Bolivian Border Bronca: Part Two (Or, My 20 Hours as an Illegal Alien)

Warning: This post contains graphic content involving border crossing failures. If reading about illegal aliens makes you squeamish, please read no further.

Jorge and I rolled into the Aguas Blancas border crossing right on time, around 3AM. I'd just managed to snag about two hours of sleep, and like all nighttime border crossings, the unexpected call to activity was unwelcome. However, I rallied quickly, knowing I had some negotiating to do.

We breezed through the Argentinian side of border control. I got my exit stamp. We re-boarded the bus and moved toward the Bolivian side of the border.

By this point, I had fully convinced myself that I would be able to waltz through the border control. Obtaining a tourist visa prior to visiting Bolivia is NOT required for US Citizens (though it is in Brazil), so I figured I'd show up, flash some money, and be back on the bus and sleeping comfortably within a half hour.

Wrong.

I was one of the first through the border control on the Bolivian side (Bermejo). I showed my passport, my immigration paperwork, and smiled hopefully.

"Your payment?" the border control agent asked.

"I have it here, in pesos." I showed him a fat wad of argentinian pesos.

"It must be in dollars."

My face fell. "I don't have dollars, only pesos."

"And your papers?" He referenced a list behind him. It was the full list of visa requirements for USA citizens. The yellow fever vaccination item sneered back at me. "Do you have all these items here?"

I pretended to examine it, knowing that I had exactly none of the required items, minus the credit cards and passport. We didn't even have a hostel reservation yet, because we didn't know where we'd be going that night.

"I have most of these things," I said, mind racing to figure out how to procure all these things out of thin air. "I have the passport photos, for sure." Because I did, I always travel with them. Except for that one time in Jujuy when the lady asked for them and they were with my things in a different city.

"They need to have a red background," he said.

Record screeching. "A red background?!" This was new. And ridiculous. Who has red backgrounds on passport photos? Was he just making this up on the spot to spite me? Red doesn't even look good with my skin tone, hi.

"Yes, and I need two copies of each of the items."

Fist in the stomach. "I, uh...I don't have those. I'd have to make copies. But I DO have these things!" Adding in my head, except the vaccination.

"You can't pass without these items. Return when you have them."

I watched him for a moment or two, hoping that I'd misunderstood his very clear and very firm Spanish. I was moved to the side as he continued attending the other patrons on the bus. Jorge and I went outside into the humid night air, plotting. We'd been prepared for this, to an extent. I just had hoped it wouldn't happen. The bus attendent came to our side and we told him what was up. In a quiet voice, he told us what to do next.

"Tell them you'll stay here in Bermejo to take care of the visa issue. And then take this taxi," he gestured toward an idling car in the distance, lights dimmed, "and go to the bus terminal. Take another bus to Tarija, where hopefully you'll arrive not too long after us. Then you can get your bags and take care of the visa stuff there at the Immigrations office on Monday."

It all sounded good, except one thing. "So we can't get our bags now?"

He shook his head. "I can't unload anything from the bus. You'll have to pick it up in Tarija at the bus terminal. We'll keep it safe for you."

It's one thing to be kicked off a bus in the middle of the night, but it's another thing to be stranded without the majority of your worldy possessions. We'd never been to Bolivia before, what did "safe" mean in the middle of a busy terminal? Jorge and I hurried to rescue our carry-on backpacks from where we'd been sitting, but all of our essentials -- clothes, soap, etc -- was leaving with the bus.

Once the border agent had reviewed the passports of all the passengers, we returned to speak with him. I informed him I'd be staying in Bermejo since I had no way to provide the information he required, being that it was 3am. He allowed this.

And then Jorge and I snuck into a taxi, went to the bus terminal, and hightailed it to Tarija.

Not technically legal, but the only way to really deal with anything given the situation.

We arrived to Tarija around 6am. Our luggage was safe and sound, as promised; we took a taxi to the center to scope a hostel, which we found easily. My first order of business was to procure all the items on the list, all the way down to the freaking ugly passport photos with a red background. I knew the vaccination was a no-go -- it was Saturday, nobody would be administering shots -- so the plan was to get everything on the list and then go back, begging and pleading to let me through.

A solid plan, I figured. Because Tarija, we soon found out, was not some place we wanted to stay for three full days, awaiting Monday's chance to get a vaccination and go to an Immigrations office. We had a limited timeline, and Tarija was...well...a bit lackluster.

I got all the paperwork in order, we napped, we ate, we changed money to dollars, and then we took a bus BACK to Bermejo (a three hour ride). I was prepared, confident, and ready to get my visa.

