If you have not yet read the post mentioned in the title, go back and read that. Right now. Then you can come back and read this one!
So just today, three years after this cruise down the Yangtze, sans fun or any shred of "cruisey" atmosphere, I discover something. Right now I work part-time at a hostel and therefore get to meet new people on a pretty regular basis. This morning I met a guy who studied for four months in China. I spent about a month there, but that was long enough to venture to many of the same places as him. As soon as I told him I went on a Yangtze river boat ride, he questioned whether it was the Chinese cruise or the western cruise. I replied "Excuse me? There were other options?" He then informed me that yes, the other option is the cruise which caters to foreigners, and is a "party cruise where all the white people go." Apparently, it's the same thing as the Chinese version only you are with other Western foreigners and most people speak English. It's just like a regular cruise you might take to sunny Barbados, minus the muddy Yangtze, prehistoric boat, and the Chinese language.
WHAT??
These last three years I have been thinking that we just got duped into thinking this "cruise" was something other than what it really was. Come to find out after all,there really was a real cruise option where they didn't leave you locked on the boat with snoring wildebeest roommates and in which you understood where you were going, when, and why you were going there. In other words, the complete antithesis of our Yangtze experience.
I keep telling myself it's all about the adventure and it really IS, but couldn't I have enjoyed just one fruity beverage or an itinerary spoken and/or written in my mother tongue?
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
A Brand Spankin' New Passport
I had to get a new passport this summer. Contrary to the theme of this blog, I did not find any humor or enjoyment in this process at all. Getting the new passport meant two things to me:
1) Without stamps and "weatheredness" (yes, I just made that word up) my trips to lands afar would be reduced to ashes. Ok, not really ashes. Perhaps I am being just a wee bit dramatic here, but you get my point.
2) I am almost 30. ! This was, and still is, actually more traumatic than having to surrender Old Blue Faithful. Three decades of life is what I have been dreading since the day I turned 21 when I sat in a heap on my couch and sobbed at the stroke of midnight because 21 meant there were only nine good years left. (I am not being dramatic here, although I wish I was. This actually happened). And now, with one little expiration date on one little blue book that I use once a year or so, I could no longer skirt the issue. I must face my resistance to a new book AND a new (old) age.
It is not that I thought the renewal process would be particularly difficult. It is just that I was loathe to surrender the passport that I have had since 1999, at the ripe age of 19. At that time, the ten year expiration date seemed a distant event. 2009? That wasn't until the next century! However, July 19 of this year crept up on me like a thief trying to steal said passport and I strategically began plotting how I could retain my old one. If I had just researched the topic more thoroughly, I would have known that my old one would be sent back to me. Instead, I was plotting ways that I could report it stolen, lost, or just "forget" to turn in the old one. That little book had hiked with me through the Andes, languished in the possession of an Indian immigration officer, and scaled the Great Wall of China. I don't have children, but I felt as if I was getting rid of one of them. How would you like to exchange one of your children for a new one? You wouldn't if you are at all a nice person.
My new one came by mail shortly after I applied for it and the old one followed suit thereafter. My only consolation is that I look almost the same at 29 as I did at 19. And that is something to be happy about!
1) Without stamps and "weatheredness" (yes, I just made that word up) my trips to lands afar would be reduced to ashes. Ok, not really ashes. Perhaps I am being just a wee bit dramatic here, but you get my point.
2) I am almost 30. ! This was, and still is, actually more traumatic than having to surrender Old Blue Faithful. Three decades of life is what I have been dreading since the day I turned 21 when I sat in a heap on my couch and sobbed at the stroke of midnight because 21 meant there were only nine good years left. (I am not being dramatic here, although I wish I was. This actually happened). And now, with one little expiration date on one little blue book that I use once a year or so, I could no longer skirt the issue. I must face my resistance to a new book AND a new (old) age.
