Answer: How do you like your border-crossings? Easy or adventurous?
During my 7 weeks in South America, the most adventurous "take-your-life-in-your-own" hands moments came from the two day border crossing from Ecuador to Peru. Between these neighboring countries are 3 border crossings--a) the notorious dangerous Tumbles, Peru to Machala, Ecuador, b) the safer Loja, Ecuador to Piura, Peru via Macara and c) the remote Loja/Chachapoyas via La Balsa, Peru route. The first route handles about 95% of the border traffic between the two countries and is for travelers who seek the coast and beaches. About 5% of border-crossings occur through Macara; these are travelers who are seeking to avoid the dangerous Tumbles border while still having the option to travel to the beach or the Peruvian highlands. And the last border crossing--Loja/Vilcabamba/Chachapoyas via La Balsa--sees, on average, around 10 visitors a day. It attracts the adventurous who seek the Ecuadorian/Peruvian highlands without having to A) backtrack on tough bus rides in Peru and 2) come down off the Andes. It's a tough, two day border crossing through beautiful jungle countryside but includes bumpy, dirt roads. Travelers on this route and best be able to handle 1) dusty rides, 2) gunfire and 3) anything in between.
For me (and my travel partners Alf and Sharron), the trip started in Vilcambamba, Ecuador at 6:30AM. We boarded the bus at the same time as two French travelers; all appeared well as it was started as a smooth ride, smooth roads with dozing passengers. I stowed my bags, hopped aboard and promptly fell asleep. After an hour, the bus hit dirt, rocky roads, which would be the last time I would see paved roads for two days. Within a mater of minutes, a pop resonated under the bus. We slid to a halt and the driver and cobrador (the bus moneychanger) ran out with a hydraulic lift and tire jack. Yep, busted tire.Notice that the two replacement tires are as bald as the flat tire.
At 12:30 (a six hour ride) the bus arrived in Zumba, Ecuador, the largest town of any size before the Ecuadorian border. The word "town" must be used quite liberally when describing Zumba. What we found was a collection of hot, dusty shacks with few tourist services--no hostels, no stores, and a dirty "strip mall" (a loose definition of the word) that served as a the bus station. Alf, Sharron and I holed up in a restaurant serving greasy chicken and lukewarm Cokes and waited for our 2:30pm ranchera (an open air truck that will forever be dubbed the "Universal Studios Tourbus"). We climbed aboard, luggage and all, and ready for the second leg of the adventure.We bumped and bounced over miles of hot, Ecuadorian jungle road with the locals pounding on the side of the ranchera when they wanted to disembark. After the morning's popped tire, each slap made me wince as I thought another tired busted. Alf, Sharron and I poured sweat in the heat, hung on for dear life to keep from bouncing off the ranchera, and made friends by handing out candy to the children. Dust billowed into our faces but the bumpy conditions made reaching for our bottles of water near impossible. At one point, Alf looked up and cracked "Tell the stewardess to bring me a vodka tonic on her next pass."
After two hours, as the number of local travelers on the ranchera waned, we arrived at the last stop--the "frontera," aka, the border crossing at Las Balsas. It was 4:30pm and the sunlight was fading; we still had another two hours of travel ahead of us on the Peruvian side of the border, to say nothing of checking out of Ecuador and clearing immigration in Peru. We hopped off the bus, (along with all the local, who had by now disappeared into the countryside) grabbed our luggage and headed for the most informal border crossing of my life.
First, Alf, Sharron, the two French, and I needed exit stamps from Ecuador. The immigration official, who had been standing in the street chatting with the locals, noticed our disembarking from the bus and meandered into his office. With little fanfare or questions, he stamped our passports and scurried us out of the office. This was about as far as one could get from my entrance into Ecuador 11 days before, where the immigration had a computer that not only scanned my passport but also produced stamped it.Next came the actual border crossing. We walked across the new international bridge, pausing for cheesy tourist shots and fun. Prior to the completion of the bridge, all tourists had to take a ferry across the river, hence the name "La Balsa" (ferry in Spanish).