We arrive to Bermejo around 10pm that night. I waltzed into the border control office, laid down my passport, fanned out my dollar bills, and provided two neat sets of paperwork.

"I was here early this morning but didnt have these papers ready, so I'm here now to get the stamp because I have all the paperwork now."

A different border control agent eyed me warily and proceded to review the paperwork. I waited in thick silence as he reviewed the material for a few minutes.

"The only thing missing is your letter of invitation," he said, finally.

Bronca level: 4.

"Letter of invitation?" I was truly puzzled.

"Yes, from someone inviting you to come to the country," he explained. I was shocked. Who was going to invite me to Boliva? The thousands of Bolivian best friends I didn't have? One of the millions of Bolivian families I didn't know? The freaking President of Bolivia, perhaps??

"I'm just here for tourism," I said. "We're going to be traveling here one week. I don't know anyone in Bolivia. I don't know how to get a letter of invitation."

He resumed quietly reviewing the material. "And where did you guys come from just now?"

My stomach sank. "From Tarija."

He looked up at me, eyes narrowed. "And why did you leave Bermejo?"

"Because our bus left us here last night and took our things to Tarija. We went there to pick them up, and then came back here to finish the paperwork."

A policeman appeared from nowhere; a hulking man, armed with a bullet-proof vest and plenty of guns. "You went to Tarija?" He sounded incredulous.

I told him why we had done that. He shook his head angrily. "If you didn't receive the stamp this morning, you should never have been allowed to come into Bolivia."

"But we were left here to finish the paperwork..."

"And the fact that you left the territory of Bermejo to go to Tarija is unacceptable," the policeman continued. "That is absolutely not allowed and you cannot return to Bolivia until you have the visa."

"But that's what we're here to do," I said, panic rising within me. Both of these men were incredibly stern and incredibly unhappy with me. I felt trapped. "They told us we could stay here last night to finish the paperwork because when we crossed it was 3am--"

"No. You should never have been allowed to come into Bolivia. They should have sent you back to where you came from."

The border agent was even less helpful. "I can't give you the visa without the letter of invitation."

Stonewalled. "So what do I do?" At this point I was nearing hysterics. I needed a solution, and they weren't willing to give me one.

"You have to leave Bolivia," the policeman said.

Bronca level: Infinity.

Shock rushed through me in a hot and fast wave. I couldn't believe my freaking ears. "But all our things are in Tarija," I explained. "I'd have to go get-"

"Not my problem," the policeman said. "You have to leave. Without the stamp, you have to leave. You cannot reenter Bolivia."

Record screech, scene change, anvil dropping, cold rush of blood. I was being ejected from Bolivia with exactly none of my belongings. Work computer, all my clothing, books, every worldy posession was in Tarija, 3 hours away. How would we inform the hostel? How could I get my stuff? The guard wasn't even willing to let Jorge back through, because he'd left his passport at the hostel (not thinking he'd need to present it, as a legal tourist accompanying me on my trip). So we'd just...leave? Me with my wallet and passport and the jacket on my back?? Jorge with only his wallet?? And then what? Go to Argentina, spend days scouring the countryside for the paperwork to come BACK to Bolivia, to find that the hostel had re-possessed our belongings and everything had disappeared by the time we made it back??

I felt all sorts of things swirling inside me -- panic, fear, doubt, confusion. And another very specific feeling....a nervous poop.

I had to go to the bathroom, and now.

"Is there a bathroom I can use?" I was pacing the room, head in my hands, unable to really focus on what my next step should be other than running to the ladies room.

"They're closed," the agent said. "They're only open during the day."

"Is there anywhere else I can go?" More panic now.

"No." The policeman gestured toward the back of the building. "But you can go back there if you like."

I ran out of the office and behind the building. It occurred to me that crapping in the back yard of the border control office might be a perfect resolution to the visa debacle. You won't let me in, I poop in your yard!!

But no, fate was not to let me shit in their lawn. The few moments of fresh air and separation from the situation calmed me; I felt ready to return to the horror show, and rejoined Jorge and the two angry Bolivian men in the office.

Something happened while I was away. I don't know what. But the border agent was on the telephone with the agent I'd spoken with that morning when we crossed, apparently trying to verify the information we were giving them. We were told to wait outside.

So we did.

We waited horribly, nervously, gut-achingly, sickeningly, silently. Jorge and I had Plan B ready -- I wait at the border control while he took the 3 hour bus back to Tarija, collected our things, and came back to get me. I'd while the night alone there, probably sitting by myself on the cement sidewalk, maybe dying of cold in my calf-length leggings.

Then we'd walk back to Argentina if we had to. And go to Chile, or fly to Peru, or anything to avoid going through Bolivia.

