Crossing borders is one way to quickly learn about a new country before entering it. It never ceases to amaze me how one imaginary line can define essentially everything.
It was seemingly appropriate that I arrived at the Argentine border town called La Quiaca on a cold dark and stormy night. Alone and miserable after long arduous hours on an overcrowded and very delayed bus—the dreary setting seemed to match my mood. A series of unforeseen circumstances had gotten me to this lonely state, and it was time to turn it around.
Traveling instinct kicked in and I approached the first friendly foreign faces that I could find—2 Australian guys wandering down the street.
¨Excuse me, are you guys heading for a hostel?¨ even I could sense my weary and exasperated tone. The taller of the two replied,
¨Nope, we are killing time before a bus to Salta. Where are you heading?¨
He sincerely looked sorry for me, or maybe he realized as well as I suddenly had that I was in desperate need of a shower.
I explained that I was slowly making my way to Bolivia. The second backpacker chimed in with a laugh,
¨ That´s a seriously slow pace, you do realize that Bolivia is just right there. You can walk across right now if you like.¨
His lanky arm stretched out pointing towards a dark menacing main road. It is with no exaggeration that within visible view of the ¨other side¨ plump round forlorn faces were staring at me from a begging distance.
My instant loyalty to Argentina was prevalent. I was convinced that it wasn´t time to part ways with a country that had been so accommodating, and its people so welcoming. How could I possibly abandon it now? I graciously thanked the travelers, wished them well, and scurried out of the rain into the first inviting hostel to demise a Bolivian scheme.
A new day is a new beginning, and reason enough to enter another country. The sun was shining, and I reunited with amigas from Uruguay. Armed with courage and a passport that craved another stamp, I walked down the main road toward the border crossing, and didn’t look back.
The first lesson learned at the border—there are no rules amidst the chaos of third world security, but money talks. The guard would not acknowledge me until I displayed the wad of green American dollars in my hand that are required for a Bolivian visa.
The second lesson learned—excessive amounts of consuming Coca Cola really will rot your teeth. Bolivians should be the official sponsor of this beverage as their obsession with coca runs deep. Nearly every Bolivian flashes a toothless grin, or it is adorned with golden crowns. Ironically I have spotted more dentist offices in this country and each one sends a shiver down my spine. Perhaps I am more sensitive to this issue as the proud daughter of a Dentist.
It has been four days since the border crossing event. Painfully slow and pungent trains have carried me deeper and higher into the altiplano. I am currently writing from an Army Barracks converted into a traveler refugee camp (seriously) in the middle of the Bolivian salt desert. It has been a three day journey in a Land Rover (which has a New Jersey inspection sticker-- questionable?) with an international assortment of adventure seekers. Among the superlatives swimming in my mind, this is possibly the most interesting thing that I have ever done. My mind is about to explode with endless amounts of details on Bolivia that I wish to divulge… stay tuned for more on that and why Bolivia is quickly becoming my new favorite country.
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