The Art of the Border Crossing

© Alisa Clickenger / RumBum.com

Crossing the border from Peru into Bolivia.

As I pull up to the border crossing, there are eighteen-wheelers lined up on both sides of the street. I dodge a couple of men pushing a cart of wood over a speed bump. I swerve around two dogs fighting over the contents of a plastic bag, only to hit a large pothole. I choke as I pass an idling truck bleeding exaust. The truck is full of people and produce; an ewe is tied to the roof, bleating her poor heart out. My adrenaline surges as I maneuver between moto-taxis, trying to keep the motorbike from stalling due to the altitude. My eyes search the buildings for Peruvian Immigrations.

”No, gracias” I say to a Quechua woman wanting to sell me a knitted hat as I am asking the policeman at the gate where the migracion (immigration) office is. I paddle-walk the motorbike in front of the office he signified, dodging several outstretched arms offering me items I do not want or need. I take my helmet off and another policeman tells me I cannot park on the sidewalk. I employ what I hope is my best Spanish and cutest pout and ask, “Just for five minutes?”

Parking settled, I lock the helmet on the bike, store the GPS in the Trax® box, and get out my envelope with my bike paperwork and passport. As an afterthought, I take the gloves out of my helmet and lock them inside a pannier as well. “No thank you, everything is locked up tight,” I say to a loiterer just outside the immigration office who asks me if I want him to watch my bike. Another man takes it upon himself to escort me into the office, and gestures toward the window. As I hand my passport to the immigration officer, my escort stands expectantly. I ignore him, as I have no desire to pay for help I do not need.

Exporting the bike from Peru involves a walk across the roadway-cum-marketplace to the customs office. They ask for my papers, and ask to see my bike, which is obscured by a fruit cart and several colorful Quechua women. I bring the bike over to the customs agent, who merely nods and says “gracias,” without even checking the VIN number. I ask him if this is everything and he says yes. I unlock the bike, put my paperwork away, and put all my gear on to ride over the bridge to into Bolivia.

Ten feet later I am stopped by a uniformed policeman, who asks me to come inside the office. I am hesitant and confused, and he reassures me by telling me he just has to put me in “the book.” There is a soccer game on the television, and so I get passed off to a teenage officer presiding over “the book.” He manually logs my name, license plate number, passport number and nationality, then wishes me a nice trip. I am now ready to ride over the bridge and start the whole process again on the Bolivian side.

Border crossings are one of the necessary evils of riding a motorbike through Central and South America. But, once you're through, you're back to the sweet freedom of the ride. Sweet. Freedom.