We waited almost an hour there. Finally, the agent called me in to talk.

"Can I see the copies of your papers?" I gave them. "And your passport." I handed it over.

"You'll need to fill out this paperwork here." He handed me a sheet that said APPLICATION FOR VISA FOR U.S. CITIZENS. I almost cried. I ran outside to begin filling it out, still unsure if this meant I'd be turned away or not. I was too scared to ask. I filled it out quickly, handing it over like a proud kindergarten student.

I was ushered toward another border agent, a lady, off to the side. She took my application, looked things over, and then asked for $135. I opened my wallet, trying not to breathe too hard, in case it would cause either of them to review the list of requisite and notice that I didn't have the yellow fever vaccination.

I handed her the money. In my head, I'm urging her along, the whole process along, so that I might get the stamp and run away before anyone figures out that I'm vaccination-less. She examined each bill carefully, holding it up to the light, spending an inordinate amount of time looking at each one.

Finally, she slid a $50 bill to me. She pointed to a tiny number in the upper left hand corner.

"This is Series B2," she said. "I can't accept it. Do you have another $50 bill?"

I stared at her, slack-jawed. I'm traveling South America, I do not maintain American currency, and you want me to produce an EXTRA $50? "No. It's my only one. I have some other money here..." I showed her a handfull of 5's, a 20. "This is all I have."

She explained that the series B2 in Bolivia tends to be counterfeit. The non-acceptance of $50 bills only applies in Bolivia. This is the first time I've ever heard of this. She looked at my other money and exchanged some bills. I still wasn't sure I was in the clear -- maybe my potentially-counterfeit money would be the final blocade to me entering the country. I felt like the Bolivia trip was doomed.

Finally, she made a phone call to someone. They discussed the situation quietly. Then she informed me she could take the rest of the money in bolivian pesos.

I handed it over eagerly. She slipped the money between the pages of a novel she was reading -- quite formal, to be sure -- and then delicately applied a tiny visa sticker into the pages of my passport.

She handed it back to the first official, and I nearly crumbled to the ground with relief when I heard the loud smack of the stamp in my passport.

"That's all," the border agent said, handing me my passport. I watched him a moment, unsure if this was really happening. Beyond the door, I saw the policeman gazing off into the distance, smoking a cigarette. The storm had calmed.

I said thank you, hoping the full force of this word penetrated his expressionless demeanor, and ran outside.

Jorge and I were on our way back to Tarija in record time, breathless with disbelief, residual anger and, above all, immense relief.

Legal, at last.

Bolivian Border Bronca: Part One

WARNING: This post contains graphic content involving border crossing failures. If reading about illegal aliens makes you squeamish, please read no further.

When Jorge and I arrived to Salta, Argentina last week, the very first thing we did was buy our ticket to Bolivia for May 30th at 10:30pm. Bus timetables can be limited (sometimes only one crossing per week for some companies!), so we wanted to be sure to have this important step taken care of since our itinerary is quite full and short on time.

We purchased our ticket successfully. Before we left the office, I asked the ticket guy, "And the reciprocity fee I have to pay?"

"Oh... right...." Realization dawned slowly across his face. "You're American."

For those that aren't aware, several countries in South America have begun what is known as a "reciprocity fee" specifically for citizens of the USA. The visa procedure for visiting the US is notoriously strict and expensive -- so some countries have implemented this fee, AKA "You did this to us so we're doing it to you" fee. I've paid it in Chile, in Argentina, and I knew it was waiting for me in Bolivia.

The employee suggested I pay this fee in advance, since our bus would be crossing into Bolivia around 3:30am. He mentioned the Bolivian consulate was just down the block if we wanted to try to pay there. Fair enough. We left the terminal, went to our hostel, and I began investigating how to take care of this tiny detail.

Try searching "Reciprocity fee Bolivia" in google (or, if you're so inclined, "Tasa de reciprocidad Bolivia").  The results? All about the Argentinian reciprocity fee. Not helpful. Furthermore, no website where I could pay the fee in advance, like what I did when I visited Argentina.

I began searching for personal accounts of how to take care of this fee. No dice.

I looked around my hostel for other Americans. Zero. 

This is where the first hints of bronca crept in. Bronca is an Argentinian word meaning 'anger'. If you're pissed off, you say "Me da una bronca tremenda". And my bronca level was about 2 of 10 at this point.

We decided to go to the consulate. We walked ten blocks to get there, a pleasant late morning stroll through Salta. We showed up, crammed into a tiny hot room full of Bolivians, Jorge and I easily a full head taller than everyone else in the room. We waited for about 40 minutes there until we were attended.

