The Porters

THIS STORY IS NOT RELATED TO MY EXPERIENCE IN PEACE CORPS MOROCCO. IT IS PART OF MY NEW LIFE IN BOLIVIA.

The porters were way up ahead. They were responsible for pots, pans, food, boots, picks and rope. It was probably more weight than our loads. The boy carried his share in a western backpack, but the father consolidated his load into a meshed plastic material slung behind his shoulders. They were at work and they were as serious about their responsibilities as we were about making it to the top of the mountain. We kept pace for the first hour. Eventually, though, they were just two points crawling up Bolivia’s second highest peak. This was Illimani. This was their mountain.

My pack started to rub my shoulders raw. Kateri had developed blisters on her heels. The thin atmosphere shortened our breathe and did little to diffuse the sun’s radiation. Every chance we had, we would re-apply sunscreen, knowing that the thin atmosphere could not protect us. We hadn’t even reached the glaciers yet, and we already didn’t belong. The goal was to show the mountain that we were not as pathetic as we may seem.

We skirted around the foothills for most of the morning, getting a sense of of what we were up against. Then, we went up. The climb transformed dramatically into a steep scramble. My hands gripped the sides of boulders to steady my progress. My backpack became a hazard as I creeped over and around the jagged rock formations. The footpath was gone. Kateri asked hopefully, “is that high camp up on top of there?”

“No,” our guide resisted an urge to laugh. 

Despite the extreme terrain we were pleased with our progress. We would reach high camp in the mid afternoon, plenty of time to practice ice climbing on the glacier and get a long nap in before waking up at midnight to launch our final ascent. Our breaks were nothing more than a splash of water and sunscreen. Our rhythm was consistent. We caught up to the porters.

Father and son relaxed in the sunshine. Leaning on the backpack, the father had his eyes closed, though we could tell he was clearly awake. He rested as efficiently as the sun blasted ridge would allow. The son was snacking on a potato, too anxious to lie down and close his eyes. “Are you tired?” I asked him. He smiled. I still hadn’t heard him say anything. The father had chatted with us during breakfast. He tried to teach us some Aymara and we made him laugh with our pronunciation. He had a fun sense of humor and an open attitude towards foreigners on his mountain. The boy probably had the same, but hadn’t learned how to express them yet. 

We tossed them a few granola bars to compliment their potatoes. We pushed ahead of the porters’. Though we wouldn’t be ahead of the porters for long, we had proved our competence.

Most of the year, our porters are in fact potato farmers. Actually, their livelihood depended on oca, a tuber similar to the potato. With no llamas or pigs to diversify the family’s economy, they rely on mountaineers for suplemental income. They farm and they carry equipment up their mountain. We had each paid several hundred dollars for the costs of this expedition, but I had no idea how much of it was going to the porters. Was the money just enough to afford some extra protein or did it make them relatively wealthy compared to the other villagers? I hoped that they liked hiking. I hoped that as they walked up carrying our stuff they would glance around and let the grandeur take their breathes away. I hoped that this wasn’t just another day at the office. 

Either way, I decided, carrying our equipment up a mountain has to be better than harvesting potatoes. They probably think we are weird for giving ourselves up to the mercy of the mighty Illimani, but they would definitely think it weirder if foreigners showed up and paid 100 dollars to hoe a field of oca. 

I occupied my thoughts calculating the risks and rewards of the porters’ efforts and soon the bottoms of the glaciers were resting below our exposed ridge. They groaned under the weight of the afternoon sun. Breaks and crevices in the crumbling ice looked up at us menacingly. I tried to imagine the valleys full of healthy flowing glaciers like it had been fifty years ago. I wished I could apologize to Illimani.

With a couple hours left on the ridge to high camp our bodies demanded a break. Despite a sharp rock poking into my back, I had no problem lying down. I felt too exhausted to make myself comfortable. Kateri and our guide did the same. I slipped out of consciousness for a bit, exploring my fears of tomorrow without really falling asleep. The cold will creep up my limbs. The altitude will strangle me. The sun will burn my neck and its reflection on the snow will blind me. I will trip. I will fall into a massive crack in the ice. My eyes flicked open. “We should keep walking,” I said. 

The porters were ahead of us again. They must have walked right over us. We didn’t notice though. The mountain was wearing on them too, and they weren’t in the mood for distractions. The father’s pace had slowed down, but the son was pushing further up. Before long, the treacherous incline in front of us hid him from our view. 

