Day 393: Peru Ecuador border crossing

Border crossings are the worst. Border crossings when the warnings are not to cross overnight by bus because you might get gassed and robbed are especially the worst. Border crossings when your only other alternative is to go during the day by bus, and spend the night in the most dangerous city in Ecuador, Guayaquil, are even worse. Yes. Worse than the worst. It would be an understatement to say that Andrew and I were not looking forward to the Peru Ecuador bus ride, border crossing, nor the night in Guayaquil. And then, when we were chastised by the Peruvian passport control agent for calling him out on over-charging us for our visa over stay… well it just got… you guessed it… worse.

We weren’t planning on overstaying our visa in Peru, but then we decided to study Spanish for a week in Cusco and found out we only had to pay a dollar for each day we overstayed. Not a big deal. We only stayed five days over, so we would only have to pay $5.00 each. But when we arrived at the Peru Ecuador border crossing at Huaquillas, the agent decided we had to pay $6.00 instead. We pulled up our calendars, counted off the days, thinking it was a simple mistake and he would agree to charge us the correct amount. He didn’t agree, and when I asked why he was charging us more, he got angry.

Not only did he get angry, but he told us to go back to the bank (20 kilometers back in Peru) in town to pay the amount we wanted to pay, instead of “trusting” him and paying more. Not possible, I don’t think our bus driver, nor the other passengers would have indulged us in saving two dollars. However, had we had our own car, you better believe I would have gone back into town to pay the lesser fine, simply out of spite. He tried to pull the same scam on another person, except this person must have had his own car. He walked out of line and headed towards his car instead of forking over the extra money (for the agent’s pocket) and crossing into Ecuador.

We arrived in Guayaquil right as it was getting dark, and anxiously hoped for a late bus to Olón. Not possible. Instead, we headed to the food court where we were able to hop on an open wifi signal and book a room for the night. We ate, and then busted a move to a taxi that dropped us off at our hotel where we stayed put. We didn’t want to chance walking around in the dark, and someone coming up and putting us in a choke hold until we passed out so they could rob us before we came to. I wish I was joking. This warning actually made me nostalgic for India, where one warning was “Watch out for someone throwing poop on your shoes, so they can clean them for a fee!”

Day 351: London immigration at 3 in the morning; not my favorite!

London Immigration: How long will you be in England?
me: A few days, five I think.
Immigration: And then you are flying back to the United States? To teach?
me: No…
Immigration: Where are you going next?
me: (thinking) Peru. Yes. Peru.
Immigration: Don’t you need to get back to school? (I filled in “teacher” under occupation.)
me: No… I’m not teaching right now. I was teaching. In South Korea. But now, we’re traveling. (as anyone with eyes and a brain can tell by looking at the visas and stamps in my passport, which was in her hands)
Immigration: How are you finding your trip? (I thought she asked.)
me: Well, I’m really tired… (as it was in the middle of the night)
Immigration: (blankly staring at me) I don’t care.
me: I’m sorry, perhaps I misunderstood your question?
Immigration: How are you funding your trip?
me: Ohhh. funding. Well, with money. (Clearly confused.)
Immigration: How much money do you have on you?
me: In cash? Well… nothing… (thinking we spent all of our euros before getting on the bus heading to a country that doesn’t accept euros…)
Immigration: What about credit cards?
me: Well, there’s no money on them… I paid them off.
Immigration: You have no money?
me: You mean, what money is in my checking account? Of course I have money in there…

At this point Andrew’s immigration officer came over to my immigration officer’s desk.

new Immigration officer: Where are you staying in England.
me: With a friend.
new Immigration officer: Who is he?
me: His name?
new Immigration officer: Yes.
me: James.
new Immigration officer: How do you know him?
me: We met in Korea. We were teachers together.

By this time, I’m starting to wonder if the rest of my evening is going to be spent in the passport control building. I’m even imagining them inspecting my luggage: full of Haribo gummie candy, a bottle of Absenth, and some pretty well worn clothes that needed a good washing. But suddenly, Andrew’s officer turned to mine and told her that I answered all of the questions with the same answers Andrew gave.

I practically had to pinch myself before rolling my eyes and telling them both we answered the same (and truthfully) because we weren’t terrorists! We just wanted to spend the year traveling around the world! I realized later, when chatting with James and others that they probably suspected we were going to try to find jobs in England. Again, I rolled my eyes. Leave Asia to work in the (technically) E.U.? Sorry friends, but no thanks! I’m taking plenty of chances leaving Asia to work in America as it is!

