic entering through a single little door.
Inside, I file past a glass cubicle with an uninterested official in a smart white short-sleeved shirt. He eyed my passport, stamped it, and suddenly I’m funnelling out with the crowd through a large exit into the waiting arms of the citizens of Yacuiba, Bolivia.
Less than a hundred metres from the Border Post what looked like all 80,000 inhabitants of the town occupied a labyrinthine tangle of street stalls choking the one road leading to my destination.
That was it — just an open doorway. No arrows. No officious looking person in a Bolivian Customs uniform. Nada.
I had no idea what to do.
Perhaps here, hundreds of kilometres from the nearest major city, in this remote little finger of land jutting into Argentina, no one cared about backpacking foreigners wandering around looking like lost sheep?
Okay then. Works for me. Hitching up my backpack I marched merrily towards the market.
How am I to prove I'd entered Bolivia legally?
I was unpacking my gear onto the hostel bed in preparation to shower when the lights and bells all went off in my head at once. The niggling itch of doubt plaguing me since I left the border burst into full awareness.
It’s bizarre not to have some form of official recognition I was now in another country isn’t it? Even if it’s only just a nod of acknowledgement, such as I’d received at Orly Airport in Paris that time? Perhaps it merely worked differently here?
But the problem, I realise, is not the fact of me wandering around Bolivia for the next three weeks. It’s when I try to leave to cross the border into Brazil. How am I to prove I’d entered Bolivia legally?
I felt so stupid.
How to pretend you’re not an Illegal Alien
I make my way back through the kilometre-long market to the Border, and playout what I should do.
I judged my best course of action is mingling with a crowd of Argentinians returning from their Bolivian shopping spree. Then, as we enter the Post, I will casually turn around and walk out, looking like I’d only just arrived. I’d then wander around the place, find the immigration office (it had to be there somewhere, didn’t it?) and present myself as someone who was entering the country for the first time.
I emerged from the markets and using all the skills I’d obtained watching international spy movies, mingled inconspicuously with a sizable crowd of about 20 shoppers. I strolled with them, nodding and smiling at their conversations as if I was a participant.
And as we approached the border post, I saw it.
Ugh.
A tiny, barely noticeable, hardly to be seen sign stating ‘Immigracion Ingreso’ above a featureless window. Something no one would’ve noticed if they weren’t looking…on the Bolivian side of the border post.
Meaning one needed to exit the complex first then turn around to find the Ingreso office.
Ugh, again.
The Travel Gods have finally had their fun
The Immigration Officer looked up at me, and one eyebrow raised majestically (how I wish I could do that!). Perspiration glinted on a forehead framed by damp black hair. I waved towards the markets as I held out my passport, indicating I would like him to stamp it. I realised I was holding my breath. My heart thumped so loudly in my ears I could barely hear the noise of the crowd around me.
His eyes were saying, “Didn’t I see you coming from the markets just now? Why are you asking for an Entry Stamp? Where have you been for the last 3 hours, mmm?”
I watched as his hand reached forward in slow motion towards me. Was he going to grab me, to stop me fleeing, well, back into Argentina?
His hand paused over a green Immigration Card, and he wagged his finger, signalling for me to fill it out.
I nodded. My hands fumbled to find a pen. I tried hard not to look at the Officer’s face in case my own gave away my guilt.
Silently, he handed me a pen, and I gave him a quick smile in gratitude.
Once done, I handed the pen back and held up the card.
Giving me one more (suspicious) look, the Officer took it, stamped it, and tore it along the perforation with a well-practised snap the wrist. Carefully placing the card, he stamped an unused page with my Entry Visa and passed it over without even a nod of welcome.
I turned and made my way back through the crowd towards the border market and Yacuiba and disappeared into the maze of stalls. I could finally relax and breathe.
At least I knew how to get to the hostel this time.
I wonder how surprised the receptionist will be to see me.