Once safely across the river, we checked into the Immigration Control, which was run by the cheekiest immigration official I have ever met. She teased me incessantly me about needing a "cielo" for my passport, not a "stampo" (hey, you learn a new word every day when you travel!) as I had apparently asked for a shirt seal and not an immigration stamp. We checked in--the 3rd, 4th and 5th people to arrive that day (at 4:30pm!), grabbed our paperwork and headed for the police station to check in. Along the way, the immigration official passed me a handful of exit papers for other travelers from that day and said "Take these with you." HUNH?! In traveling and life, however, there is one thing you learn--don't question the immigration official and say "Yes, ma'am!" because they hold the power to to deny you entrance into a country. We had to chase down the policeman, who was talking to his friends down the street, and got clearance to enter the country. Then, it was back to the immigration office to receive our official entrance stamps.The journey, however, was beginning to take its toll as by now I had been traveling for 10 hours and my energy levels were fading. Luckily, my pocket was full of Peruvian soles (having already been to Peru once this year) and I did not have to experience the shady money changers on the border.
And then the journey became tough.
La Balsa to San Iganzio is a two hour collectivo ride (a taxi with a set route and fixed fares but no fixed departure time). As it was Peruvian Independence Day, there was only one collectivo at the border. As we negotiated our ride to San Ignazio, he stated the price as "Cinco dolares." A passenger on our ranchera bus had told us not to pay over 12 soles (4 dollars) for the ride. A realization hit me; the driver had watched as Sharron, Alf and I had negotiated our way through immigrations and noticed we had not stopped to change money. He thought we had no local currency and could rip us off an extra dollar per person. Before I could argue, the French arrived behind us and experienced the same price. The French woman quizzed the moto driver (a moto is a small taxi for two/three people built onto a motorcycle frame) as to the price. When he quoted a price of $4 per person, she turned to me and nearly demanded that we take motos to show up the colectivos driver. Appalled, as the sun was fading and knowing that motos could not take us as far as San Ignazio (and even the moto drivers were smiling at that one), I wrestled control of the situation from the French woman and continued to negotiate with the colectivo driver. We finally settled on 12 soles per person, the price as quoted by our pal on the Ecuadorian ranchera. She acquiesced, and the five of us piled into the taxi, twisting and turning our bodies strange ways to that we could all fit (little did I know this was foreshadowing many hours of travel the next day).
The driver took off at a mildly safe speed. We continued to bounce on dirt, bumpy roads but after a bus and ranchera, a car seemed luxurious. Trouble started when, after an hour into the journey, he pulled into the side of the road and started shifting our luggage in the back of the car. His pal, who we had just passed, wanted a ride into San Ignazio and could sit with our luggage. The five of us put our foot down--we did not want a stranger crawling around with our bags, especially in the dark--and demanded the driver continue. He argued and we argued louder, finally winning as he shot us a dirty look and left his friend behind. The journey, however, came crazier as he, pouting, pushed the accelerator to the floor and we sailed over potholes and mud holes. Several times I hit my head, which was already throbbing from stress and dehydration, on the roof of the car as I silently wished for this colectivo ride from hell to end.
Finally, the twinkling valley lights of San Ignazio came into view as we crossed over a mountain. As we arrived, I asked our driver where a safe place to sleep for the night. He paused and pondered before answering, "Well, there are two places. The first is Posada Mama's. It's about 10 soles ($3.50 USD). The second is a hotel, but it is only for tourists. It's really, really expensive." While my sarcastic nature wanted to ask the guy what he thought he was carrying in his colectivo, I bit my tongue and asked "How expensive is really, really expensive?" He replied "Oh, about $15 a person." After traveling for 12 hours straight, covered in dust and only halfway through the border-crossing journey, I almost laughed. The amount seemed almost trivial.