James’ sister was happy to hear London immigration gave us the run-around. I get it. A run-around is great. I’m all for spelling things out. We have done it before (Israel) but it seemed like a giant waste of time this (very early) morning to mumble non-specific questions and then get frustrated with me when I don’t understand! I’ve also had one too many passport control “officers” and flight attendants look at my old Burmese visa thinking that it is the most important page (with all of my information on it)… so it’s become a challenge for me to know if I should take them seriously or not…

Of course we arrived in London nearly an hour early, just after 5 in the morning. We were exhausted, but once James arrived (with bells on) and we had a coffee, we began to shake ourselves awake a bit. Then came breakfast. A giant English feast of a meal before we hopped on bikes to ride around the city. We stuck mostly along the Thames and I didn’t photograph much, and instead enjoyed the feeling of having a friend again (one we don’t really feel often on this trip) and a friend who made all of our decisions for us! What a lovely break!

Day 143: Getting out of Israel

Our flight wasn’t until midnight. So we bummed around Tel Aviv, did some laundry, was put to work by Anat, who was trying to wrap up a film project, went back to our favorite coffee shop, and shot lots of street art for today’s video. Because, let’s face it, street art is way more fun than laundry.

All in all, our day was rather uneventful… until we got to the airport. I balked a little bit at Anat’s suggestion to get to the airport three hours ahead of time. When we got there, and had to stand in the security line for questioning, I understood her time estimate.

Before you check in for your flight, before you put your bags through security, before you go through the usual airport security and passport control, you have to stand in a long line to take your turn being individually questioned by Israeli airport security.

“I swear it’s because they don’t want Jews to leave the country” a young American ‘Birthright’ girl told us as she stood in front of us in line. We chuckled and told her of the poor Australian we met entering Israel from Jordan who got held up at immigration because “he looked suspicious, like he was probably smuggling something back into the country…” She sighed. We all waited.

When it was our turn, we handed over our passports and as predicted, Andrew was asked for other forms of identification (his passport is nine years old, and he’s about 100 pounds lighter than he was back then). He handed it over. And then it got interesting:

Security: How do you know each other?
Andrew: She’s my girlfriend.
Security: Where is your home?
Andrew: (laughing) We don’t have one.
(I could have kicked him)
Security: You don’t have a home?
Andrew: No. We’ve been traveling for five months.
Security: And… sorry for the personal question, but how did you two meet?
me: Through a friend in Korea.
Security: Korea?
me: Yes, we were teaching there.
Security: You both were in Korea and that’s where you met?
Andrew: Yes.
Security: How long were you in Korea?
me: five years.
Andrew: eight years.
Security: And how long have you been dating?
me: umm… well, it’s almost March, I guess, so almost three years?
Andrew: Yea, a little over two and a half…
Security: (hesitating) And you’re traveling now?
Andrew: Yes.
Security: You were in Jordan?
me: Yes
Security: Where did you stay?
me: Hmm where did we stay? Oh right, Amman and Petra.
Security: Where did you get your necklace? (with my name in Arabic on it)
me: A friend gave it to me.
Security: Who?
me: My friend Erin…
Security: Where is Erin?
me: Well, she was in Egypt and now she’s in America.
Security: What does your friend do?
me: She was teaching in Egypt.
Security: But now she’s not in Egypt?
me: No, like I said, she’s in America.
Security: (hands back our passports) Ok, Thank you.

“Security” consisted of two girls that were around our age… and they would pause in between questioning trying to think of more things to ask or how they could dissect your answer to trip you up. Andrew and I were amused by the whole thing. This probably didn’t help matters. I actually had a hard time trying to keep a straight face throughout the interrogation. I mean, all they had to do was look in our passports to see the amount of visas from our years in Korea, and look at the stamps since we’ve left. And when she spotted my necklace? It took everything to not respond sarcastically “Erin, Do you know her?”

Bananas.

After our fifteen minutes of questioning, it was somewhat smooth sailing. That is, until the 14 year old sitting behind us on our red-eye to Belgium started kicking our seats. plural. At three in the morning, when you’re trying to fall asleep on a plane and you’re being constantly woken up by the little you-know-what behind you… You resort to the stare down. And then you motion for him to stop, only it doesn’t. And his parents do nothing. And when you land, and passport control flirts with you and then makes the family with the you-know-what 14 year old stand aside… You bite your tongue instead of flailing your arms around on the other side of the glass divider shouting “KARMA!” to the entire family waiting for entrance into the country.