How did the boy feel when he had to wake up to the cold early this morning to climb a mountain? He probably didn’t complain. I can’t imagine he was too excited either. Maybe the high altitude life had already dulled his emotions. He never got too excited or too sad or too angry. The callous mountain had showed him that this was the best way to overcome drought, hunger, cold, tragedy and death. You do what needs to get done. There is no time to think or reflect. When your village marks the end of a dirt road, feelings take too much effort. Besides, they make you vulnerable to the whims of existence.

Despite our aching muscles we had to keep our focus. I tried my best to keep my eyes trained on the placement of each step. I dared not look down at the deadly drops on either side of me. I had one objective: arrive at high camp. I focused so hard on this feat that the goal of reaching the summit became faded. With each step, I felt the summit get further and further away. It started to sink into a imaginary world.

There was still so much left to do once we reached high camp. We would need to train on the ice to get used to the picks and cramp-ons. We would need to wake up at midnight. We would need to climb for six hours on the glacier towards the summit. Finally, we would need to climb all the way back down the entire mountain. There was no way I would have enough energy. A wrong step could kill me, and I wasn’t going to be feeling strong and confident. I let the fear in for a second to see what it felt like. Then, I forced it out by focusing again on each of my steps. Indeed, the next day we would come up short of the summit. Cold, exhaustion, and deep snow would force us to turn around. Standing on the summit of Illimani would remain nothing more than a dream.

“This is the toilet. If you need to go, you go here,” the guide spoke the magic words. Above the bathroom, the terrain flattened out. This was high camp.

It wasn’t much. It was flat, the only flat area I had seen since base camp. The ice above the camp was smooth and uniform. It was perfect. Below us, on either side, the glaciers crashed steeply into two icefalls, frozen chaos where blocks of ice the size of houses waited for the body of an unfortunate climber. Avalanches shook the mountain with frequency, reminding us of our insignificance at 19,000 feet. There were a few signs of human presence. Lingering bits of toilet paper creeped in between the rocks to hide from the wind. Tents had made the area unnaturally smooth. Larger rocks formed geometric shapes, arranged by previous campers. Lined up against the uphill side of high camp were several crosses, commemorating fallen mountaineers. Beyond high camp, humanity ended.

We could finally fully admire the scale of the Bolivian Andes. Illimani was the biggest thing I had ever seen. It stretched for several miles with a couple secondary summits. Kateri got her camera out to try and capture our isolation, and, to my surprise, so did the porter. The son positioned himself in front the looming summit and his father kneeled down to snap pictures of him with his cell phone. 

“Is this your first time here,” I asked the teenager.

His father answered for him, “He made a few trips up last year and this is his second time this year. Next year maybe he can porter by himself. It’s beautiful here, isn’t it?”

“It’s unreal.”

“Here, lets get a picture of all of us.” 

He was proud of his mountain and eager to share its power with those who could appreciate it. He was especially happy to share it with his son. Without a high school or college nearby, Illimani would be his teacher.

They hung out for a little bit, admiring the views and measuring our reaction. They didn’t overindulge though. After a matter of minutes it was time for their descent.

“Don’t you want to stay for dinner? Don’t you want to try and climb to the summit with us?”

“We need to go back to his mom for dinner,” the father explained, “and I’ve already been to the summit. We’ll be back tomorrow to carry things back down for you.”

Pomegranates

“And how much did you buy the Pomegranates for?”

“4 dirhams per kilo,” I say.

Fatima flinches, “at last week’s market I found some for 2 dirhams per kilo. How much were your tomatoes?”

I list my groceries. She can’t believe the outrageous prices I paid. I try to learn a lesson, but find it difficult to care about vegetable prices. If I was good at shopping I could save maybe 50 dirhams per month, enough for a couple beers in the capital. Fatima on the other hand is a tough shopper. She checks prices throughout the market and then barters for the lowest price possible. She isn’t poor, but she prepares every meal for her family, and being able to shave a few cents off of the price of tomatoes is something she is proud of.

“I told you to go later in the day. The prices at the market go down in the evening.” She never did her shopping in the morning. While everyone else escapes the afternoon heat Fatima scavenges for lazy vendors who are too tired to barter. She jumps from one vegetable stand to the next, almost like she’s participating in a competitive sport. I tried to keep up with her in the market once while talking on the phone. I hit my head ducking under a wooden frame and an entire tent collapsed.

“Pour yourself some more tea.”

I fill a third glass, and watch her prepare the day’s ration of bread. She recently found out I don’t prepare tea in my apartment and demands I drink tea and eat bread with her in the mornings.

