When visas expire: tyson strips
Trip Start
May 23, 2005
1
24
36
Trip End
Mar 25, 2006
Santa elena,
Venezuela
Wednesday, December 7, 2005
When Visa's Expire: Tyson Strips
Santa Elena, Venezuela - One of my goals before leaving Brazil was to be able to reach up and pluck a sweet mango off of a tree and eat it whole right where I was standing. I constantly bothered the locals, "When will the mangos be ready? When will the mangos be ready? When?" They just shrugged their shoulders. It didn't matter to them. They weren't the ones with the six month visa expiring soon. They would still be there when the trees started giving. But finally, a few days before I made my exodus out of Brazil, it happened. I was able to pull a mango from a tree and dig into it right then and right there. By this time mangos were beginning to fall from the sky with the slightest of breeze. They were finally ready. But I wasn't ready to leave Brazil. In fact, by the time the luscious mango juice covered my mouth and hands I had already been in the country illegally for three days beyond my six month visa. History was on my side, though. Last time I was in Brazil illegally, in 2003, I had no trouble making it back out. I had snuck into the country from Paraguay without a visa and without procuring an entrance stamp, and I left the next day into Argentina. But I didn't think it would be as easy this time, as Venezuela and Brazil were both sure to check for my exit stamp. Therefore, I hung my head and reluctantly started toward the border.
On the overnight bus out of Brazil I contemplated some things: Brazil is undoubtedly the best country I have ever visited.
car
But why? In a moment of weakness I entertained the idea that maybe Brazil is my favorite because it is the country I have spent the most consecutive time in outside of the US. But then I caught the flaw in my logic. It is precisely because I loved Brazil so much that I spent such a long time there, not that I loved it because I spent time there. But the time I stayed did allow me to enjoy the country all the more. The real reasons why Brazil is my favorite are plenty. Simplified, they are: the delicious food, the exceptional music, the welcoming people and their friendly, laid-back attitudes, the amazing beaches, the 30-plus succulent tropical fruits, and the simple lifestyle, to name a few. I felt a massive Brazilian resaca (hangover) coming on during this bus ride and I hoped Venezuela had a cure. It will have so much to live up to.I prepared myself to cross into the northern hemisphere and out of Brazil. I have always had a fascination with the fact that water drains in a counter-clockwise fashion in the southern hemisphere and in a clockwise fashion in the northern hemisphere. So when I reasoned we were nearing this special line on the map I sauntered to the back of the bus and entered the bathroom. The way I figured it, if I flushed the toiled at the precise time the bus crossed the equator, the draining water would visibly change directions in mid-stream. The idea sounded simple at least. Except I don't know when we actually crossed the magical line. You see, I began thinking about the difference between the earth's magnetic poles and its geographic poles, whose positions are based on the earth's tilt on its axis.
chavez
The tilt must affect the magnetism at the equator as well. Therefore, the magnetic equator is probably in a different spot than the true geographic equator, which is the line which I was basing this very poor 'experiment' on. During this contemplation, which was worthy of being relegated to freshman science class, I completely lost concentration on the toilet water. Just then the bus hit a large bump in the road and the toilet water splashed out of the pot and all over me. Even in my pursuit of scientific data worthy of improving man's understanding of the world, the mere principal of having disgusting bus toilet water splashed onto my person made me decide to forgo the rest of the experiment. Besides, a line was forming at the door. And those waiting probably had questions for me as I walked out of the water closet wet. Science 1, Tyson 0.But the whole idea of switching hemispheres, gravitational fields and seasons just by crossing a line on a map forced me consider the fact that when I disembarked from this bus I was going to have to switch languages - from the Portuguese I had been speaking for six months, to Spanish - just because I crossed another fabricated line: the border of Brazil and Venezuela. I longed for my brain to be able to make such an abrupt change; when we crossed from Brazil to Venezuela I wanted the switch to automatically flip from Portuguese to Spanish. Some people seem like they are able to switch back and forth between multiple languages just as easily as we can cross from one hemisphere to another.
tepuis
Would my brain work like that? Not bloody likely. As a United Statesian who received - thanks to the geocentric US education system - only two years of an optional and very basic introduction to foreign language by to the age of 18, I believe I do have this switch in my brain. Unfortunately, one side of the switch reads 'American English' while the other side reads 'Other'. It took me more than three months to properly convert (or was it rewrite?) the 'other' switch from Spanish to Portuguese. So it was doubtful in this time that this switch had developed a third position. It was likely I would have to relearn Spanish and forget Portuguese. How inefficient. At the border I learned what my next few weeks of speaking were going to be like: awkward. Leaving the Brazil side I said my 'Tchau, obrigado' properly to the federal policeman, and then turned around and attempted to immediately switch to Spanish by saying 'Buenos dias' to the border agent on the Venezuelan side. Except what came out of my mouth was not anything close to 'Buenos dias,' it was some scrambled greeting in no particular language. Another transitional period seemed to be looming. A period where I would lapse back into 'Portañol', pass through a period of 'Espanguese' and then eventually feel comfortable speaking Spanish again. At the border, however, there were more important things to attend to: the issue of my expired visa being the most pressing. Over the past few months I had asked anyone I came across in Brazil who seemed knowledge enough what they thought the penalty for an expired Brazilian visa at the border would be. Answers came as varied as 'nothing will happen' to 'you must pay 35 dollars per day you stay over your expiration date.' I imagined it was somewhere in between. Crossing this border was a very straight forward process. The group just had to jump off the bus at each border post, have our bags searched, get the required stamps, and board the bus to continue into Venezuela. The Brazil side came first. Nobody had any trouble until I stepped up to the table last, hoping that, in their fatigue, the border agents would not notice that my three pages of Brazilian stamps and visas were obviously beyond their expiration date. Handing my passport - including the now four-day-expired visa - to the federal police officer, he looked down at the paper then up at me and then just shook his head. Not a good sign. On the bus ride I had prepared myself to turn on the faucet of sympathy tears while making a long, impressive speech in Portuguese about how great his country was, how difficult it was to leave and how I could never see it all in only six months. But before I could summon even one fake tear he said sternly, "Vocé vai ser multado!" ("You will be fined!") Dammit! A multa (fine)! My least favorite word. He told me to wait outside while he prepared the red tape. The bus driver - now impatient because all his other passengers had been waiting for me - came over to ask me what the problem was.
