With one of us on a plane back to Canada, the remaining pair
began making our own preparations to leave Chile behind. We were moving on to
Argentina. Although flying was a possibility, it seemed a shame to cross the
Andes without actually seeing them. So we decided to take a bus to Mendoza, the
first major city in Argentina after the border. We had had a small taste of
South American bus travel on our way to and from Valparaiso; the trip to
Mendoza was a full meal.
There is no North American equivalent to bus travel in South
America. There are dozens, if not hundreds of competing companies. Some
companies offer varying levels of service, much like airline seating classes.
Many companies only focus on a few routes, perhaps because of the number of
buses in their fleet. Needless to say, standing in the largest bus station in
the largest city in Chile and trying to figure out the best way to cross the
Andes was no easy task for two gringos.
Complicating the situation was the crossing itself – El Paso
de los Libertadores, the gap in the mountains that connects Chile and
Argentina, had been snowed in over the previous few days. As we asked around
the ticket offices at the bus station, most of the providers told us they
weren’t running buses to Mendoza the next day, when we hoped to go. A few
mentioned that they might cancel, but they were optimistic about crossing
during the day and that they had snow chains if necessary. And one stated very
clearly that they were going. One hundred percent. So we bought two tickets,
which included our seat assignments and the platform number, and returned the
next morning for the journey over the mountains.
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| Waiting to depart from Santiago. |
Things began smoothly enough. We were told to wait before
loading baggage, then watched an Argentine family pile a household’s worth of
boxes and luggage into the hold. We managed to sneak our bags in with help from
a baggage handler (who asked for his tip first) and hopped on board.
We quickly realized that our seat numbers – which the ticket
agent had made a special effort to ensure we knew – might as well have been e and π for all the good they did. Some
pairs of seats were not labelled; the ones that were numbered did not follow
any logical sequence. We made our best guess, then asked the people nearest us
if they agreed. They did. Every successive passenger went through the same
process, some less pleasantly than others. One Japanese tourist walked through
the entire bus trying to figure out the numbering system, then gave up; it took
some convincing for the Argentine family with all the luggage to give up their
claim to the seats we were in. Luckily, the bus was not sold out (or
overbooked, United Airlines!!), so everyone was able to settle in somewhere.
The two of us were more bemused than annoyed by the little
frustrations we faced; that attitude proved useful throughout the day. After
about an hour on the road, I headed back to use the toilet. Now, I don’t have high standards for bus toilets. I’m
comfortable with the idea that I might have to hold my nose, brace myself
against a wall, or wash my hands without soap. Or all three. Or more. But the
toilet on this bus looked like it had been lifted from an abandoned house
somewhere out in the desert. Not only was there no soap, there was no toilet
paper; the seat was hanging off the bowl and the latch on the door was broken
to boot. This was the state of things at the beginning of the trip. They could not have more effectively said
“Do Not Use This Toilet” if they had literally written that on the door. I went
back to my seat and told my friend we’d probably want to hold it for the next
eight hours.
From what we could tell, the bus had two staff, both sitting
in the front and alternating driving duties. At some point before beginning the
climb up to the pass in earnest, the staff member who was not driving
remembered that there was a DVD player on the bus to entertain the passengers.
He threw on a film neither of us knew, but that we now know all too well – John
Wick. Luckily, he left the audio in English, so we could follow along as Keanu
Reeves screamed grammatically incorrect phrases at the people he killed to
avenge his puppy. The scenery deserved a better soundtrack, but it was
jaw-dropping all the same. One section of the drive included roughly 30
switchbacks with no guardrail; there was also a ski lift that passed right over
the highway. The roadsides were filled with cars that had pulled over so kids
could sled and throw snowballs.
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| On the way up. |
Then we reached the border. Readers, I have crossed many
borders; I have had many long waits and many short waits. I once crossed the
Canadian-American border less than a month after September 11, 2001. But I have
never seen a line like this one. It was less a line and more a linear parking
lot. For about thirty minutes, we sat on the bus looking out the window. Then a
few other passengers stood up and headed outside, presumably to smoke while we
waited. We used the excuse to get some fresh air. As we stepped off, the driver
told us not to leave, as we’d be in the customs plaza in five minutes. Never
has a more obvious lie been told, my friends.
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| A portion of the line for the border. |
When we stepped onto the snow, we first realized that the
passengers who had stepped off for a smoke were nowhere to be seen. We walked
toward the customs plaza, thinking that would let us catch up with our bus when
we saw it move. And then we saw where everyone was going. Next to the plaza was
a small strip mall of ramshackle sheds to serve people waiting to cross into
Argentina. Only then did we realize just how long this wait might be.
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| Tuck shoppe at the border (not duty-free). |
Double-checking that our bus had not moved – it hadn’t – we
decided to become part of the sandwich vendors’ captive market. Unfortunately,
a long line for the border meant there was also a long line for sandwiches.
Aware of that fact, none of the staff were in a rush. We saw several people
lose spots in line because their bus had advanced; we also learned the hard way
that we had to order and pay first – in a separate line. We were past the point
of being worried, however, and continued to marvel at the whole concept –
businesses that only existed because of inefficiency - as we waited.
 |
| Killing time at the border. |
As we left the sandwich stand wiping crumbs off our lips,
two vaguely familiar faces approached. Fellow passengers, we realized. One of
them spoke some English, and asked if we had been through customs yet. No, we
replied; our bus was still seventh in line and hadn’t moved in half an hour. Then
we noticed the bus driver – who had said we’d be through in five minutes –
marching toward us with a sour look on his face. Luckily, we had our passports
on us and followed him back to the customs plaza.
He grumbled something to the border agents about us acting
like little princes, and the woman in the booth made an unimpressed face at us
when we handed over our passports. She stamped them, and we walked off; a
minute later, the bus driver hollered after us to come back. We had only been
stamped out of Chile; the lady to the
right of the Chilean agent was the Argentine agent waiting to stamp us in. Though I am normally the first to
accept blame for silly misunderstandings like that, I somehow feel like the
three people – the driver and the two customs agents in the same booth – who
knew the routine could have taken less than a minute between them to call us
back.
The bus driver firmly guided us back to the bus, and drove
it into the plaza. We were told to disembark with all of our hand luggage, and
baggage handlers took out everything in the hold. Customs agents skimmed over
our hand luggage and a few people were picked out for fairly casual screenings.
One of our bus drivers ran through the passengers with a tip cup for the
baggage handlers, then told us to get back on the bus. With the door still open
as we boarded, the driver yelled “¡Vamos!” and stepped on the gas. He stopped
almost as soon as he started, possibly just to scare us into boarding more
quickly. The people on the steps waiting to get in were shaken – literally –
but unharmed, and we got underway without further issues.
Night had fallen as we entered Argentina, our eight-hour journey
having become a twelve-hour one. Despite the day’s stresses, we were both able
to laugh at the sheer insanity of the trip. A quick check of the toilet
revealed that it had actually gotten worse – somehow an empty roll of toilet
paper had ended up in the bowl, and the seat was now fully on the floor. To top
it all off, the driver eventually remembered that the movie had finished, and
hit the play button again. And so we made our way into Mendoza, heart of
Argentine wine country, to the sounds and sights of Keanu Reeves kicking
Russian gangster butt…again.