The Consulate employee helping us didn't, at first, understand what we wanted. He had to call a different consulate for information. We were eventually turned away without a solution, since their office lacked a specific stamp necessary for the payment process. He did, however, mention we go to the consulate in Jujuy -- a city over 2 hours away. But he assured me that if we crossed into Bolivia, I could probably handle the paperwork aspect at the crossing there. 

Bronca level: 4.

We left with more questions than answers, and I began to feel deeply concerned that crossing the border might not be so easy.

Two days later, Jorge and I went to Jujuy. Our bus left that same night, so we figured we'd spend the day in Jujuy, take care of the fee, and then come back to Salta to catch our bus to Bolivia. Such a great idea! To be even more prepared, we called the consulate in advance, just to make sure they could help us. We didn't want to love 4 hours of travel only to find out they couldn't receive the payment like the first consulate. They told us to show up with my passport, the payment in dollars, and my yellow fever vaccination.

Wait, what?! Yellow fever vaccination? I had seen mention of this as a requisite for entry to Bolivia, but hadn't thought much of it. A friend of mine had traveled to Bolivia within the past year and she didn't have the vaccination, though it had been a requirement then, too. They said if we went to the hospital we could get the shot and then get the visa. Great, sounds easy.

After almost 2 and a half hours in a bus, we arrived to Jujuy and headed straight for the hospital. Sorry, they said. We stopped giving those shots years ago. Oh really? Because we were told to come here. They suggested the Ministerio de Salud. We walked several more blocks there, to be told that they only gave shots until 2pm each day. I looked at the time. 2:30pm.

WELL, FINE. Around this time, I started to get really angry. If I had known that the yellow fever vaccination was an actual necessity, I would have gotten it during the ample amount of free time I'd had in Salta. Now it was down to the wire and my bus left in 5 hours and I had no vaccination and no way to get it.

We walked about 13 blocks to get to the Consulate, and as we rounded the corner, we noticed a surprisingly dense crowd of Bolivians waiting at the front door. Oh crap. Turns out it was election time in Bolivia, and all these people wanted to vote. The employee sent me to the end of the line, about 30 people deep. Funny, considering we had only 2 hours before our bus returned to Salta, and then onward to Bolivia.

We managed to explain my unique situation -- we're traveling to Bolivia today, the other consulate told us to come here, I want to pay you, please help me -- and they told us to wait until the appropriate person showed up. Apparently, she was negotiating a hunger strike in a different part of the city and was detained.

In her absence, we communicated with another employee about the payment. "Can I pay in pesos?" I asked. "Or should I go change the money?"

"Pesos is fine," she reassured me. Score! We walked about 6 blocks to find an ATM so I could take out the remainder of the necessary money. In Argentina, finding dollars is hard -- exchanging for dollars is even harder, because the rate is so crappy when you want to buy them.

Upon our return to the consulate, the appropriate employee had returned and was ready to help us. We walked up to her desk, all smiles. I showed her my passport and explained what I wanted to do.

"And your passport photos?" she asked.

"Excuse me?"

"Your passport photos." She showed me a form, titled APPLICATION FOR VISA FOR U.S. CITIZENS, where it called for a passport photo at the top. "When you called earlier you were told to bring these."

"Nobody told me that," I said. Because nobody had told us that.

She sighed. "Well, your proof of economic solvency?"

Again, record screeching. "I'm sorry?"

"Your proof of economic solvency. Do you have copies of that, along with your passport, and your hotel reservations?"

I couldn't stop my jaw from hanging to the ground. "I'm sorry, I was just told to show up and pay the fee, I had no idea I would need--"

"It's 135 dollars."

"I have that! Here." I showed here the pesos.

"It can only be in dollars."

Again, jaw to the ground. Bronca level: 9. "But, the other lady just told me a half hour ago that...."

"Sorry." She shrugged. "They're the prerequisites. You can go take dollars out and make the copies of all this information and come back and then we can process it."

"I can't, though. Our bus leaves in an hour. We won't have time."

Another shrug. Jorge and I looked at each other in disbelief. I fought the urge to crumple the form in my fist and throw it in her face. 

"And how was I supposed to know all of this beforehand? We were told at the other consulate to just try crossing. Furthermore, why isn't this information publicly available? If all of this information is needed to get into Bolivia, it should be dispersed." 

And truly, by this point, the "reciprocity fee" situation had fully snowballed into a "get your visa before you go" situation, and at no point in my research had I seen any inkling that showing up at the border wasn't an acceptable way to travel. 