“I’ll get seven loaves of bread out of this. You see this yeast? It’s from the country side. It doesn’t have the chemicals the factories put in their ingredients. Natural food is much better for your health. And you see these grains I’m adding? They’re good for your digestive system. We eat a lot of bread in our family. We also drink a lot of tea. Why don’t you make tea in your apartment? You could buy a packet of tea for 6 dirhams and it would probably last you two or three weeks. If you make instant coffee everyday that’s 30 dirhams in a month. It’s even more for you, because you drink it with milk. You don’t even need mint or sheeba to go with the tea. The tea by itself is good. And it’s just as easy to make as coffee. But I do love coffee. I die for coffee. It’s like a drug. I’m like people that need their hashish. Coffee makes my headaches go away.”

A soft snap and a pomegranate is open in Fatima’s hands. The seeds are so red they are about to burst. “Oooh, this one is a good one. Try this! Oh, it’s sweet and the pits are small. See, you need to buy the pomegranates that are yellow on the outside and the inside will be ripe.” I had just bought pomegranates, and none of them were yellow on the outside. I've been living in Morocco for nearly two years and still don’t know how to shop for fruit.

I try to remind Fatima that I’m not completely worthless. “I’m going to make some spaghetti for lunch. I’ll bring some down for you to taste. You can tell me what you think.”

“Bring a little. I’ll just have a taste.”

So far, only my brownies have met Fatima’s approval. She even wanted the recipe, but determined they were probably too expensive when she saw how much butter and cocoa powder they required. The apple cake and the stir fry didn't go over so well. She had no shame telling me that they tasted terrible and I was wasting ingredients. Her two youngest boys repeat her criticisms, in case I miss anything. “You should leave the cake in the oven longer,” the nine year-old insists.

I’ve been making spaghetti since the first time I tried to cook, but I can already imagine her criticisms: “The vegetables are still a little under cooked,” or “Why is there no meat in it?” But I won’t mind. It’s fun to watch someone be passionate about food.

I get up slowly, awkwardly announcing that I’m done hanging out and will climb the stairs back to my apartment. She shoves a quarter of a pomegranate insisting I give her a few more minutes of my time. I love pomegranates, but get self conscious about eating them. It takes me forever to break through the labyrinth of seeds. Half of them end up on Fatima’s kitchen floor. She shows me how easy it is to knock the seeds out by smacking the outside with a spoon. It doesn’t work when I try. She pretends to be frustrated with my incompetence, but it’s obvious she enjoys extending her motherly instinct to a foreigner.

Again I get up to leave, and again she hands me some fruit. This time a few apples and oranges. “Take these with you. I bought a lot. The apples are good. Oh, they’re really juicy. The kids love them. And I only paid 2 ½ dirhams per kilo.”

The Salesman

Sometimes there is no escape. At tourist centers, fake guides rope foreigners into relationships based on dependence and guilt. The local insists that he is helping the tourist out of the goodness of his heart, but really, he knows if he dedicates enough time to a tourist, he will be monetarily compensated. They abuse the Arab reputation for hospitality. They mock honest human interaction.

My mom messed up. She had promised our afternoon in Rissani to the service of such an individual. The city was not a major tourist destination, but significant enough to distract wandering tourists. Local capitalists had developed strategies to take advantage passing travelers. A young man sat at the edge of the restaurant as we ate out lunch. He kept track of us, making sure we didn't disappear from my mom's promise. He would take us to our guide. I saw no opportunity for escape. There were no excuses. We had eight hours to kill before our night bus to Meknes, and I had no idea how else to spend the day. After our meal, we followed the young man to meet our guide.

His face was puckered, his neck like a turtle's. I saw nothing in his eyes but hollow pits. His mustache was mostly grey, and I think his hair was too, but a dirty cap kept it covered. He was a little bit passed middle-age, but greeted us with energy. "Did you drive here in a car, or did you take a bus?"

"We came on camels," I was not in a cooperative mood.

"This is a good idea," he forced a laugh.

He showed us the old fortified city, boring me with worthless facts. My mom seemed interested though, so I let him go through his routine. His English sounded good, but only when reciting the facts he had listed for tourists so many times before. We skirted against mud walls, trying to keep to narrow strips of shade. The old town was not beautiful, but had a certain historical charm to it. At the edge of the Sahara Desert, Rissani had been an oasis of relief, and the gateway to the Kingdom of Morocco. Centuries ago, there had been great wealth for those who could transport resources and luxuries across the sea of sand.

"Now, the tour is over. I invite you for tea, because you are good people and you are my guests."

I did not want to have tea with him. He was a liar. He was not inviting us for tea because he liked us. He was doing it because he was curious about what we might have hidden in our wallets. The idea disgusted me. Our relationship with our guide was fake. I sensed manipulation. I had been living in Morocco long enough to know the difference between getting hustled and getting invited to tea. Still, we had no where else to go and we needed shelter from the pressing heat. We agreed to drink his poison and he led us into the rug cooperative.