It is not that I thought the renewal process would be particularly difficult. It is just that I was loathe to surrender the passport that I have had since 1999, at the ripe age of 19. At that time, the ten year expiration date seemed a distant event. 2009? That wasn't until the next century! However, July 19 of this year crept up on me like a thief trying to steal said passport and I strategically began plotting how I could retain my old one. If I had just researched the topic more thoroughly, I would have known that my old one would be sent back to me. Instead, I was plotting ways that I could report it stolen, lost, or just "forget" to turn in the old one. That little book had hiked with me through the Andes, languished in the possession of an Indian immigration officer, and scaled the Great Wall of China. I don't have children, but I felt as if I was getting rid of one of them. How would you like to exchange one of your children for a new one? You wouldn't if you are at all a nice person.
My new one came by mail shortly after I applied for it and the old one followed suit thereafter. My only consolation is that I look almost the same at 29 as I did at 19. And that is something to be happy about!
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Hiking the Andes Mountains in "I Have a Death Wish" Footwear
So, if you know anything about the Andes Mountains, you know that they are the longest mountain range in the world, spanning seven South American countries. More significantly for this post, this range also contains a few of the highest peaks in the world. My trip to South America was not complete without resplendent views of these stunning masterpieces of creation. I could use adjectives such as "stunning," "mesmerizing," or "awesome," but they would remain inadequate unless and until you find yourself in the tiny village of Vilcabamba, surrounded on all sides by them. Truly a sight to behold. However, merely beholding them was just not good enough for us despite the fact that none of are mountain climbers, or even really interested in a mere hike. Yet, when the opportunity presented itself one day to traipse through said mountain range, we jumped on it. In flip-flops.
We were out innocently visiting the equator (in and of itself another adventure) when we stumbled upon the possibility of taking a side trip to a volcanic crater. The only issue was that to view such a crater, we had to climb about 4000 meters into the moutain. Now, this may not seem like much, but we had major footwear concerns. However, when we voiced these concerns to our guide, he assured us "no problema." Unconvinced, but foolhardy, we started out. It started out fine enough- nice grassy patches, beetles, and giant piles of dung to lull us into the false impression that this was just like strolling through pastoral farmland. A bit later, all of these nice things were replaced with loose gravel, sheer drop-offs, and windy conditions. In my humble opinion, these are all potential "problemas." Perhaps our guide was a mountain goat in his previous life, because he did not seem the least bit concerned for our safety. He simply forged on ahead and it remained on us to keep up with him and the group. Furthermore, the little clump of weeds that we eventually found ourselves clutching for dear life, did nothing for our sense of safety. It only reinforced the reality that flip-flops in the Andes are not what the guide book recommends. While this little episode could probably make the cut for TLC's "What NOT to Wear," the view (albeit a foggy one) was well worth the risk of death or disfigurement. This is not to say that my heart was not pounding and that I was not practically hugging that rock with the weed clump, but the Andes Mountains are a spectacle not to be missed, regardless of your footwear.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Family Vacation
Do not let the title fool you. This "vacation" was anything but fun, relaxing, or anything resembling a vacation for that matter. I chose to title it simply, in order to allow the phrase to seep into the reader's mind, provoking any images, emotions, angst, horror or happiness, with which these two little words are oft accompanied. Let me begin.
It is June of 2002. I have just graduated college. My parents want to relive their young married days and take another cross country trip, similar to the one they took shortly after they became a family. I had the option to go or not, but I felt that as a big college graduate I should grace them with my presence one last time on vacation. After all, who really knew what the future would hold?
The plan was to start in Ohio at the home of my grandparents and venture out from there into Michigan, through its Upper Peninsula, up into Canada through Manitoba, and back into the States by way of the Dakotas. An industrious itinerary for a two week timespan.