I was really angry -- it felt like secret information. Most every country has "technical rules and regulations" but most aren't regularly enforced. For example, it's a technical rule to prove economic solvency for any visa to any country, but never in my travels have I ever been asked for it. The only time in almost 10 years of travel was when I applied for a student visa in Mexico and they wanted to know how I'd support myself while studying abroad. (AHEM, parents!)

What added to the bronca was the fact that this bullcrap only applies to citizens of my country, and I had exactly one friend who had recently traveled to Bolivia, and she didn't have to do ANY of this rigamarole.

We left Jujuy feeling discouraged and confused. We talked over our options -- cancel the bus ticket? Go back to Chile? Fly to Lima direct? -- and once we had discussed our situation with the bus company employee, he came up with a specialized solution.

"Here's what we can do," he explained to us around 9:30PM that night, only an hour before our bus was set to depart. "You guys get on the bus and travel to Bolivia. You'll hit the Bolivian border at around 3 AM. Depending on what official is there, he might not make any trouble and you'll go through fine. But if, god help you, you don't get through, you can hitch a taxi to Tarija (the city the bus was traveling to), and then do your migration paperwork there in the city on Monday. Plus you can go to our office in Tarija and ask for a refund for the part of the trip you didn't make with the bus."

Excellent.

We boarded the bus that night at 10:30 PM. I was 99% certain that everything would work out fine. After all, tons of Americans travel to Bolivia, and with how hard this information is to find out in advance, I felt it was certain that a lot of Americans were showing up to the border without all the paperwork and vaccinations. I'd be fine.

Totally fine.

My Monday in Cordoba

Jorge and I are visiting Cordoba, Argentina for a few days! Here's a little run-through of part of our Regular Sunny Fall Monday in Cordoba:

I saw this weird guy lurking in the plaza San Martin.

I thought I'd go to the Cathedral to try to lose him; turned out 

he followed me inside and all throughout the gilded halls.

The weird guy even posed in pictures with me in front of the 

central fountain in the plaza.

We decided we'd go to the Jesuit Crypt and wander the humid passageways.

There was an information tour guide there who told us about all the 

hypothetical uses of the crypt, since no one actually knows.

Here the man, who told me is named "Jorge", darts away.

I tend to look forward to crypt visits for a chance to look at mummies,

bones, human remains, or anything else macabre or long-dead.

In this crypt, there was none of that. Only humid stone and arched brick areas.

So after the Crypt we opted for a quick saxophone lesson. 

Here Jorge learns about finger placements and not to

over-clench the jaw.

Stop One in Mendoza...and Chilean Cuisine Comments

This is my third visit to Mendoza and the third time I haven't gone to a bodega.

This is unacceptable for a variety of reasons. First of all, Mendoza isn't just wine country, it's MALBEC WINE COUNTRY. For anyone with a set of tastebuds and eyeballs, you'll know that Malbec is lovely and that I prefer drinking this over almost anything else in the world. Furthermore, I've had three chances to get my ass to a vineyard and spend my day lazily tasting wines and gazing out over the grapes. Have I done this? No. Why not? I have no idea. Maybe next time.

This visit to Mendoza has been very pleasing and lovely for other reasons. We're going to be here about a week in total and in this week I have tried more typical Argentine dishes than Chilean dishes in my whole year and a half in Chile.

Seriously.

Some of you may already know my thoughts on Chilean cuisine (see tag: Hey Chile, you could use a little more salt), but this isn't just a personal palatte issue, or even a personal vendetta. It's a fact: Chilean Cuisine is notably sparse.

Typical Chilean dishes are as follows: Completos (Hot dogs piled with avocado, mayonnaise, and tomato in what resembles a veritable condiment boat), Curanto (a big stew of meat, chicken, and seafood), Chorillana (French Fries, fried egg, hot dog, and caramelized onions, all mixed together. Great hangover food. Also great heart attack food), Empanadas (think of an overgrown hot pocket from scratch, with a variety of vegetable/meat/seafood and cheese fillings).

This is Chorillana. No joke, it's the bomb.

Also: seafood in general, because of the access to the sea.

That constitutes la cocina chilena.  And it took me the full year and a half and plenty of interrogation to get the real scoop on Chilean cuisine. It's just…not their strong suit.

But here in Argentina?

I get to Argentina and take a bite of bread and there is a shuddering wave of contentment.  I think to myself, "Yes. This is what BREAD tastes like!" And the butter is tastier. And the asados….don't get me started.

In this one week in Mendoza I've had two traditionally Argentinian homemade dishes.

The first one was pastel de papa (potato pie). Our friends Sergio and Sandra made this dish with Sandra's 1^st-generation Italian immigrant grandmother, and watching the process alone convinced me that this was already my favorite dish without even having tried it.

Pastel de papa...POTATO PIE.