Shapes and colors dangled from the tall walls, a perfectly arranged waterfall. I was struck with admiration. My mom was in love. She ignored the tea and began to explore this new world.

I could already feel a bubble of guilt in my chest. I grew up with capitalism and learned that nothing is free. It would be an insult to not buy anything. However, if we did make a purchase, the transaction would be tainted by my own disgust of the situation. I determined the pressure should be on my mom. She was the one that got us into this. She had money. I lay down on one of the Moroccan couches lining the tapestries. Sipping my tea, I tried to let the energy of the room flow through me.

Our guide transformed into a salesman. He laid rugs out on the ground, describing each one. The first was a style from the anti-atlas region in southern Morocco. The next was made from both sheep and camel. The third contained a sequence of traditional symbols. Describing the rugs was his profession. I could tell he was very good at it. As much as I wanted to hate him, I enjoyed listening to his descriptions. His terrible English had a beautiful well-rehearsed rhythm to it. He would even speak to me in comprehensible Arabic, as if to kindly admit that my Arabic was better than his English. By the end of his performance the tile floor was drowned by twelve rugs.

"Which one do you like? It is not so I sell it to you. No, I just want to know your opinion. This is a cooperative so the money is not a problem. This is not like Fez or Marrakech where they lie about the quality and the prices. If you like something we find a good price. This one is a beautiful piece, yes?"

I explained again that we were not going to buy anything, but my mom was happy to pick a favorite. The man had held the bait in front of her and she bit. The rug was colorless, freckled with grey symbols and highlighted with dark outlines. It’s angles were honest, and patterns subtle. Such a balance could complete any room. My mom was enchanted by it. Everything was going according to salesman's plan. He smelled blood and was going in for the kill. On a scratch piece of paper he wrote down a price: 250$. My mom said “let me buy it for you. I owe you a birthday present. I can make up for all the birthday’s I’ve missed.” I froze, unsure what to do. Then, he scratched out the price and wrote 200$. I shook my head, something felt wrong. The feeling was making me sick. The feeling would curse the rug. He scratched out 200$ and wrote 160$. I couldn't remember why I didn't want the rug, but my stubborn attitude persisted. A minute later he wrote 120$. I had an urge to start crying. My head was swimming and if I didn’t cry I was going to pass out. I tried to talk to the salesmen, but my voice wavered and the words couldn’t form. My emotional state took him aback, and he stopped trying to sell the rug. I apologized to my mom for being unable to accept her gift.

With the tension snapped, a strange energy hung in the room. Relief washed over me, but at the same time I couldn’t shake off a feeling of guilt. The man’s wife entered giving us something else to focus our attention towards: food. She served a humble meal of bread and beans, and refilled our empty tea glasses. The man’s brother joined us and we all enjoyed an enlightened discussion about history and politics.

Clearly, the salesman wanted to make a sale, but he did his best to hide his disappointment. I expected him to bid us farewell after our snack, but he continued to be friendly. Then, he transformed back into guide form, offering to give us another tour. Would he expect a tip from us? Maybe, having spent the last four hours together, we had become friends. After a short walk around the city center, he took us to an archeological site. At first, it looked like a wasteland, the soil grey and hard. Then we begin to walk past pockets of ancient homes, mostly buried. Any day now and it seemed like the ruins would disintegrate into dust and be washed away into the Sahara Desert. In one direction we observed the geometry of the modern city. In the other, an oasis of infinite palm trees. We stood in between, resting in the shade of a 1000 year old wall.

As we strolled back into town along the edge of a dry riverbed our guide introduced us to his friends. He greeted nearly everyone, doing his best to make them smile. We arrived at the bus station comfortably early. I kissed our guide farewell on both cheeks. My mom shook his hand, and we thanked him for all his help. Indeed, we had been stuck in an unknown town. He had sheltered us from the sun, fed us, shared his knowledge, and introduced us to an otherwise meaningless city. He had given his entire day to us. We were exceedingly grateful for his hospitality.

Before we got on the bus he gave me some business cards. "Tell your friends to visit the cooperative. Maybe they will want to buy a rug.”

Border Crossing

THIS STORY IS UNRELATED TO MY EXPERIENCE IN MOROCCO. IT IS A SOUTH AMERICA EXPERIENCE.

The gentleman sitting next to me had been chatting, asking me about California. With an hour left on the bus though, we’ve exhausted our social energy and silently agree to break conversation and move onto personal thoughts. Out the window to my left, Lake Titicaca comes in and out of view. It’s full size can’t be appreciated from this angle, and I find livestock and rural homes more interesting. I picture myself on an island in the lake. From there I would be able to appreciate the size of Titicaca. However, it is not it’s surface area that is the most impressive. What is especially interesting about Lake Titicaca is it’s altitude: 12507 feet.

