Blogs :: Losing the Tongue

Losing the Tongue

continued from "Holding the Tongue"...

It was 20 hours to the border and I had just enough money to pay my exit fee. This meant my dinner, breakfast and lunch were leftover crackers and a bottle of water. Nigel had graciously payed my last lunch of Chinese food the day before. By the time I arrived, much later than expected, I still had another hour to travel.

The Lonely Planet said minibuses went for the border every hour or so, but I saw none at first glance. Thomas later confirmed he never found them either when he passed through a week later. Instead, I found the common and commonly hated taxi drivers begging for my money. Unbenownst to them, I had none! My neighbor on the bus ride was Colombian and knew I was headed to Bogota, so he found me and offered to split the fare to the border. Knowing I was running out of time before the border closed at 7pm, I agreed, but first explained my lack of cash. No problem, we'll stop at an ATM on the other side said the cabbie. Good deal, this is going well.

It took nearly 2 hours through beautiful rolling hills to reach the border that was supposedly only 1 and a quarter hours via bus according to the Lonely Planet. Ha...Once we finally arrived in the border town after a nice drive and friendly conversation, we stopped at the very friendly immigration office were I spent the last of my money, both Colombian Pesos (leftover from 6 months before) and Venezuelan Bolivars, on exit stamps. Next stop, Colombian DAS. No problems, 60 day visa secured. Wow, this is going well I thought. And I thought too soon...

ATM #1. Failure. ATM #2. Failure. ATM #3, 4, and 5: #FAIL. I assumed at this point there was something wrong with the ATMs, as it was the same with my previous ATM attempt on the Brazilian/Venezuelan border. I would find out later my account had been scammed at said other border of just over four g's. Now, eerily dark in a sketchy border town with a frustrated cab driver where I needed to catch a bus in less than one hour without a good nights sleep in several nights after two weeks hiking, climbing, boating, swimming through the jungles of Venezuela, my mind is finally shot. My best solution to the current problem is to find a store where I can buy the taxi driver something for approximately what I owe him, $15 dollars, on my hopefully functioning credit card.

No problem he agrees, I'll just get myself a new pair of shoes. Cool. Right? We walk into a store that is about to close, in a whole town that is about to close, and there I am surrounded by 4 bored sales guys, 1 curious store owner, 1 Colombian tourist, 1 Venezuelan taxi driver, and 1 pair of $50 shoes. I tried to explain I did not owe that much. I'm trying to convert correctly in my head, they are converting wrongly in their heads. I pull out the calculator. I don't believe anyone cared. I know the shop owner wasn't comfortable. I was a gringo. I did have a credit card. I didn't speak enough of any language at this point to argue anymore. I finally threw up my hands and said, "Fuck it!" Merry Christmas. Happy Birthday. I just want out of here.

I paid almost $60 in the end, the cabbie gave me $5 back, lying he had no more to spare. Fuck you. The losers outside the bus station tried to hussle me for a fake bus ticket. Fuck you too. I found a really nice saleslady inside who said I could pay with a credit card at the other location. Fucking a, how do I get there. For a moment a few hours ago I was scared I would be stuck on the Venezuelan side of the border. Now I was afraid I would be stuck on the Colombian side of the border. I paced around like a frightened, exhausted lost child in a giant department store with my bags close to my chest. I looked the worried tourist, the prime target, the ripe for the picking gringo.

"Oh, don't worry, just get on the bus and pay at the next station," I finally translated after several failed attempts. Yes! Ok! Thank God! I am leaving tonight. After I confusingly paid for my ticket and using the very very last of the wallet, cash-only tax of $1.50, I fell fast asleep on the bus ride and awoke the next morning to the rolling greens and sparkling yellows just a few hours north of my new, soon-to-be temporary, home of Bogota.

taxis, shopping, public transportation, buses, Venezuela, food, Colombia