The US-Mexico border separates Tijuana (right) from San Diego (left). The prominent building on the left is a state of the art sewage treatment plant.
A journey into outer space to look back at the earth would paint the world much more differently than most world maps depict. The most obvious features – oceans, mighty mountain ranges, and islands – would still be easy to make out, but political boundaries and borders between nation-states would be as invisible as obscure constellations that require intense squinting or a wild imagination to see.
Human societies enjoy creating frontiers. Boundaries. Limits. Borders. In today's world, national identity seems to be such an important aspect of social identity. It is almost as if – after reaching the limits of San Diego and looking out across Tijuana, the world whispers: “this is where we end, and you begin.” Very few of us, however, ever delve into the metaphysical, and ask what makes up the limits of “you” and “I” anyway.
For travelers and adventurers, the border is one of those pauses in the railway of life where official looking people make us take a deep nervous gulp, finger our passports lovingly, and force a mental checklist of what contraband and illegal substances we may have accidentally forgotten in our packs.
Having successfully leap-frogged over 13 border stations with my bicycle along the length of the Americas over the past year and a half, by the time I arrived at the shores of Lake Titicaca at the Peru-Bolivia frontier, I had a feeling I knew a thing or two about border crossings. My passport had the scars and stamps to prove it, and the stickers on my bicycle frame nodded in agreement. This border crossing, however, was going to be completely different than the rest – I was soon going to be an illegal immigrant for the first time in my life...
Sometimes, countries try to pretend that nature herself winks and provides clever clues as to how people are supposed to belong to one side or the other. A mighty river spanned by a lonely bridge might divide two nations, or a windswept pass along the crest of a serrated mountain range might offer a similar delineation. Along the clear blue waters of Lake Titicaca, however, it was just a crumbled gate set amidst earthy-brown potato fields with a flag hoisted on each side that marked where Peru was supposed to stop caring.
Most countries on my Panamerican cycling journey have been free, or close to free. Mexico apportioned a reasonable $20 charge, and all the tiny countries with big histories in Central America such as El Salvador and Nicaragua made sure to take a stab at Western wealth by administering not just small entry fees, but also small exit fees.
After Evo Morales took office in Bolivia, one of his first Presidential acts was to impose a $135 fee to visitors from the US. Add to this a whole plethora of documents like yellow fever vaccinations, an invitation from a contact or institution in Bolivia, among others, and things get a bit complicated. However, this is still within the realm of good reason, because Evo simply made the requirements for Americans to enter Bolivia identical to the requirements a Bolivian would face entering the US.
I had all of the required documents ready, my pockets bulging with $135, far more cash than I usually carry, when I arrived at the border. My attempt to get a visa just a few days ago and save trouble in the nearby departmental capital of Puno was thwarted by the childish absurdity of Bolivian bureaucracy.
“Sorry Mr. Dhungana,” the Bolivian consulate said in Spanish with so much authority that half of his job description might have involved similar introductions, “but we don't have any more visas left to give out. No one knows why, but we don't have any more visa stickers.... You'll have to go to the border post itself.
”Very well. Advanced preparation be damned, even the best flutists in the Andes knew that there is no equivalent to improvisation.
I was reminded of the time when I was asked for three separate fees by three separate uniformed men at the Honduras – Nicaragua border and the improvisation that took place there. After the second fee, I began my instrumental cue to solo into full gear and sang, “Ciao senor, muchas gracias,” smiled wildly, and sped off. That seemed to work then.
But border crossings always have such an air of seriousness. Darkness racing, my friend Natalie and I arrived at the border station late in the day, tired and exhausted from a long day cycling. Sure enough, the border was closed. We'd have to wait until the next day.
The Peruvian side of the border was devoid of any hotels, and since potato farmers had staked out every bit of real estate, guerrilla camping was next to impossible. To our aid, a police officer and his wife invited us in for a cup of coffee, which turned into conversations, and then into an offer to stay the night.
It dawned on me then that unlike nearly EVERY border in Latin America, this one was unusually laid back. No hawking money-changers, no seedy slums, no heavy traffic backed up; only farmers and their fields alongside herders and their llamas.
Edy, my police officer host, machine-gunned me all night with questions about long-distance cycling, about Colombian women, and about Nepal. His wife next to him and Natalie next to me had drifted off into slumber, but we carried on. After I felt I had sufficiently gained his rapport, I inquired about the border crossing.
“Tranquilo,” he answered. “Its very laid-back here, unlike at Desaguadero (the principle Panamerican border post further south). Actually, the villagers here just walk back and forth all the time following their sheep and llamas.”