Pulling into San Ignazio at 7:30pm, 13 hours after Alf, Sharron and I had crawled on our first bus in Vilcambama, Ecuador, I politely asked the driver for directions to both locations and made a beeline for the tourist hotel, the Grand Hotel. All I wanted was a hot shower (a rarity in South America), dinner, and a bed. And I found all three in one place. That's heaven to a backpacker.
The next day, I woke at 6AM to the sound of automatic gunfire and chickens. Somewhere in the nearly blocks, someone was discharging a gun while street chickens demanded I get moving on the morning. Sigh, I groggily pulled myself from bed and steeled myself for a second tough day of traveling. Sharron, Alf and I met at breakfast and the French wandered in. Exhausted, we agreed to take a hire to the next location and avoid the nightmare of a long collectivo ride. The front desk attendant, conveniently, called a taxi driver friend who agreed to take us to the next location--a city called Jaen, 3 hours away--for only a few soles more than a colectivo. By 9AM, we were on the road again, but this time, as we had a bigger car and more trunk space, I crawled in with the luggage and napped for the next few hours.
Along the way, the driver (who was making the equivalent of a week's salary from the five of us), paused for us to experience Peruvian culture. He pulled into a roadside stand, where the vendor served us free slices of the pineapple she picked from her yard that morning. The price of one of her pineapples? 1 sole (.35 US cents). A hour later, we pulled into the Peruvian-equivalent of a drive through--a coconut stand. The driver pulled in, rolled his window down and two teens boys, standing over a table filled with fresh coconuts, came running to take his order. He asked for three coconuts (1 sole each) and the boys hustled back to their tables. Each grabbed a machete and with three good whacks, lopped off the tops of the coconuts, popped a straw in each and delivered them to the car for us.By Noon, we arrived at the colectivo station in Jaen. The driver apologized to us,saying he could only take us as far at the station. Our next station was only 10 blocks away but he was out of his taxi jurisdiction and could get in trouble if caught with passengers in town; his best hope for catching a fare back to San Ignazio was to wait at the collectivo station and hope someone wanted to return. Completing understanding, Sharron, Alf and I grabbed our luggage and headed for a moto to take us the 10 blocks to our next colectivo. It was only 1 soles per person, so we had no issues with the taxi driver, seeing as he had been generous enough to stop several times on the journey. The French, however, began to argue with the taxi driver that he had a responsibility to take us the remaining 10 blocks as we hired him to take us to the distance. Disgusted, the three of us hopped in a moto and hoped that, if we hurried, we could leave these obnoxious two people behind us and continue on our journey.
Speeding into the next colectivo station, we hopped into a colectivo and hoped that enough local passengers would arrive and we could depart before the French caught up to us. Luck was not with us (I think we left it at the Ecuadorian border) and they, having decided they were fighting a losing battle with the taxi driver, pulled up in a moto and the driver decided to stick them in our colectivo. The five of us squeezed in, as we had the night before on the ride from the La Balsa to Jaen, albeit in a much smaller car with a shriveled-up man who could barely see over the steering wheel. This time, I found myself with my head hanging out the window, like a puppy, during the 45 minute journey from Jaen to Bagua Grande in the Peruvian desert. I sighed at the situation, but knew that only a 3 hour bus ride from Bagua Grande was the only thing standing between me and Chachapoyas, my final destination.
As we reached the outskirts of Bagua Grande at 2:30, our colectivo driver eased off the gas petal and slowed the car to a crawl. He mentioned, and then insisted, there were no day buses to Chachapoyas, only night buses, but he had a friend with a taxi that could take us there. Beside me, the French woman began shrieking at him to take us to the bus station. He feebly protested that there was no bus station in town, either, but he did have a friend that could take us. We continued for several more blocks on the main drag as we pretended to think and he insisted we could ride with his friend. As we traveled, we noticed that we were sitting outside a bus station...with a boarding bus!...with a "Chachapoyas" sign. We threw open the doors on the colectivo while the driver insisted the bus we spotted was not going to Chachapoyas and not leaving momentarily. Alf, Sharron and I popped the trunk and grabbed our luggage, knowing that regardless of the situation, truth would not be forthcoming from the driver and we would make our own decision at the station. The French stayed in the car and continued to argue as we headed to board the bus.
