Bolivia1

05-14-04
We cruised back to Buenos Aires. After driving for twelve hours, covering close to 700 kilometers, getting lost on the Buenos Aires highway system and getting rained on we arrived at our friend Jorge's house to a warm welcome back. While in BA we looked into a little problem we had. Near Bariloche we tried to cross the board and visit Chile. We were not allowed to leave Argentina. The issue was that we could not take the motorcycles out of Argentina. This was because while a foreigner can buy motor vehicles in Argentina, he or she can not take them personally out of the country. This was a little confusing given the fact that I was allowed to cross the Argentine, Uruguayan border almost three months earlier. At the time I had no idea how luck I really was to apparently stubble up to an inexperienced, probably new, border official and just slip by. I, just by chance, happened upon a glitch in the system.

The reason that people are not allowed to leave the country with their property is to protect the yearly revenue brought in from licensing fees, taxes, etc. If you have Argentine residency they feel confident you will return to Argentina to pay them their fees. One can export them through an export company via boat, truck, or plane. However, that is not much of an adventure and quite expensive. Export our motorcycles to the US and fly back. No, I don't think so.

The result of our investigation into getting the motorcycles the hell out of Argentina turned up two main options: First the legal one; to go through the process of getting Argentine residency, entailing fees and a long waiting process. Second, the illegal one; to head for the Bolivian border and look into getting the motorcycles out through the various options that the people of the neighborhoods and streets had informed us about.

After a bit of thought and realizing that we would never meet up with my sister during 2004 if we went with option number one, we went with option number two. First we had to skedaddle over to Uruguay to renew our visas, as our visas were about to expire (marking the end of 3 months together in Argentina). We tried to get out of Argentina there, but apparently my smooth slip out of Argentina via that route was an anomaly. We were stopped cold by the border officials. They did, however, allow us to renew our visas. We weren't beaten yet.

We scooted back through BA and then split north.

We took the old route 9, the Pan-American, out of BA to Rosario, Santa Fé. From Rosario, Santa Fé we took route 34 through the rest of Santa Fé, Santiago del Estero, dipping into Tucumán, passing through the belly of Salta, and switching over to Route 66 in San Slavador de Jujuy for a few kilometers until finally hooking back up on route 9 again until the Bolivian border.

On our way to the border we went through La Banda, Santiago del Estero. We stopped briefly there to pick up some produce for the next few days. Cruising around we hit a Supermercado (grocery store) and then a fruit stand. After chatting it up with the people that ran the fruit stand discussing our trip and the places we have been, the people gave us the produce for free. They said to consider it a gift from the people of Santiago del Estero. They thanked us for visiting and sharing tales of our journey with them. We thanked them for the food and headed out of town. Before we were out of town Aldé's chain fell off. I swung back around to look for him, as he had just disappeared from view without me noticing. After finding him we took all the equipment off the bikes and started to work on the chain. Up strolled none other than a motorcycle mechanic. He offered his help and we got out of his way. He took the chain off, took two links off, put it back on and then oiled it up. He also checked mine out, making a few adjustments and oiling it as well. We attempted to offer him money, but our efforts were waved off. He ordered us to enjoy our trip and add a comment about his desire to do a similar voyage some day. The thought of having a motorcycle mechanic along for the ride was inviting I must say.

With the umpteenth gift from the people filling our hearts, we headed out of town and toward the tricky part.

A few days later we arrived in La Quiaca. La Quiaca is the Argentine border town on the Argentine-Bolivian border in the province of Jujuy. We got a hostel, unloaded our stuff and walked the five blocks to the border with Bolivia. There lay a small river tha constituted the border. Across the river was the small town of Villazon, La Quiaca's Bolivian counterpart.

We got to work immediately, doing some reconnaissance in preparation for our upcoming motorcycle smuggle. We walked along the river to get a more complete picture of the terrain.

There was a bridge located in the eastern side of La Quiaca which was the international bridge where the Gendarmería (Border Patrol) was controlling passage.

We scouted the western section of the border, witnessing many people crossing the trickle of a river in broad daylight. The river twisted and turn creating areas not in direct sight of the Gendarmería. The people seemed to flood across in either direction at given intervals. These spurts of activity were during the changing of the guard. People did continue to cross the border illegally even when the guard was not changing, but in fewer numbers. We found multiple places that were possible crossing points for the motorcycles. One stood out as nearly perfect. A small dirt road came through some private property. There it ended not far from the river, and there on the other side of this stream, graciously called a river, sat Bolivia. While scouting this particular spot we were whistled up to talk with some workers that were cooking bricks made from mud. We chatted with them about our problem and they invited us to use this crossing point, comforting us with tales of many a pickup crossing at this point. I inquired as to what time of day would be best. They said that you could really do it any time, but it would be best attempted during the changing of the guard. Which they informed us was 7pm and 12 noon. We later found out there was also a guard change at 7am.

They spoke castellano with an interesting accent, so I asked them what their first language was. "Quechua" they replied. I asked were they learned Castellano. They told us that they were instructed in both Castellano and Quechua in school. This was good news for the preservation of the Quechua language. I was impressed.

We took our leave and scouted the little dirt road back to town. It was a bit confusing as it crossed many other dirt roads while winding its way back to town. As daylight became scarce, we headed back to the room to formulate a plan of action.