Earth’s gravity pulls oxygen down to sea level, literally thinning out the air at high altitudes. At 4900 feet reduced oxygen levels impair athletic performance as the cardiovascular system tries to figure out why it can’t circulate like it did at sea level. The air is lighter, explaining why so many home runs are hit at Denver’s Mile High Stadium. At 8000 feet, a flight of stairs becomes a challenge and altitude sickness becomes a concern. Hemoglobin suddenly is unable to saturate with oxygen. No major American city sits above this limit (though Santa Fe, New Mexico does top 7000 feet). At 12500 feet, the atmosphere contains only 2/3 the amount of oxygen it does at sea level. Only the tallest mountains in America break this boundary. A visitor at this elevation is severely impacted by the low atmospheric pressure. Loss of appetite, headaches, and general fatigue will create a sensation of a never-ending hangover. The thin air is dry, chapping facial tissue, causing nose bleeds. With less atmosphere to push through UV rays scorch unprotected skin. In Peru and Bolivia, the bottoms of the mountains are at 12500 feet.

Despite it’s altitude, Titicaca is by no means a mountain lake. It rests in the broad plains of The Altiplano, the world’s second largest high altitude plateau (after Tibet). The altiplano is found between an impressive split in the massive Andes mountains. The world’s longest mountain range runs southward from Colombia and Venezuela to the tip of Argentina and Chile. For nearly it’s entire length, it is notably narrow and abrupt. From the pacific heading east, the mountains rise immediately to staggering heights topping 20000 feet in elevation. In as little as 150 miles they fall suddenly into the Amazon basin. Ecuador, a country smaller than Nevada, has beaches and rainforest, with 20000 foot glaciated volcanoes in between. The one place where the Andes fatten is in Bolivia, where they split and form The Altiplano. It is important to recognize the scale of the Andes and the Altiplano. Unless you live in central Asia or in the Andes themselves, it is hard to fathom the immensity of these mountains. Outside of Alaska (which has a scale of its own) USA’s highest peak is Mount Whitney at 14505 feet. By most standards, this is impressive. By Andean standards, not so much. La Rinconada, a mining town in Peru with a population of 50000, finds itself at 16700 feet above sea level. This is a city, not a summit! Potosi in Bolivia, with a quarter million inhabitants, has an elevation of 13300 feet. Even La Paz, Bolivia’s de facto Capital, which has a population of one million, sits at 12000 feet in elevation. The surrounding mountains are the highest in the world outside of Asia (no other continent can quite compete with the Himalayas). Aconcagua, the highest mountain in the Western Hemisphere (and Southern Hemisphere), has an elevation of 22800 feet. Next to lake Titicaca, Illampu, Illamani, and Janq’u Uma all break 20000 feet. Titicaca itself is the winner of two superlatives: It is South America’s largest lake, and the highest navigable lake in the world (12507ft).

The road my bus is traveling on is nearly the same altitude as the tallest mountain in Montana. Yet, we are not going over a pass. We are not switch backing up a steep slope. The terrain is flat. We are at the bottom of the mountains and already higher than nearly all of North America. The bus approaches Titicaca’s shoreline and from this angle I can begin to see that the lake stretches far beyond the nearby islands. The water is the same deep blue shade as an ocean.

Considering that Bolivia’s Altiplano is surrounded by the Andes mountains, it seems only natural that a major lake would form. Water is trapped in a basin with no escape to the oceans. The heat and humidity from the Amazon Rainforest push up the eastern slopes of the Andes exhausting tropical precipitation and producing snow atop Bolivia’s Eastern Andes Mountains. While the Western branch of the Bolivian Andes are dry and distant, the Eastern summits contain massive glaciers, shedding melting ice into Lake Titicaca through five major river systems and twenty or thirty smaller streams. The further west one gets from the Amazon the dryer the landscape becomes. No moisture makes it across the entire Altiplano to the Pacific Ocean, producing the driest place on our planet: The Atacama Desert. Fortunately for Lake Titicaca, there is a developed hydrosphere in the Altiplano, and the massive glaciers in the Eastern Range provide enough run-off to feed the great lake.

“Uh, So, where’s the border?” I ask the driver as he hands me my bag from the roof of the bus. We’ve reached the end of Peru. I’m anxious to cross before it gets too late. Daylight is fading fast and so is my fascination with the region’s physical geography.

