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.
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