Sharron and Alf piled their luggage onto the bus while I ducked into the bus office to buy us tickets. The woman at the desk insisted there was no time to sell me tickets as the bus was leaving any minute and to buy my pasaje on the bus. Having traveled numerous times in South America, experience kicked in and I asked her much to pay--she said 15 soles (5 USD). Zipping back to the bus, I tossed my luggage into the storage compartment and the driver stopped me as I prepared to board with my two friends. The cost of the trip, he said, was 20 soles (6.75USD). Incensed, but knowing a missed bus could mean an overnight wait in Bagua Grande, I gambled and called his bluff. The woman in the ticket office, I said, told me it was 15 and I would pay no more. I stood my ground; he backed down from his gringo price and we scrambled aboard. It was now at 2:30pm in the afternoon. Sharron, Alf and I had been traveling for almost 20 hours but it was our last let--Chachapoyas was within our reach.
But, we had left our luck at the Ecuadorian border. After only an hour's journey, the bus rumbled to a halt. On a narrow, dirt road, a truck jack-knifed and blocked our passage on a narrow ridge. Cars could pass but large, lumbering buses were at a standstill. For an 90 minutes we sat in the broiling Peruvian sun, with no A/C and absolutely starving as we had not eaten since our departure from San Ignazio that morning. (I found myself missing the street vendors from Ecuador; at any sign of a traffic jam or backup they would suddenly appear, selling snacks and drinks at absorbent prices.) The men poured off the bus to examine the issue and debate solutions; the women stayed on board with the children and just hoped for a swift resolution. Finally, in a show of machoismo, the bus drivers decided to risk the crossing. With a bit of skill and luck, they could narrowly manage to pass the truck blocking our passage. All passengers were deboarded and they began inching each bus over the ridge. We followed behind, holding our breath as we watched pebbles and rocks slide down the embankment as our bus crossed with on inches to spare. But, luck returned and the bus safely passed the jack-knife truck; we reboarded the bus and continued on our way to Chachapoyas.Finally, at 6:30pm, 36 hours after we started our journey, we pulled into Chachapoyas. We breathed a sigh of relief as we knew we had safely arrived at our location and there were no buses or colectivos in our travel itinerary for at least three days. After checking into a beautiful posada--a converted nunnery--we headed for a relaxing dinner at a highly recommended Italian restaurant. But luck, karma, or whatever higher force you believe in, was not done with us yet. As we sat, deciding on our dishes, the power grid crashed and the restaurant plunged into darkness. That night, I laughed so hard I cried.
In short, the journey from Vilcambamba (or Loja) is a difficult undertaking. I would not recommend it for anyone with less than a converational/immediate level of Spanish. You must be extremely flexible and adventurous. If not, I would recommend the Loja/Macara route. But, if you can handle the journey I described above, you will have a border-crossing story that few will ever understand and comprehend.
The journey is...
Vilcabamba to Zumba, 6 hours, bus, $6.50 USD
Zumba to La Balsa border, ranchera, 2 hours, $1.75 USD
La Balsa to San Ignazio, colectivo, 2 hours, 12 soles ($4 USD)
San Ignazio to Jaen, colective, 3 hours, 20 soles ($5 USD)
SanIganzio/Jaen colectivo station to Jaen/Bagua Grande colectivo station, 5 minutes, 1 sole
Jaen to Bagua Grande, 1 hour, colective, (9 soles..I believe.)
Bagua Grande to Chachapoyas, 3 hours, bus, 15 soles ($5USD)
