The Men in Black

February 23, 2012:  Today is the day I said “Adeus Brasil!” and “Hello Guyana!”  When I was at the Brazilian border crossing I had to see the Federal Police to get that magical stamp for my passport that I am always talking about.  Entering the office, I made my way to the desk of a Tommy Lee Jones look-alike who was dressed in all black attire with his gun holstered at his hip as he was standing there with another man in the same attire.

Not even in 0.345 seconds after grabbing my passport he asks me, “Where is your immigration form?” in Portuguese.  This was almost word for word on what I was hoping not to hear, as soon as THAT form decided to go separate ways while I was down south in Salvador.  This itsee tiny piece of paper that is the size of two book marks placed side-by-side has a cost of around $100 USD and a long day of going back and forth to the nearest town to pay a fine.  I smiled and responded to his question in broken Spanish, using the proven; I don’t understand your language strategy – thus limiting their questions.  But…he responded in English, as I was later sent to the corner to sit as he decided what to do.

Time moved slowly as Tommy Lee sat at his computer terminal taping away, searching for something.  About 6 others came and gone as I patiently sat there hoping not to hear the words,”you need the form.”  After a little more squinting at the computer screen and a few more looks at my passport, he grabs the exit stamp and slams it into my passport, authorizing me to legally leave the country without me needing to make a dash out the door for the Guyana border.  There was a long stretch of road between the two and with the size of my bags…I wouldn’t have made it too far anyhow. 

Walking across the border of Guyana and into the small cowboy town of Lethem (2,500 people), I could not have arrived at a better day because today was the annual festival celebrating Guyana becoming a Republic in 1970. 

I must say that is great to be somewhere that English is there first language but I unfortunately I don't at the momment understand them very well with their strong accent - if they could only have subtitles...

I am in Chuy or Chui

October 11^th, 2011:  I continue to extend my track record on fumbling another border crossing.  As in Paraguay months ago…the bus once again passed immigration without stopping.   The countries are separated by only a busy street…one side being Chuy, Uruguay and the other side being Chui, Brazil.    There was nobody standing in a tower of supremacy with the mirrored aviator sunglasses and a shotgun overlooking a tall wall resembling that of Israel or the US Border in which only superman can leap in a single bound or a Mexican jumping bean.
 
I didn’t understand the border crossing till now, as I write this.  It wasn’t until I bought my bus ticket to travel to Porto Alegre in Brazil when the woman at the ticket booth looked at my passport and told me that I needed to get an exit stamp.  “Huh?” I thought.  I didn’t even notice passing a border crossing.  She pointed at what direction I needed to start walking as I shuffled out of the building beginning my couple kilometer journey to get that magical exit stamp. 

Walking through the city, I made it to a road leading out of town looking as if it was leading to nowhere.  Eventually there was nothing but flat lands finally taking me to the friendly immigration troll.  Opening my passport, I don’t even think he looked at it – I could have pasted a photo of Mickey Mouse over my stellar photo and he would have still stamped it.
 
Confused about what country I was in, I ended up buying my bus ticket in Brazil and didn’t even know it – explaining why I didn’t know about the time change.  I stood outside an empty building waiting for my bus to arrive at any given moment as my big backpack lay safely locked up inside, hoping someone was going to open up the office.  Thankfully, I gained an hour instead of lost an hour.

Yes, I continue to dislike border crossings, especially when there are no truly defined borders.

“The Man” verses 5 Hippies and 1 Frenchie

July 11th, 2011: “The Man” behind the immigration desk in Paraguay with the legal magical stamp for your passport didn’t want to let Cecile or 5 other hippies into his country after I was easily granted access from this Paraguayan troll. The only two differences between Cecile, the others and myself was that my mother vaginally released me in a different Geographic location and that I didn’t go to Brazil the other day to see Iquazu from “that” angle. Sadly...as the picture Cecile took from the Brazilian side shows (above)...that angle seemed to be a very very very nice angle.

My decision to not go and see the Brazilian side of Iquazu Falls wasn’t that I am against the Brazilian bikini wax. It was legally based because I needed a Visa and Cecile didnt.