Bolivians had no pressing urgency to smuggle drugs to Peru, goods were equally cheap on both sides, and the border police's highest air of authority was to hawk suspiciously over gringo
passports and recklessly stamp half-inked, illegible marks into those clean documents tourists take such meticulous care of.
On a whim, the next morning, I decided to take up Edy's knowledge of the local terrain and hauled my fully loaded touring bicycle along a faint trail next to the lake. “Follow this road all the way along the coastline and you'll get to Kasani, a small farming village on the Bolivian side,” Edy advised me, even though he cautioned me that it was probably still safer to “just do it legally.”
Adrenaline coursing, and the thought of saving $135 (more than 2 weeks of travel with my luxury budgeting!) fueled me to walk on the edge and actually cross over the line this time. I bid farewell to Natalie after making plans of meeting up again in an hour on the other side, lest I make it across safely.
The narrow village trail soon degraded into a muddy path. Dismounting my bike, I pushed Bucephalus across freshly seeded potato fields and a cheerful “Imayna Katchkanki” (good morning) seemed to do the trick to get the villagers smiling again after seeing a strange looking fellow making an apparent illegal entry into the country.
The trail led to the end of one of the farms. Sure enough, if there's something there is that doesn't love a wall, that would be me. Laboring a heavy bike across the wall was no easy task, but I made it through, even with the intent gaze of the farmer nearby. “Good fences make good neighbors,” I hope thats what his mumbled, unintelligible rambling meant, because I just smiled and carried on.
Neighbors are not supposed to covet their neighbor's wife, but yet the grass always seems greener on the other side. And although both cross political borders, history rewards victorious conquerers, but forgets smugglers and illegal immigrants alike.
Of course, some neighbors are nosier than others – and also, more “dangerous.” Just like Ned Flanders pokes his head across Homer Simpson's fence much more frequently than the other way round, some neighbors need to be kept away by all means while other neighbors can come and go as they please. After the September 11 attacks, the United States drastically reinforced security measures, adding soldiers and high-tech infrared devices along entire length of the US – Mexico border, but made absolutely no mention of the Canada – US border.
Fortunately for me, the Bolivian border control was even more relaxed than the straight lines that make the difference between Canadian “eh's” and American “huh's.” Huffing up the last section of the steep trail, I connected with the highway again on the other side and the vehicles with Bolivian plates assured me that I hadn't accidentally ended up in a prison.
While the US-Mexico border sees nearly half a million illegal entries each year, I might likely have been the only person to have crossed illegally in recent memory. The poorest nation in South America, Bolivia isn't a hotspot for immigration activity, and as is the case with many developing nations, drugs are usually trying to leave a country to richer markets, not the other way around.
Throughout the four weeks I spent crossing the length of Bolivia with my bicycle, I was only stopped once by a police checkpoint to inspect documents. Although I am certain that my dashing charm had nothing to with it, the officer seemed to forget why he originally stopped Natalie and I after I rattled off a series of questions about the weather and the road ahead.
If the Titicaca border crossing was as easy to get across, a quick survey of the map told me that my best bet to made a clandestine exit would be at the far southern end of the country, right in the middle of the Atacama Desert. Sure enough, the exit border post at Ollague was nothing more than a lonely trailer with a gate next to it. The man inside the trailer responsible for walling people in or out didn't care much to come after me when I simply cycled around the gate. Perhaps it was the intense heat, or perhaps it was the gale force winds that made my nervous passage around his gate a turtle crawl, but he seemed to be more interested in the comfort of his trailer than in an illegal immigrant.
Like the devil in the deep blue sea, we often fear what we don't understand. In a world where 'where are you from?' seems to be a more important question than 'what the hell are we doing here?' border crossings are just another one of the boundaries that define social identities.
While I do not recommend anyone else to think that illegal immigration is a romantic act of heroism or that such frontiers mean nothing in an ideal world. Far from it, thousands of people often flee their countries to seek refuge, work, or freedom in other countries illegally. The reality that paints their existence is often grim and silenced in the passing wheel of history.
Riding through the Atacama Desert in Chile, safely on the other side, I let my hair loose and faced the roaring wind with renewed strength.
I imagined what the world would be like if everyone felt the sense of peace and contentment I felt with only the endless horizon ahead of me.
I imagined a world where adventurers and seekers of truth could pass freely between places, planting seeds of understanding and harvesting the fruit of other's seeds along the way.
I imagined Bolivians traveling to the US in numbers to meditate in the grandness of Yosemite or the Grand Canyon, just as Americans traveled to Bolivia to breathe long sighs on the Salar de Uyuni.
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Photo: Passage. Canyon del Pato, Peru