All starts out well and good, if not a bit boring. However, I had never seen this part of the country before, and I always enjoy getting to see new things. The cute little family of black bears on the side of the road was probably the highlight of this portion of the trip. It all went downhill from there. Somewhere in the Upper Peninsula, I began to feel ill, with what I hoped was not strep throat. However, living in the dorms guaranteed not only that I contracted it every year, but that I was fairly well-versed in its symptoms. After a full day of a suspiciously sore throat and aching body, I knew the game was up. I informed the family that I had strep throat, to which my dad replied with "Nonsense, it's just a cold!" His remedy? Over the counter Tylenol and sleep. Anybody who has ever had strep knows this only prolongs the feeling of imminent death. For the next few days, while the family ventured out into the great wilds of Michigan and then Canada, I stayed in whatever frumpy motel room we had landed in and attempted to nurse myself back to health without the aid of an antibiotic. After two days of this, I became quite irritable which was only magnified by dad's lack of compassion for my condition. No amount of reasoning would convince him that I needed a doctor. This went on for days. So did my grouchiness. Grouchiness and illness do not a happy traveler make. Did I mention that our vacation consisted of driving all day to get to the location of choice and then stopping in some podunk motel at night to sleep? No fun, no sightseeing, no happiness. Finally, hours outside of Winnipeg, headed southbound, I could stand it no more. Dear Dad got out to gas up, and I took the opportunity to win Mom over on my side. I informed her that at this point, I either needed to be taken to a hospital or an airport. My misery could not continue. Surprisingly, she took me seriously, and announced the ultimatum to Dad when he rejoined us in the car. He grudgingly (and this is a kind description of his acquiesence) agreed to stop at the first doctor we found.
As we were in the rural wilds of Saskatchawan, Canada at the time, this anticipated visit to a medical facility did not occur until a bit later when we finally crossed back into the great US of A. First town we came to? "Murder free for as long as anyone can remember" Crosby, North Dakota. I am not kidding. There may have been absolutely nothing going on in this bucolic village, but we were certainly safe from any thugs trying to murder us. Check out Crosby here, to begin planning your next vacation.
http://www.crosbynd.com/
Anyway, I do not wish to seem ungrateful, because Crosby is where the healing began. We drove around and easily found a hospital. (There are probably only five people that live there, so it wasn't difficult). At least the sign says it is a hospital. However, when we enter the emergency room, the stillness belied its name. There was certainly no emergency except my own dramaticized crisis happening there that day. Quite frankly, I am not sure whether there was ever any event that caused a flurry of activity in this hospital. We walked in and the lights were off! Our shouts of "Hello? Hello?" finally elicited a response on the other side of the building when we stumbled upon the nurse station. We explained my problem and they informed us that we would need to wait a little bit for the doctor to arrive. He had only been in the US about a week, fresh from Pakistan, and today was not one of his days to work.
Insert pause here for slight consternation.
Only a pause though, because I didn't care; I was not leaving there without drugs. I would have waited if he was still on the plane from Pakistan because that is how miserable I felt. He arrived just a bit later, and he was quite nice and cheery and set me right up with an antibiotic. I felt this should have proved to my dad that I did indeed have strep, but to this day, he insists that it was just a cold, and that I was overly dramatic. Seven years later, I have conceded (not to him though!) that I may have been a tad bit overzealous in my demands, but I will never believe that the strep test lied.
Post-doctor visit, my condition vastly improved, but my attitude did not. Within two days or so, I was able to regale the family with my snarky comments and demands once again. I was quite miffed over being left in motel rooms, lying in a pool of sweat, yearning for antibiotics. I took each and every opportunity, then and now, to remind him of his cold heart. The rest of the trip can be characterized by the following highlights:
1) Indian reservation in South Dakota where my father manages to offend a young Native American. We will just leave it at that.
2) Mt. Rushmore, one of the few things on my itinerary that dear Dad relented to stop and see. We pull up to the entrance, Dad learns of the $7 fee, and asks "Do you really want to go in? Can't you just see it from here?"
3) Another desired stop by me, Chicago. Dad again relents and we drive through rush hour traffic in one of the seedier parts of the city. We are spit out on LakeShore drive, the only redeeming factor of this "visit" to Chicago. This rush hour ramble was the extent of my entire experience there. However, he insists that I got to see Chicago. I have since been back to this magnificent city several times and thankfully, have formed a much better opinion of it than I did that day.
4) Shall I go on? I will take this opportunity to say that I love my dad dearly and the constant struggle between us at that time is representative of a less-than-calm period of my life. Plus, we are two peas in a pod. Snarky ones at that :)
It is June of 2002. I have just graduated college. My parents want to relive their young married days and take another cross country trip, similar to the one they took shortly after they became a family. I had the option to go or not, but I felt that as a big college graduate I should grace them with my presence one last time on vacation. After all, who really knew what the future would hold?