After baby talking back and forth over the counter with the Paraguayan troll on Cecile’s behalf…it seemed that he was playing a game of “Simon Says.” Everyone but myself needed to cross the bridge and get a Brazilian entry stamp and exit stamp. The other Immigration officer sitting next to him was looking down shaking his head as he knew the others were being forced into playing a game nobody wanted to play…saying that he couldn’t do anything because “The Man” was his boss.

Due to the bus needing to continue its journey, I pulled our backpacks from underneath the bus at the border crossing. While standing with our packs we were informed that 3 of the 5 hippies received the magic stamp. Rushing back to immigration as the bus was pulling away…the soon to be fired Immigration officer applied the magic stamp after a little more begging and pleading.

Busting out the door as if we just robbed the place we stopped the bus as we tossed our bags back into the stomach of the iron beast and continued our trip into Paraguay.

A trend is beginning to appear…schedule more time when crossing the border in Paraguay, just in case you are potentially selected to play a forced game of “Simon Says.”

A 8 year old child wielding a handgun at the border

October 8th, 2011: Today in customs while crossing the border back into Chile, an 8 year old was wielding around a black handgun – a black plastic toy gun to be more precise, but it looked like a black gun. Pointing it at others he would pull of a few imaginary rounds every so often at the people standing around. This was all taking place while some other kids seemed to be quite resourceful in the long lines, turning the giant x-ray machine back rollers into a human slide while I think that its real purpose was to examine everyones baggage for fruit smugglers.

Customs seems to be serious about outside fruit from entering the country…but what about black handguns? I hope this doesn’t give any arms dealers any bright ideas but this wouldn’t be a bad idea if you needed to pass a shipment through…just give a school bus load of kids some unloaded handguns. But most importantly…make sure their parents didn’t pack the kids any fruit in their lunch boxes if you want to make sure they make it across the border without any problems.

And…the computer says?

June 15th, 2010: Clearing immigration, exiting Colombia, I made my way across a bridge to see if immigration in Ecuador could count to 90. Before finding out I was stop by some sort of Ecuadorian drug enforcement agency. I was pulled to the side and then to a dimly lit room. The questions began, “do you have drugs?”, “do you do drugs?”, “just once?”, “come on…tell me”, “did you have sex with any Colombian women” – giving them a strange look for such a strange question, he simulating a cock in his mouth. After my interrogation, they proceeded to take out everything – everything…this was before I was given a cheap feel by a man to make sure that I was only packing a dirty tube sock.

Little did the officers know on how much of an effort I put into making everything fit as they were unfolding my obsessively perfectly folded clothing. They kept asking me the same questions over and over perhaps thinking I would change my mind. After about 45 minutes, I was deemed drug free with the stamp of approval as everything I owned laid all across the room on two tables and some chairs. Before leaving me to repack my backpack…they told me they caught 10 backpackers today. So it wasn’t the huge blackened bags beneath my eyes… I was profiled.

Once I finally arrived to the Ecuadorian immigration desk, the officer behind the glass window swiped my Passport and began to process me into the country. On the form I was handed, I so happened not to fill out how many days I was in Ecuador last year…hoping he was not going to manually count. Looking at the computer for a moment, not even at the uncompleted form I handed him…he informed me I have only 7 days. I looked at him all confused as if I was completely unaware of reaching the 90 day limit for the year. Turning the computer towards me so that I can see, the computer said…7 days. I did almost everything to make him just change the 7 to some bigger number without having to slip him some Benjamin’s.

Me not completing my form obviously didn’t work nor did I suggest a charitable donation in order to see the number morph itself into some number that is more beneficial to me. It was not just me who I was thinking about…it is the also the Ecuadorian people and McDonalds, now not able to get my tourism dollars.

With no plans on being in Peru so quickly, I had to put away the Ecuador travel guide I picked up and deemed it worthless. Grabbing my general travel guide, South America on a Shoestring…I began to figure out a plan on what to do in Peru since I would be arriving there in about 27 hours via bus. I am glad the computer could count to 90, it gets an A.