“Just follow this road. On the other side of the bridge is Bolivia.” I stroll out over the Desaguadero River, taking a quick moment to appreciate the geographical and political importance of the river. Lake Titicaca is drained by this single outlet. It also marks the border between Peru and Bolivia. The small highway I took to arrive here, skirts the western shores of the lake in Peru and cuts into Bolivia towards the southern end of the lake via a bridge over the Desaguadero River. The combination of international border and transportation route gives birth to a border town, the least appealing of all human communities. Dangerous and slummy, the town of Desaguadero owes its existence to human migration and imaginary lines drawn by politicians.

Though the Desaguadero River should act as a barrier dividing two countries, movement across the bridge is surprisingly fluid. Herds of people and vehicles of all styles and sizes jump back and forth between the two countries. Most are going about there usual business. They are locals, and despite two time-zones, their community is a whole. They claim the right to be on either side of the river. Many of them pedal cargo back and forth across the bridge using oversized tricycles, weaving between foot traffic and makeshift shops, making a living off those who can’t pack light. Travelers are forced to spend several hours in town jumping through bureaucratic hoops. This sets up the economic base for the community. Street food sizzles on either side of the bridge, masking the stench of urine. Shops sell trinkets to tourists who have money to burn. Run down hostels advertise their location with obnoxious neon letters. Money exchanges do there best to look proper amid the chaos, reminding travelers to prepare for Peruvian or Bolivian currencies. Printers and photocopiers are scattered around the shops in case someone’s travel documents aren’t quite in order. Arching across the bridge above me, Peru thanks me for the visit, and 200 feet later Bolivia welcomes me in.

I am standing on Bolivian soil, but I have not legally entered. I’m not funneled right to the immigration officials like I would be in an airport. It’s as if immigration is optional. I could skip the process entirely and no one would stop me. I assume there would be nasty consequences when I decide to leave South America though, so I ask for directions. The immigration office barely seems any more governmental than local shops. Nothing distinguishes it from the rest of the decrepit town. An annex feeds me into a small room with a security guard overseeing migratory technicalities. Most travelers are Peruvian or Bolivian. With a flash of their IDs they are waved on to enter Bolivia. There is the occasional satisfying ‘kachunk’ of a government stamp. I approach a female border official with my American passport. As a government employee she tries to be formal, but sporadically she’ll smile or joke with her colleagues. She doesn’t want to be miserable at work. She flips through my passport and I wait for her to tell me that I need to purchase a visa in order to enter Bolivia.

“Are you leaving Bolivia or are you trying to get into Bolivia?”

“I’m trying to enter Bolivia.”

“Where is your stamp saying you’ve left Peru?”

“Was I suppose to do that in Peru?”

“Of course. You can’t just leave Peru without going through their immigration process. Go back across the bridge and have the Peruvian officials stamp your exit. And hurry! We’re gonna close soon.” She teases me, giggling about my pathetic attempt to enter Bolivia.

I’m on the bridge again, returning to the other side of the international border. From this angle the signs read differently: Bolivia thanks me for my visit and Peru welcomes me in. I walk briskly across Lake Titicaca’s single drainage and look for Peru’s immigration building. It’s easier to find than Bolivia’s, partly because a very proper ‘MIGRACIONES’ board calls my attention and partly because a hundred travelers are filed along the sidewalk waiting their turn to be blessed with a Peruvian Government stamp. I trace the line between street vendors and accept my position at the back. Minutes go by and the line remains stagnant. The reality of my night starts to creep in. I take off my unwieldy backpack, giving up hope of a speedy border crossing.

I tell myself that I’m 20% of the way to Peru’s immigration office, but this is based more on the growth of the line behind me than any kind of forward progress. Every five minutes the line inches ahead and I swing my bag forward with me one big step. In front of me a Bolivian man is trying to get his car insurance in order. At least I don’t have to deal with owning a vehicle. He explains that Bolivia will have a major vote on Sunday, and that there will be no transportation out of Desaguadero over the weekend. It will be illegal to drive. Drinking will also not be allowed over the weekend to ensure a sober vote. What’s more, if a Bolivian citizen does not vote, they will be fined. I suppose that is one way to promote freedom and democracy: impose it. Shove it down your citizens throats. For me, this has dire consequences. If I don’t get out of here tonight, I will be spending three nights in this seedy South American border town. I will be the first gringo to spend an entire weekend in Desaguadero.

Behind me there is a lady who overhears my situation, “You have to go to the front of the line. You’re not going to make it into Bolivia tonight waiting in this long line.”

“Is everyone here coming into Peru or going into Bolivia?”