The plan was to start in Ohio at the home of my grandparents and venture out from there into Michigan, through its Upper Peninsula, up into Canada through Manitoba, and back into the States by way of the Dakotas. An industrious itinerary for a two week timespan.
All starts out well and good, if not a bit boring. However, I had never seen this part of the country before, and I always enjoy getting to see new things. The cute little family of black bears on the side of the road was probably the highlight of this portion of the trip. It all went downhill from there. Somewhere in the Upper Peninsula, I began to feel ill, with what I hoped was not strep throat. However, living in the dorms guaranteed not only that I contracted it every year, but that I was fairly well-versed in its symptoms. After a full day of a suspiciously sore throat and aching body, I knew the game was up. I informed the family that I had strep throat, to which my dad replied with "Nonsense, it's just a cold!" His remedy? Over the counter Tylenol and sleep. Anybody who has ever had strep knows this only prolongs the feeling of imminent death. For the next few days, while the family ventured out into the great wilds of Michigan and then Canada, I stayed in whatever frumpy motel room we had landed in and attempted to nurse myself back to health without the aid of an antibiotic. After two days of this, I became quite irritable which was only magnified by dad's lack of compassion for my condition. No amount of reasoning would convince him that I needed a doctor. This went on for days. So did my grouchiness. Grouchiness and illness do not a happy traveler make. Did I mention that our vacation consisted of driving all day to get to the location of choice and then stopping in some podunk motel at night to sleep? No fun, no sightseeing, no happiness. Finally, hours outside of Winnipeg, headed southbound, I could stand it no more. Dear Dad got out to gas up, and I took the opportunity to win Mom over on my side. I informed her that at this point, I either needed to be taken to a hospital or an airport. My misery could not continue. Surprisingly, she took me seriously, and announced the ultimatum to Dad when he rejoined us in the car. He grudgingly (and this is a kind description of his acquiesence) agreed to stop at the first doctor we found.
As we were in the rural wilds of Saskatchawan, Canada at the time, this anticipated visit to a medical facility did not occur until a bit later when we finally crossed back into the great US of A. First town we came to? "Murder free for as long as anyone can remember" Crosby, North Dakota. I am not kidding. There may have been absolutely nothing going on in this bucolic village, but we were certainly safe from any thugs trying to murder us. Check out Crosby here, to begin planning your next vacation.
http://www.crosbynd.com/
Anyway, I do not wish to seem ungrateful, because Crosby is where the healing began. We drove around and easily found a hospital. (There are probably only five people that live there, so it wasn't difficult). At least the sign says it is a hospital. However, when we enter the emergency room, the stillness belied its name. There was certainly no emergency except my own dramaticized crisis happening there that day. Quite frankly, I am not sure whether there was ever any event that caused a flurry of activity in this hospital. We walked in and the lights were off! Our shouts of "Hello? Hello?" finally elicited a response on the other side of the building when we stumbled upon the nurse station. We explained my problem and they informed us that we would need to wait a little bit for the doctor to arrive. He had only been in the US about a week, fresh from Pakistan, and today was not one of his days to work.
Insert pause here for slight consternation.
Only a pause though, because I didn't care; I was not leaving there without drugs. I would have waited if he was still on the plane from Pakistan because that is how miserable I felt. He arrived just a bit later, and he was quite nice and cheery and set me right up with an antibiotic. I felt this should have proved to my dad that I did indeed have strep, but to this day, he insists that it was just a cold, and that I was overly dramatic. Seven years later, I have conceded (not to him though!) that I may have been a tad bit overzealous in my demands, but I will never believe that the strep test lied.
Post-doctor visit, my condition vastly improved, but my attitude did not. Within two days or so, I was able to regale the family with my snarky comments and demands once again. I was quite miffed over being left in motel rooms, lying in a pool of sweat, yearning for antibiotics. I took each and every opportunity, then and now, to remind him of his cold heart. The rest of the trip can be characterized by the following highlights:
1) Indian reservation in South Dakota where my father manages to offend a young Native American. We will just leave it at that.