This is my personal portion, right?!

Thin layer of flimsy dough. Slather on a nice layer of mashed potatoes, add a layer of "picadillo", which is essentially ground beef and onions and picante and tomato mixed together. Then a layer of cheese; another layer of mashed potatoes; and then final layer of thin flimsy dough. The dough is pinched shut at the perimeter, coated with a whisked egg glaze, and then it bakes for 30 minutes.

And then you put it in your mouth and the heavens open and angels shriek and things rain from the sky.

The next dish I had the extreme pleasure of trying for the first time this visit was locro de choclo. Hell if I know what this means in English, except that choclo means corn, and this was certainly a corn-based dish.

I was able to witness some of the cooking process and it seemed that corn boiled for three hours and then suddenly onions were cooking and it was ready. I think I missed part of this process.

Whatever you are, I want more of you.

At any rate, what ends up in front of your face at the lunch table is a steaming bowl of (let's say) corn soup, with a nice variety of condiments, a dollop of homemade tomato sauce with caramelized onions, and a couple variety of squash or potatoes mixed in. Two or three cubes of a creamy cheese are added, you wait until it no longer scorches the top layer of skin from inside your mouth, and then you shovel that down your throat.

Sopped up at the end, of course, with homemade Argentinian bread.

*kicks leg in the air* YES!

The first time I came to Argentina, I was able to have a few first-timers then: if we'll recall Jorge's family greeting us with lamb, and then the crowd favorite milanesa, breaded meat fried to perfection. To be fair, milanesa exists in all countries to some degree (except in Chile). In Mexico, my mama used to make this for me almost on the daily, with a nice side of mashed potatoes. In the USA, it's consumed under the name country fried steak, also with mashed potatoes.

I don't know what it is about Chilean food. There are, of course, extremely tasty options available, but mostly in fine ass restaurants with a strong outside influence (as in, the owner studied cooking in France). Desserts in Chile were always pretty disappointing, as well. I don't know what the problem is. Lack of sweet? Lack of salt? Or lack of full-bodied flavor in general in the ingredients?

We can probably boil the debate down to this: when I first got to Chile, it took me approximately one year to come to terms with the fact that the butter sucked.

I'm talking like, the regular supermarket nice brand. Not the cheap crappy supermarket brand.

After a year there, I found the artesenal butter, made in the countryside of Patagonia, and yeah, that butter was great, and distinct.

But there is something lacking in the majority of Chilean food. It has to go back to what the animals are eating, and any Argentinian will regale you for hours about the superior feeding process of their cows and pigs that allow that award-winning reputation to flourish. Chile doesn't have bad meat by any means, but there is something under the surface that is missing, and I can't put my finger on it.

Here is an Argentinian carrying a pile of 

Argentinian meat. The debate rages over which

country does it better.

If it doesn't come from Patagonia/the general south, if it hasn't had exposure to outside influences, or if you don't make it yourself…it's probably going to be bland.

I'm sorry, Chile. I love you, we've had great times.

But you could use a little more damn salt. 

A Sad Farewell to Valparaiso (or, The Last Border Run)

On April 1st, 2013, I wrote a post called "Introducing Valparaiso" where I talked about my first impressions of Valpo and why I was so excited to be living there.

On May 2nd, 2014, my partner Jorge and I will officially leave this city, and the entire country of Chile, for a very, very long time.

Leaving Valparaiso is a mixed bag. On the one hand, it's Valparaiso. There's actually no better city in Chile for someone like me, and while I've lived here I've finished two novels, published two short non-fiction stories, maintained and/or started three blogs, and written a heck of a lot in my personal journal.

How's that for an inspiring place to live? No wonder so many artists flock here!

Furthermore, I met my love Jorge here. Under the unblinking gaze of the cerros, our relationship sputtered to life and flourished.

March 2013

March 2014

Now, over a year after meeting each other in the dim lighting of a Mexican restaurant called Taco Tony's, Jorge and I are leaving it all behind to begin anew.

We're leaving Tony's magical tacos behind, as well as the salty air, the humid winters, the perpetual roil of dogs barking in the distance, the grit of urine and trash in street corners, the breathtaking street art, the winding hills too vertical to be safe for cars, surely; the colorful dots of homes that sprawl on hillsides for eons, the Pacific Ocean, the fresh fish gutted and displayed at market, the green trolley's, the lumbering buses to Vina del Mar, the constant asados, and perhaps most importantly....our home and our friends.

One of many lunches at Pasaje Chileno

The king of the house -- and the grill!