“We’re all just coming into Peru. You’re the only one going to Bolivia. The Peruvian border will be open for a few more hours and we’ll be fine. But the Bolivian border will close soon. You have to go to the front of the line and beg them to let you cut in front.”

Begging is the last thing I feel like doing, “No way. I’m sure there are some people in line trying to get into Bolivia. It would be unfair if I cut to the front of the line.” I wonder how American I sound. Surely a Latin American in my situation would go to the front and charismatically work things out. The car insurance man in front of me supports my stance though. He thinks that Bolivia’s border will remain open for me, so I decide to wait out the long line. An hour later, at 7:30pm, a Peruvian official stamps my passport. I get back on the bridge, walking a little brisker now, Peru thanks me for my visit, and Bolivia welcomes me.

In Bolivia it is 8:30pm, which feels infinitely later than 7:30pm. Bolivia will close it’s immigration office soon. I tote my luggage through the Bolivian queue at a more satisfying rate. The same female border official from my first attempt awaits me.

“Where have you been? I told you to hurry!”

“There was a long line in Peru.”

“Really? Well, why didn’t you cut to the front? I told you to hurry!”

“I can’t cut a line. That’s not fair to other people.”

“Well, you probably should have. You barely made it. We are about to close.” She stamps my passport and takes a picture of me for Government records. “So I can remember you forever,” the camera makes no sound. She thinks this is the last she’ll see of me. She thinks I’m legally allowed to visit Bolivia. I wish she was right.

“Don’t I need a Visa?” I murmur.

“You have one,” she opens my passport, “see, what do you think this is.”

“That’s an old one. I think it’s expired.”

She pauses, “Oh my god,” her eyes widen, “you need a visa. We’re closing now. We have to hurry.” She is furious at me for making her day complicated, but at the same time she is embarrassed that I had to catch her mistake, “The Visa costs 160$.”

My eyes widen, “160$? I thought it was 135$.”

“It was 135$, but now it’s 160$. It’s a ten year Visa though, so it’s actually a better deal.” Why wasn’t it a ten year visa when I came six years ago? I would still have four years left on it. This time the five year extension makes no difference, as I will use up the 90 days before ten years. I will use up the 90 days in the next 90 days. It will be a ten year 90 day Visa. This new Visa will expire nine years and nine months short of the 10 year benefit.

I stop calculating how screwed I’m getting and determine how I can work with Bolivian government to get through this minor disaster. My anger can’t be directed at my border official friend. It’s not her fault. Together I’m sure we can work this out. I produce seven crisp 20 dollar bills, “I have 140$.” I remember the three dollars I’ve kept hidden behind my driver’s license. “Actually I have 143$. I thought the Visa cost 135$.”

“I told you. It used to be 135$, but now…”

“What should I do? Are there any ATMs open?”

“Not at this hour. Don’t you realize how late it is. We should have closed by now.”

“What about 60 Peruvian moneys. That’s about 20$. I can give you 143$ and 60 Peruvian moneys,” my voice tries to not sound desperate.

“We can’t take Peruvian money. This isn’t Peru! We can only accept American dollars.”

“Well. What do you want me to do? Can I exchange my Peruvian money for dollars somewhere?”

“Yea, if you go back to Peru they have places still open that can offer dollars.”

“Can I leave my bags here, please?”

“We can’t stay open just for you! Okay, fine, leave your bags here. You better hurry though.” A government job has not stripped her completely of her humanity. She wants me to make it.

I’m at a full sprint across the bridge. Bolivia thanks me for the visit and Peru welcomes me. My second attempt at entering Bolivia failed, but it looks like I’ll get one more chance. I scold myself for being underprepared. I should have brought more money for back-up. 200$ would have a been a safe amount. Instead I’m going broke. And why hadn’t I visited Peruvian immigration first? I had no plan and this is what I get: running laps between Bolivia and Peru. I can’t think straight. I’m not even really sure what I’m looking for. Out of breath I ask a lady selling bootleg CDs where I might be able to exchange money. She points, and I’m off running again.

“Can I get American dollars for 60 Peruvian moneys and 30 Peruvian cents?” I empty my money purse.

“If you give me another 60 cents I can give you 19$.”

“This is all I have.”

“Whatever.” The man’s laziness earns me a full 19 dollars, for a grand total of 162$.

Again, I’m on the bridge. Peru’s thank you flies over me, but before I can get to Bolivia’s welcome, one of the cargo loaded tricycles swerves around another to pass, barreling down on me. I shuffle towards the side of the bridge and my feet slip out from under me. My hand catches concrete and brings my feet back under me, while The tricycle zips past me, narrowly avoiding my right hip. Laughter erupts. Women selling hats on the side of bridge won’t stop cackling about how the foreigner, who’s been running back and forth all night, almost fell and got run over exactly on an international border. I’m feeling less and less human as the events of the evening unfold.