2) Mt. Rushmore, one of the few things on my itinerary that dear Dad relented to stop and see. We pull up to the entrance, Dad learns of the $7 fee, and asks "Do you really want to go in? Can't you just see it from here?"
3) Another desired stop by me, Chicago. Dad again relents and we drive through rush hour traffic in one of the seedier parts of the city. We are spit out on LakeShore drive, the only redeeming factor of this "visit" to Chicago. This rush hour ramble was the extent of my entire experience there. However, he insists that I got to see Chicago. I have since been back to this magnificent city several times and thankfully, have formed a much better opinion of it than I did that day.
4) Shall I go on? I will take this opportunity to say that I love my dad dearly and the constant struggle between us at that time is representative of a less-than-calm period of my life. Plus, we are two peas in a pod. Snarky ones at that :)
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Border Woes and ODB, Part 2
If we had been in a correct frame of mind, we would have realized the "Welcome to Tumbes" sign was not for the town where we needed to go, but rather for the state or province of Tumbes. ODB correctly calculated our ignorance and announced that we had arrived, and "que lastima, look how unfortunate it is that the bus station is closed!" At this point, I knew we had to get out of the taxi immediately. Post-haste, without delay, STAT! This was Costa Rica all over again. I couldn't believe it was happening to me not once, but now twice. ODB kindly offered/demanded to take us to Mancora, for a generous price of course. A price that was probably what he would make in two months of driving his taxi, and two minutes if the occupants were gringos in ignorant bliss. We were gringos, but not ones in bliss. I knew what was up. Of course his price was not to our liking, but it didn't matter-HE was not to our liking. I repeatedly yelled from the backseat (I refused to even sit near him) NO! Let us out!! Finally, I assume he realized that the crazed white girl in his taxi was nearly apoplectic and finally complied with our vociferous demands. We disembarked in a hurry and a huff.
I marched over to the nearest person and very nicely asked if we were in Tumbes. The man looked at me with a mixture of pity and incredulity in his eyes and that is when I knew I had been had once again. He informed that Tumbes was still thirty minutes away. At this point, it was getting late, and the good citizens of Zuramilla were not exactly welcoming or cheery. We attracted a crowd, but they certainly were not the kind that had cookies and tea ready. There are only a few times in my travels when I have felt that I needed a quick exit and this was one of them. Just a slight issue here though, we didn't know where we were, we didn't know how to get where we were going, and whenever we finally did arrive, we would still had another two hours to get to Mancora. Note to budding travelers: Staying the night in a shady border town should never be on the list of options, only the list of last resorts.
Right at this moment, as we are standing on the sidewalk having this semi-panicked discussion, with our baby rhino bags piled around us, a senora in the shop window offers her advice. Now, I greatly appreciate when people more knowledgeable than I step in and offer suggestions, but hers sent chills down my already cold spine. She told us in no uncertain terms that we needed to leave, that it wasn't safe. Senora was only confirming what we were already feeling, but her insistence added another layer of angst to our little situation. It was at this point that what I consider to be an intervention of God occurred. No one will ever convince me that what happened next wasn't courtesy of angels in disguise.
Let me reconstruct the scene for you first. We are standing on a street corner in a dusty little Peruvian village a few minutes from the border. The locals, with the exception of the kind senora, are somewhat hostile. We have huge backpacks. We are gringos. We have no idea what to do. We are hours from Mancora, our final destination and it is already approaching dusk. We do not even have a place to stay whenever we do arrive. There is no public transportation, not even a single taxi in sight. We are surrounded by curious onlookers. I am beginning to come to grips with the fact that out of all of my journeys, this is probably the biggest pickle I have yet to land myself in when two security officers seemingly materialize out of thin air. I really cannot say where they came from. I just looked up and they were there. One of them kindly asked where we needed to go. The instant he spoke, I felt calm and relief washed over me. I felt that we were somehow going to make it out of this desperate little situation. We told them and they instructed us to come with them. As we had absolutely no other alternatives or better ideas at this point, we picked up our stuff and fell in step with them. No questions asked. Their very presence caused the small crowd we had attracted to scatter, and for the first time in hours, I felt calm. We walked across the town square, each of them flanking us, and arrived on the other side to a sight to behold. One lone taxi sitting there, pointed out of town, ready to go! The officers indicated that we should get in and gratefully, we did. With blessings of "Dios te bendiga" (God bless you), I thanked them and we wearily loaded our bags and plopped into the back seat. Of course, this miracle taxi was not without one final adventure to complete it. One thing I have learned about any form of transport outside of the US-the operators like to maximize space! So, in accordance with this, we shared a car built for five with a mother, her three children, the driver, the three of us, and all of our luggage. Tight quarters? Yes! Did we care? No! At last we were on our way to Mancora!