Jorge and I not only began our relationship here, we began our home here. We found this vagabond house empty and quiet in August and 2013, and since then we have filled it with laughter, music, gatherings, art and more. We've had countless asados here, as well as art nights, wine clubs, dinner parties, Thanksgiving, Christmas, birthdays, farewell parties, welcome parties, housewarming parties and more. We've outfitted it to be our recycled, built-from-scratch haven: with found pieces from the street, upcycled washing machines turned asado grill and light fixture, a complete urban garden bearing vegetables and heavenly basil.

This bad boy bore 7 tomatoes! Best part is, I never

even planted tomato -- came from compost, baby!

Here long enough to grow a spice cabinet, too!

Maybe you're asking, Okay, so why the hell are you leaving?

That's the other side of this extremely heavy and attractive coin. In moving on from Valpo, we are paving the way to new Valpos.

Not that we strive to recreate our exact experience, or only move to cities that resemble Valpo (if that were the case, our next and only stop would be San Francisco!). But rather, we plan to continue drifting together and settling for a time in new places. Cities where we feel a connection, can start a little home, make some friends and family, and then move on to see more of the world.

Luckily, both of us have work that can be easily taken with us. As a hair stylist, Jorge is in demand wherever we go. I can't count how many people throw themselves at him once they find out he can cut or color their hair.

And me, well, the writing and non-profit gig pack up quite nicely into whatever backpack I'm using at the moment.

We are both extremely sad to leave Valparaiso, but extremely excited for the unknown adventures that await us!

During the month of May, we will be traveling through Argentina to see Jorge's family. In June, we'll hit Bolivia, and make our way up through Peru to catch a flight from Lima to the USA in mid-June. And once we take a month in the States, meeting my side of the family, then it's back to Peru to continue to passive vagabonding...

And the first city on deck is Cusco.

Goodbye, Chile! We love you, Valparaiso!

Salud to so many amazing friendships, memories, good times, 

and learning experiences in this beautiful city. 

You will forever be in our hearts.

Weather Whining and Other Truffles, Part Two: The Cold

I frequently find evidence that I create my own reality without realizing it, and then become very confused when my expectations of this false reality don't match the actual scientific facts of common reality.

The most recent example of this is when I heard the term "South America" a couple of years ago. An equation became apparent to me.

f(x) = South of the Equator + south * More South Than Ohio (near Brazil) / America of the South = WARM.

RIGHT?!

Wrong. I got to Puerto Varas in late October of 2012, ("Oh, THIS MUST BE LIKE THEIR SPRING") and found myself shivering in my winter jacket throughout all of their spring and eventual (and very shortlived) summer.

Damnit.

And then came the move to Valparaiso, in March of 2013. "HEY," I said to anyone who cared, "I'M GONNA BE SO MUCH HAPPIER UP THERE BECAUSE I WON'T HAVE TO WEAR A WINTER JACKET IN HIGH SUMMER AND CAN PROBABLY WEAR SHORTS AND HAVE AN OHIO SUMMER SORT OF."

Wrong.

Valparaiso is 'perpetually cool'. There are no extremes -- though I'd be willing to go out on a limb and say that the carnivorous fog is extreme, and the cold humid rains are extreme because like, shouldn't there be snow, and there's not.

At the risk of sounding like a whiny weather baby (which I am), I have to confess, I am extremely ready for some freaking warmth. I'm talking, palm trees, white sands, shorts weather, warm breezes, people frolicking in the sun and rolling around in the grass.

You know, all the things I thought I'd find when I moved down here.

This oversight (or undersight?) is completely my fault. Prior to moving to Puerto Varas, which is technically, like, you know, PATAGONIA, I compared its latitude to Ohio's on a map, did a quick and incorrect weather analysis, and actually concluded, 'Hey, this will be really similar to Ohio summers.'

Ohio is in the northern equivalent of Chile's latitude box thing...

So...based on prime meridians and cartography, we can conclude

Chile and Ohio have the same climate.

Where the HELL did I get that idea? It's Patagonia, it's not the Great Lakes. There is a different set of climactic elements operating here, which create entirely different earth phenomenons. Like the Andes mountain range, restless tectonic plates, and the Pacific Ocean, to name a few.

Again, totally a victim of my own belief-creation.

And prior to the move to Valparaiso, I assumed, 'Hey, it's more north than Puerto Varas, which we know is cold now, so Valparaiso will be a lot like Ohio summers finally.'

Totally and unforgivably wrong.

Like a trip to the therapist, it's becoming very clear to me as I write this post what the main theme is. I'm pretty sure I just want to live in perpetual Ohio Summer. As does everyone else from Ohio, except those weirdos who like 10 months of cold and end up moving to Wisconsin, or Patagonia.

