Forced midnight snack
4AM Freedom Pass
The irony of the name of the border crossing will become apparent.
Get off the bus. Wait more than 1 hour to get the passports stamped.
"Profession?"
"Single or married?"
A man in front of us is refused passage into Chile and is sent to another room.
"How much money do you have?" Barks out the lady. "That's all? Then you cannot cross." Another man has just been refused entry.
I never knew how satisfying the sound of the stamp could be.
A man, is in the queue behind us, smiles. But, he is incredibly shifty.
He looks ahead and behind and at the border inspectors.
"Are you on a bus?" He asks sheepishly. "Where are you going?". He says he is going to the capital. But five minutes later he looks even more shifty and leaves the building. I change tactic and wear my backpack in front of me, not on my back.
We are at nearly 3500m above sea level and the road has been windy and sinuous.
In Mendoza it was 38 degrees. Here it must be about four. We put on our coats.
Then we cross a road and a dog on a lead, is on the coach. A guard calls at us
"Do you have anything else on the bus?"
We grab a small bag.
Then we are led into a cold, clinical, scruffy room. There are two long dirty tables and everyone is standing behind the tables with their backpacks and hand luggage displayed on the tables in front of them. "Join the tables." Everyone lines up, tired. The treatment is tantamount to the identification of criminals behind a mirror in jail. But there is no mirror and a man stands in front, looking stern. Nobody explains anything in English, but I wish I didn't understand what is going on.
Suddenly, a shout fills the room, echoing off the walls.
"Whose is this? Identify this bag now!"
It is our bag.
A blue, plastic bag.
I take the bag, and everyone looks at us. There are hundreds of shabby signs everywhere declaring no fresh food can be taken across the border.
We line up behind the plastic coated table again, open our Tupperware and are forced, hurridly, to eat our strawberries.
X ray machines kick into action.
A sign says no pirated goods may be taken across the border. Forget your Ifan, your Sonia headphones and your supercell batteries. They won't pass.
Just be thankful you did.
Welcome to Chile.
We get back on the bus. Half our subway sandwich is still there.
The irony of the name of the border crossing will become apparent.
Get off the bus. Wait more than 1 hour to get the passports stamped.
"Profession?"
"Single or married?"
A man in front of us is refused passage into Chile and is sent to another room.
"How much money do you have?" Barks out the lady. "That's all? Then you cannot cross." Another man has just been refused entry.
I never knew how satisfying the sound of the stamp could be.
A man, is in the queue behind us, smiles. But, he is incredibly shifty.
He looks ahead and behind and at the border inspectors.
"Are you on a bus?" He asks sheepishly. "Where are you going?". He says he is going to the capital. But five minutes later he looks even more shifty and leaves the building. I change tactic and wear my backpack in front of me, not on my back.
We are at nearly 3500m above sea level and the road has been windy and sinuous.
In Mendoza it was 38 degrees. Here it must be about four. We put on our coats.
Then we cross a road and a dog on a lead, is on the coach. A guard calls at us
"Do you have anything else on the bus?"
We grab a small bag.
Then we are led into a cold, clinical, scruffy room. There are two long dirty tables and everyone is standing behind the tables with their backpacks and hand luggage displayed on the tables in front of them. "Join the tables." Everyone lines up, tired. The treatment is tantamount to the identification of criminals behind a mirror in jail. But there is no mirror and a man stands in front, looking stern. Nobody explains anything in English, but I wish I didn't understand what is going on.
Suddenly, a shout fills the room, echoing off the walls.
"Whose is this? Identify this bag now!"
It is our bag.
A blue, plastic bag.
I take the bag, and everyone looks at us. There are hundreds of shabby signs everywhere declaring no fresh food can be taken across the border.
We line up behind the plastic coated table again, open our Tupperware and are forced, hurridly, to eat our strawberries.
X ray machines kick into action.
A sign says no pirated goods may be taken across the border. Forget your Ifan, your Sonia headphones and your supercell batteries. They won't pass.
Just be thankful you did.
Welcome to Chile.
We get back on the bus. Half our subway sandwich is still there.
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