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Border Woes and ODB, Part 1.
Another cautionary tale for all you would-be border jumpers. I know it seems that my latest posts are full of woe, warning, and wild rides, but really, it's what keep things entertaining, and it's half the reason I am able to write this blog. The other half is that I am hoping to be discovered for the literary genius that I am and catapulted to a senior staff position at National Geographic. Or Travel and Leisure. Or the Martinsburg Journal would actually be just fine at this point. Anyway, I digress.
This tale begins at a border town between Ecuador and Peru, one that has achieved the coveted "Worst Border Crossing in South America" award. Hmmm. Perhaps this should have been our first clue to steer clear? Nah. We plowed straight ahead. Enter three gringos on a bus headed towards Mancora, Peru for some blissful soaking in the rays of the South American sun. Our delightful journey through the Andes Mountains with all of its stunning and jagged beauty ended promptly at the aforementioned border crossing in the cozy little town of Huaquillas. And by "cozy," I mean teeming with humanity, garbage, touts, and chaos. To complicate this scene, the immigration officials for both countries got together one day and decided to do their best to confuse any wayward gringos by placing the actual processing stations 2 km before and after the precise border. Why? WHY? Of course, as this reasoning makes no logical sense to the typical traveler, we stayed on the bus as it passed the stop where foreigners should have been spit out, and arrive at the border with nothing to prove that we had safely come from Ecuador. Back we go, via $2 taxi, to find the office, get our passports stamped and try again. Once this is taken care of, we must now proceed to do the same thing on the Peruvian side. All this while hefting backpacks the size of baby rhinos and attempting to rid ourselves of the taxi driver who had picked us up on the Peru side of the border. This man, who shall heretofore be referred to as "ODB," (if you have ever had even a passing interest in old-school rap, you will know what this moniker stands for) swiftly became our archnemesis.
We hopped out of the taxi, happy to finally be within sight of passage into Peru, bidding him "adios." Unfortunately, ODB was not about to let us get away and was insistent upon giving us a ride post-immigration to the bus station in Tumbes. He planted himself just off to the side of the line in the tiny immigration office, every so often reminding us that he would be ready when we were. He kept persisted with his one-man dialogue while he waited. I was mildly annoyed at this point, but figured there would be plenty of drivers waiting when we passed through on the other side. I did not particular care for his demeanor or his insistence and I simply wanted him out of our lives forever. The presence of Peruvian immigration officials and their nightsticks did nothing to deter him! I refused to even make eye contact with him, although I could feel his stares. Successfully, I gained entry into lovely Peru. Sucessfully, ODB passed through as well. As he was a citizen of the country, I don't suppose this was ever an issue, but I was really hoping that immigration officials and their nightsticks could detain him for something. Anything. I asked him to leave us alone, go away, no thanks, we do not need a ride!!! I would have thought ODB would have gotten the point. In fact, my annoyance only accelerated his efforts. He simply just kept talking, kept haranguing, never seemingly even pausing for breath. He let me know that taxis were limited, that he would take us where we need to go, "no problema" and "i wait for you." At this point, waves of anger and nausea started to sweep over me as I realized this had all the markings of another unfortunate taxi incident which occurred in Costa Rica. I am not even sure I should write that one up, as the two are nearly identical. I became quite irritable and let ODB know in fairly straightforward terms that we would not be needing his services. I even told him, point-blank, to "vaya te!" GO AWAY! He merely smiled at me, paused for exactly thirty seconds, and continued. At this point, I informed Karl that I would no longer be dealing with this man, thinking that if there was not to be a homicide at the Peruvian border, that Karl would need to take charge. After some huddled conversation and furtive glancing around, it did seem that there were no other taxis and that ODB was our only option. I was furious, but what could we do? We piled in. We instructed him to take us to a town about 30 minutes down the road, where we could catch our next mode of transport to Mancora. I refused to speak to ODB and he kept up his cheery dialogue until about ten minutes outside of town. This is where the real fun began.
