• Andean Geotrail Blog (In English)
  
• Fat Cyclist
  
• Our Long Haul Honeymoon
  
• The Andean Geotrail
  
• The Andean Geotrail Blog (In French)
  
• Up In Alaska
  
• Walking the Andes (In French)
  
• Ze Movers (In French)
  

Fun at the border

By Chris Thompson - 2009-10-05

Procrastination had got me again. I had put off getting my Bolivian visa after losing the original with my passport. During my two days in Santiago, Chile, I had completely forgotten to visit the Bolivian embassy in my excitement to go north in the Desert. Now, a few hundred kilometers from the Bolivian border, it was on my mind again.

I knew most travelers seemed to get their visa at the border, but I was loathe to pay the $135US a second time. Armed with a photocopy of the old visa, a photocopy of my lost passport, and the Argentinean police report, I was ready to take on the Bolivian immigration police.

We rolled across the border between Chile and Bolivia as the sun was setting over the altiplano. The sky turned a deep purple as we came to the town of Avoroa, a collection of run down government buildings, long forgotten train cars, and a few adobe huts. The immigration office was craftily hidden a few hundred yards from the road, across some train tracks. We pushed the bikes across the tracks and proceeded to search for the immigration officer. After a few minutes of knocking on doors and windows, a sleepy customs official told us our man was in town having dinner. We were advised to pitch our tents "wherever".

As Daniel was searching for the best train car to sleep in, and the temperatures dropped below freezing, the immigration officer stumbled up to the office. He wasn’t happy to see work waiting for him at the doorstep. We were ushered into the office, and he began to pass out paperwork, and look at our papers.

I pulled out my small sheath of documents, photocopies, and letters, and began my prepared speech. He and another man, whose position was a bit mysterious, took my papers into the next room for a "discussion". "The photocopies are not official documents!" he said, "And besides, I’m out of tourist visa stickers, the other two can enter, but you can’t get into Bolivia!". This was bad news. I was stuck between Chile and Bolivia.

We were told we would have to spend the night here, and they offered us a room. Then we have to pay for the room. Suddenly, it’s not payment, it’s a "tip" for the mysterious second official, who is now "NOT a government official". How strange. Of course, things get better when we learn our room is: a) not heated, b) has no lights, c) smells, and d) has three filthy, possibly disease ridden mattresses, one made out of straw. The "tip" is worth about 100 times more than this room. We’d rather be sleeping outside than in this filthy holding cell. We spend the night gaging from the cigarette smoke coming underneath the door, and kept awake by what sounds like a party in the customs office.

The next morning couldn’t come soon enough. Our friendly customs agent, well rested, and noticeably more sober, as us to share some of our food with him, and calls us into the office again. After stamping Daniel and Mike’s passports, he turns to me. "What are we going to do with you" he mussed, or possibly asked us. After an hour of talking, it’s decided I’m allowed to ride "Directly to Uyuni", the nearest town, and visit the immigration police there. Without as much as a letter of explanation (It was refused) and the continued admonition "Remember, you didn’t pay me ANYTHING!", we were welcomed to Bolivia. Giddy to be free, we began riding as fast as we could into Bolivia down the nearest road. After coming to our senses, we realized the dirt road we were following was leading us into the middle of nowhere, but not the middle of nowhere we were looking for. We turned around, came back to town, and took our bearings. East towards the Salar! We had no idea what would happen in Uyuni, but we weren’t about to let that, or any crummy immigration officer, ruin our time here.