Chile is not the place for my warmth mission. While I have come to deeply appreciate the climates, topographies, and natural wonders of this country, I am extremely ready for a bit of weather that more closely approximates that which I was seeking in the first place.

On the plus side, come June time I'll be back in Ohio, where I fully expect to find a little bit of Ohio Summer.

This blog may or may not completely turn into my quest to approximate Ohio summers in any place that is not Ohio. Stay tuned.

Fire Clean-up in Valparaiso

You know what I've been sucking at doing lately? UPDATING THIS BLOG.

I apologize folks, especially to those of you who were waiting with bated breath to see via my blog that I had survived the recent fire in Valparaiso.

OK, that was nobody at all, but in case there was any doubt, I'M ALIVE. But here's the scoop: the fire broke out on April 12th due to a wild fire in the brushy areas at the top part of a hill. Around that date, we had been experiencing some extremely fierce winds for just a couple days or so. This fire, with that wind, quickly spread and began to engulf houses.

The houses up in those parts, however, are some of the poorest. Lacking access to water, there was no way for firefighters to connect to fight the flames, but that was only when the trucks could get up there.

Strong winds. Densely packed houses made of wood. A terribly hungry fire.

I snapped this photo of the fire on Saturday night.

Haunting, eerie glow from the flames. We counted 8 focal points.

It raged until Monday, recruiting not only every fire fighter in the city of Valparaiso (who, I should add, are all volunteer firefighters), but also helicopters and airplanes dumping water from above from both Chile and Argentina.

All told, over 12,500 people have been affected by this fire which, according to anyone you ask here, is by far the worst fire to ever hit Valparaiso.

And while it affected several of the 42 hills here, the effects have been felt by everyone. The entire night of Saturday and the whole day of Sunday saw a steady stream of ash raining onto houses throughout the city, including our patio. Any visit to the city center on those days felt similar to a post-apocalyptic movie scene. On Sunday, we saw the inky cloud of the fire drifting toward sea against the brilliantly clear blue sky.

Looking at the fire from Avenida Argentina

It has been a very painful and heartbreaking event to witness. Even though I am a foreigner, even though my house and hill were not affected, I consider Valparaiso my home. Watching the scene on Sunday brought tears to my eyes multiple times as I saw families fleeing the hills, all their belongings in duffel bags, as they sought refuge and the inevitable wait to find out just how much of everything they would lose.

Some people didn't have time to pack. And others didn't even have time to get out. This fire claimed the lives of 15 people. 

Through the time since the fire, Jorge and I have been donating money, time, and possessions. We donated every extra bit of everything in this vagabond house last Sunday. Every time we go to a particular part of the center, we donate cleaning supplies to one of the many shelters set up for the people who lost their homes. And last Friday we went up into the hills with a friend to shovel out rubble from properties.

We went higher up into the hills than I've ever been before.

I've never seen Valpo from these angles.

Assessing the damage.

Helping to dig out the burnt remains of a man's house.

We didn't know him, we just found them and offered to help.

I'm no delicate flower but I'm also not a burly woodsman. The shoveling was back breaking work. We were at it for three hours and my body hurt for days, not to mention the two shiny blisters I got from the shoveling. We made real progress there at the man's house, starting with a deep, drifting pile of ash, dust, dirt, and broken remains of his belongings. By the time we left, we had hit the earthen floor of what used to be his kitchen. The ash entered our eyes and mouths despite the face masks and sunglasses. There was no way to escape it.

Participating in the volunteer efforts and being around to see the ways in which Valparaiso has responded to this crisis has been uplifting and wholly inspiring. The city has come together in the truest sense of the word. People sprang into action from day one, and thank god, because there are so many victims of this fire.

And not just people victims either.

Here's an area for wounded strays -- they were adopting them out once

they'd been cleaned and treated.

Jorge and I after shoveling rubble last Friday. We found soot in our

nostrils and ears for at least the next two days.

Just seeing the solidarity of the portenos each and every time I leave my house is such an insanely beautiful sight. When we went on Friday, there was no lack of support among volunteers. It didn't matter where we were from, who we were with: we were there to help. Formalities weren't exchanged, only directions toward where to help and gentle questions of whether we needed water or food. Water was passed around freely as we worked, mandarin oranges and then actual packed lunches handed out by some lady, who knows where she came from or who she was with, just one of the many angels of the relief efforts.

By last Friday, reconstruction had already begun for some people. This is an effort that will continue for quite a long time. Thankfully, there are so many people to help, and so many individuals and companies alike that are giving time, money and efforts to help those affected by the catastrophe. 

Valpo won't only be fine, it will be stronger and better.

FUERZA VALPO!