This tale begins at a border town between Ecuador and Peru, one that has achieved the coveted "Worst Border Crossing in South America" award. Hmmm. Perhaps this should have been our first clue to steer clear? Nah. We plowed straight ahead. Enter three gringos on a bus headed towards Mancora, Peru for some blissful soaking in the rays of the South American sun. Our delightful journey through the Andes Mountains with all of its stunning and jagged beauty ended promptly at the aforementioned border crossing in the cozy little town of Huaquillas. And by "cozy," I mean teeming with humanity, garbage, touts, and chaos. To complicate this scene, the immigration officials for both countries got together one day and decided to do their best to confuse any wayward gringos by placing the actual processing stations 2 km before and after the precise border. Why? WHY? Of course, as this reasoning makes no logical sense to the typical traveler, we stayed on the bus as it passed the stop where foreigners should have been spit out, and arrive at the border with nothing to prove that we had safely come from Ecuador. Back we go, via $2 taxi, to find the office, get our passports stamped and try again. Once this is taken care of, we must now proceed to do the same thing on the Peruvian side. All this while hefting backpacks the size of baby rhinos and attempting to rid ourselves of the taxi driver who had picked us up on the Peru side of the border. This man, who shall heretofore be referred to as "ODB," (if you have ever had even a passing interest in old-school rap, you will know what this moniker stands for) swiftly became our archnemesis.
We hopped out of the taxi, happy to finally be within sight of passage into Peru, bidding him "adios." Unfortunately, ODB was not about to let us get away and was insistent upon giving us a ride post-immigration to the bus station in Tumbes. He planted himself just off to the side of the line in the tiny immigration office, every so often reminding us that he would be ready when we were. He kept persisted with his one-man dialogue while he waited. I was mildly annoyed at this point, but figured there would be plenty of drivers waiting when we passed through on the other side. I did not particular care for his demeanor or his insistence and I simply wanted him out of our lives forever. The presence of Peruvian immigration officials and their nightsticks did nothing to deter him! I refused to even make eye contact with him, although I could feel his stares. Successfully, I gained entry into lovely Peru. Sucessfully, ODB passed through as well. As he was a citizen of the country, I don't suppose this was ever an issue, but I was really hoping that immigration officials and their nightsticks could detain him for something. Anything. I asked him to leave us alone, go away, no thanks, we do not need a ride!!! I would have thought ODB would have gotten the point. In fact, my annoyance only accelerated his efforts. He simply just kept talking, kept haranguing, never seemingly even pausing for breath. He let me know that taxis were limited, that he would take us where we need to go, "no problema" and "i wait for you." At this point, waves of anger and nausea started to sweep over me as I realized this had all the markings of another unfortunate taxi incident which occurred in Costa Rica. I am not even sure I should write that one up, as the two are nearly identical. I became quite irritable and let ODB know in fairly straightforward terms that we would not be needing his services. I even told him, point-blank, to "vaya te!" GO AWAY! He merely smiled at me, paused for exactly thirty seconds, and continued. At this point, I informed Karl that I would no longer be dealing with this man, thinking that if there was not to be a homicide at the Peruvian border, that Karl would need to take charge. After some huddled conversation and furtive glancing around, it did seem that there were no other taxis and that ODB was our only option. I was furious, but what could we do? We piled in. We instructed him to take us to a town about 30 minutes down the road, where we could catch our next mode of transport to Mancora. I refused to speak to ODB and he kept up his cheery dialogue until about ten minutes outside of town. This is where the real fun began.
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