Bolivia welcomes me and I slow down to enter the government building. Straggling travelers remain in the annex collecting their documents and belongings. The door into the immigration office is closed, but unlocked. Inside, a janitor is sweeping the debris left over from the storm of migrants. I don’t see her at first, but I hear my female border official friend. She’s complaining about me around the corner. I can’t tell if she’s upset or complaining for fun. I’m the story of the day, the one traveler that didn’t have his shit together. I round the corner and lay out seven twenty dollar bills, a ten, a five, and five one dollar bills. She goes through each twenty, verifying their authenticity.

“Why did you come so late tonight? You’ve been to Bolivia before. You know how this works?”

“That was six years ago. I still don’t really know how anything in Latin America works.”

“Why are you coming back to Bolivia?”

“I have family here. And, you know, you gotta visit family sometimes.”

She takes her eyes off the 160$ and flashes me a smile, “this is true.” I want to ask her about her family. Does she travel to see them? Does she have to cross imaginary political lines to visit them? As she completes her assessment of my money she stops being my friend and reverts back to being my border official.

“We can’t accept this dollar bill. It’s not in very good condition.” She is so cruel to me. Or maybe it’s Bolivian politics that are so cruel to me. I retrieve one of my last two remaining dollars, the nicer looking one. She stares at this one as well, unimpressed. She calls in another official and asks him what he thinks about the condition of the dollar bill. He inspects it and tells her to accept it. She prints off my Visa and sticks it into my passport. I’m free. I’m legally allowed to exist in the country of Bolivia. However, my friend has one last mean trick.

“You have to do one more thing for me, honey. Bring us photocopies of your passport and your Visa. It will only cost you one Bolivian money.” It feels like an insult. Do they not have a photocopier? They know that I just spent all my money trying to get the Visa. I’m completely submissive though and accept their request.

I’m about to sprint back to Peru to exchange my last two American dollars for 14 Bolivian moneys, but the concept seems so insane that I refuse to let myself do it. Across the street I read ‘FOTOCOPIAS’ in front of a store that appears to still be open. Travelers must visit his shop constantly as they work their way through Bolivian bureaucracy. A magical machine inside that store should put an end to this nightmare. I don’t have Bolivian moneys, but I have to make this work out somehow. Inside, a man greets me with sincere friendliness. I return his warmth with desperation.

“Sir, please can you help me. I need a photocopy of my passport. I don’t have any Bolivian money. But, listen, I’ll pay you an American dollar. Please, just one photocopy. I’ve had a really tough night. One dollar is like seven or eight Bolivian moneys. Please, sir.” He responds to my begging with a look somewhere between confusion and pity, and accepts my proposal. On my way out he kisses the dollar bill dramatically, and smiles good-bye to me. Tomorrow he’ll send his son to Peru to exchange the bill for real currency, or maybe he’ll hold onto it as a souvenir. Foreign money looks cool.

Across the street, past the annex, the door is closed and an official on his way out refuses to let me in. I’ve gotten past the major obstacles, but it is small inconveniences like this that are beginning to drive me towards the edges of insanity. I’m begging again, waving my photocopy in his face. It’s the last step. It has to be. All I have to do is give my female border official friend this piece of paper. He tells me to wait and goes back in the room to ask about me. “Alright, go in.”

I’ve jumped through every hoop. I hold the photocopy in the air in triumph. My female border official friend is busy talking with a colleague and signals for me to leave it on the table. I ask if I’m all set to go and she nods and waves me away entirely uninterested. I thought we were friends. Doesn’t she want to celebrate with me? A high five, maybe? Can’t she wish me safe travels? It’s like the photocopy could be cleared away by the janitor and no one would ever notice. It wouldn’t make any difference. I retrieve my bags that I’ve left sitting in the corner of the immigration room, moving on to the next chapter of my journey.

It took at least four hours to enter Bolivia. I’m at 12500 feet in elevation. Beyond the flickering street lights of Desaguadero is South America’s largest lake, it’s only outlet under the bridge just behind me. Beyond the lake are the biggest mountains in the world outside of Asia. Down the road a couple hours is La Paz, one of the world’s most impressive high altitude cities. I’m too tired to think about the incredible geography. My night is not over. I’ve been traveling since 7am and my destination is still hours away. I try to get oriented on the Bolivian side of Desaguadero. My only instinct is to walk away from Peru. Where are the buses? How will I pay for transportation? I may have a Visa, but I only have one American dollar left. I try to focus and think of a plan, but I’m too exhausted.