Patience & Non-Permissable Passage

The "adventure" crossing the border from Peru into Bolivia truly tested my patience-not one of my stronger traits....

The test started at the Loka border crossing, probably more well known as Copacabana-thank you Barry Manilow. Taking my sweet time around Lake Titicaca ended up costing me precious minutes at the border. I had configured an average of five different times local Peruvians had told me that the borders closed, but forgot to take into consideration the one hour time difference from Bolivia to Peru, thus putting me there just fifteen minutes late. Sadly singing Copacabana to myself, I rested my head in the nearest Peruvian town that night.

The next day was the worst... After waiting in lines for 2 plus hours for my passport stamps, I found out at customs that I needed additional documents allowing my Peruvian motorcycle passage out of the country. After a bit of ranting and raving, I realized I could not talk my way accrossed. The customs officials kindly sent me on my way to the next border crossing 100km down the road to try my luck there. At Desaguadero it only took two, maybe three minutes for the officials to tell me I couldn´t pass without first obtaining the correct documents from "that building right there"-which happened to be closed for the next two days. At this point in the game frustration was taking over, I started entertaining thoughts of crossing the border illegally in true Butch Cassidy fashion. I decided I could wait it out, in hopes of legally entering Bolivia with my motorcycle. In the mean time.....reconnaissance.

Desaguadero is a border town on the southern shores of Lake Titicaca. I spent the next two days there waiting, perched atop the hostal, people watching and planning an escape from Peru. The border itself is a massively dirty, and fairly large river- dark at night, and only patrolled by one officer, at all hours. There are three bridges that gap the river. One for all foot traffic, foriegners and locals alike-heavily guarded by officers on both ends 24/7. Another, securly locked at all times-not possible with moto, and one for all big truck and trailer traffic-lit by streetlights and guarded by two officers on each end 24/7. Incredible thunderstorms swept through the town each night on thier way out to the darkness of Titicaca. Crowched on the balcony, I watched bolts of lightning illuminate civilians and policia alike scurrying for shelter- the best moment for illegality.

Decision day.. I awoke monday morning, practiced up on my pity speech, and headed out hoping this would be the day I would become Bolivian bound. No such luck with the Desaguadero customs office, as they told me the same thing everyone else had told me- "no can do... go to the next office". I wanted to become a terrorist for a moment. According to the aduanas (customs) office at the border, 200 km to the north lay the customs headquarters, and I would no doubt be able to get the correct paperwork there. So, after cooling off with a glass of manzana quinoa I figured one last attempt to make my passage a legal one could be worth the effort. Off to Puno via Peruvian packed bus, only to be denied again, first at the Minestry of Transportation, then again at the "fort" better known as Aduanas Central in Puno, Peru. My quest to cross legally, it seemed, would have me on the next bus to Lima, over 25 hours north of Puno. Instead, I hopped the next bus south, back to Desaguadero, my feathers flustered but not yet plucked.

I was starting to get a hold of this patience thing, and, since it was no longer up to anyone else, I felt a little relieved to Butch Cassidy it over the border-one way or another.

After returning to Desaguadero and explaining my situation to the only person who seemed to listen, suprisingly, the owner of the hostal I was staying at offered directions to a dry river crossing south of town 7 or 8km without a control checkpoint. He claimed it was where he would send his nieces and nephews if they were without paperwork, and needed to go to Bolivia for whatever reason. This sounded like money in the bank. It seemed things were starting to favor Butch and his faithful steed.

I would drink to my last night in Peru that evening with a couple of local teenage bike-taxi drivers, all to eager to share the suds of my Cusquena cerveza. We secretly dicussed the different possibilities and risks of an illegal crossing. Secrets soon led to jokes and laughter with my new amigos, and I felt a new wave of hope flow through my bones. Phone numbers and e-mails were exchanged- just in case, and I strolled off toward my bed, anxious for the next mornings adventure.

Ten kilometers south of town I located a small gravel road heading east toward Bolivia. Foot paths and creek crossings were abundant in the muddy marshland south of town passing through what I thought to be the last minutes of Peru and the first moments in Bolivia. I named one particular creek ¨the one¨, and proceeded to shed all gear and clothing-save for my boots (for comfort), goggles (for style), and underwear (to keep the vampire catfish out), and ¡YIPPIE KAY YAYED! my way back and forth accrossed the muddy creek- one time for each day I waited for this moment. I spent and hour or two basking in the Bolivian sun, enjoying my success, and planning my route to La Paz. After scanning the marsh ahead for control checkpoints with my newly gifted binoculars, I decided to saddle up and hit the road. Smiles crested my face for the next half-an-hour or so, then both my motorcycle and happiness came to a swift halt when I crested a hill looking down on a very familiar sight- Desaguadero. In hindsight, this wouldn´t have been all that bad if I had been looking down from the Bolivian side of the river, but I wasn´t. I was still in Peru. This was no longer a game, it had become a battle.

I solemnly strolled back into town to the nearsest phone booth, and dialed the number given to me the night before. I was out of options. I needed advice. I needed a way accross. My friends from the night before-Edwin and Wilbur, had contacts. They were happy to meet me and discuss the in´s and out´s of border hopping by boat. A couple of hours later the plans were confirmed, and we were on for later that night. I would either be in a Bolivian hostal by 9 or a Peruvian jail by 10, only time would tell.

Eight o´clock, and the rain began to come down as if on cue, gracias a Dios. We wound our way through the empty & soaked streets of Desaguadero, three going-to-be fugitives on our way to the boatman down by the river. Huddled behind a small shack, we watched each others slightly nervous & criminaly eager faces light up with each strike of lightning above- smirking in anticipation. The signal was given, and we pushed the bike, fully loaded with gear, down to the muddy bank below. It took all four of us to heave the weighted bike into the tiny row boat, and after a confident nod from the boatman assuring we wouldn´t sink his vessel with such a load, we pushed off. Suprisingly, it only took a few thunder-filled minutes for the three peruvians, motorcycle, and leather clad gringo to reach the Bolivian bank. Our grunts lifting the bike out of the boat were drowned out by the sound of thunder and rain, and a brief scan of the shore above revealed no policia for the moment. I gave the capitain quick handshake and payment of 100 Bolivianos (equivalent to about $14) and he set off back to Peru, the two Peruvian teens and I into the Bolivian streets smiling in pure joy of a succesful mission. Finally, I was in Bolivia. My amigos had to return to their bicycle taxis in Peru, so I thanked them immensely, and they were on their way. I slept incredibly well that night, and woke the next morning eager to start the Bolivian Motocyclandes chapter.. First stop after the stressfull last week in Peru-The Peace (La Paz) for a celebretory weekend with Bro B.