"Multa."
"É," he nodded understandably.
I was called back into the office 15 minutes later. The agent had a stack of paper and I was told to sign every page. Meanwhile, he explained my multa, "You must pay a fine of 8.25 reais ($3.50) for every day extra you stayed in Brazil (a total of a mere $14)." I could handle that, no problem. He continued, "I am going to give you the exit stamp so you can leave Brazil, but you may not re-enter the country until you pay the fine at a Banco do Brasil." I waited for more. What? That's it? Not even a scolding? I tried to hold a smile back. I wrote him a personal letter in my head as I walked off.
Dear Sucker (AKA overseer of governmental policy),
As you can see, I was already preparing to leave Brazil. And my visa wouldn't have allowed me back in for six months anyway. I don't even have plans to return...or pay your multa. Because even if I wanted to pay, all the Bancos do Brasil are, logically, in Brazil. See you next time...with a much more expired visa.
Sincerely,
Tyson
So I was off scot-free, with only a sheet of paper in the back of my passport saying I was a bad boy. A piece of paper which would soon be recycled. Yes, it's possible to be a renegade and a recycler.
I couldn't have imagined a better outcome. In the end, this border crossing ranked low on the scale of hassle and confusion (for me) and of poverty and hopelessness (for others) when compared to some of the other borders I have crossed by land. But later on it would rank high on the embarrassment scale. Entering Venezuela was like entering a police state or a country in the midst of a civil war. My border crossing into Kashmir came to mind, where endless checkpoints by the Indian military made it seemed like we were entering a full on war zone. In Venezuela our bus came upon police checks with camouflaged, heavily armed guards at least once an hour. Apparently they were searching for drugs. The guards searched our bags and persons and bus at every stop. As the lone gringo on the bus, I was subject to all the special searches. Usually I was asked (read: forced at automatic gunpoint) to go into the back room with some of the guards for questioning. But at the first checkpoint they decided to perform a body search as well. Instead of the usual pat down, however, a trio of young soldiers brought me to the back room and asked me to strip - in the very least kinky manner imaginable. This had never happened to me anywhere in the world. What happened to the traditional karate chop to the nuts to check for drugs like they use in Brazil? After removing my shirt I thought they would be satisfied. But then they asked me to drop my pants. I began to protest; only because, for reasons of comfort, I wasn't wearing any boxers. But early in my protest (and early in my first day of speaking Spanish) I realized that I had forgotten the Spanish word for underpants. As I stammered they displayed their authority by barking once again the order of 'drop your pants.' So I did. As I stood there naked but for my sandals, shrugging, with my pants around my ankles they all quickly waved their hands away from their cringed faces as if to say, "Put that stuff away." So I pulled my pants back up and exited the room, smirking. Clearly the young soldiers were much more embarrassed than I was.
Besides the change in language when crossing the border I have noticed many other differences between Venezuela and Brazil in the last few days. In some ways the lines known as borders - often drawn arbitrarily or politically on a map - help define the culture of a country by limiting what comes across the border and providing a country its isolation and/or individuality. But in other ways it is tragic that a manmade border can so effectively control the flow of people and ideas and culture, especially when they could benefit society as a whole. For instance, where the hell are my tropical fruits? To my knowledge I haven't left the tropics. But suddenly all of my exotic tropical fruits have been replaced by the boring traditionals or wannabes such as banana, pineapple and watermelon. Don't get me wrong; I can mack a pineapple smoothie faster than the next man. But I really miss my açaí, my guaraná, my graviola and my acerola - all fruits widely available across Brazil which have no English translation and all unknown to the palette of northern hemispheroids. I don't want to make this a list of complaints I have about being forced to leave Brazil, however. I understand that these differences do not make one country superior to the other; that their differences are what need to be appreciated; that these countries are not comparable; and other politically correct statements (Editor's note: screw political correctness, Brazil is better). So I will just list a few 'differences' I have noticed.
In the streets of Venezuela, political propaganda sponsored by their president, Hugo Chavez, abounds. I don't know much about the guy other than he likes to antagonize Bush, which suits me just fine. And apparently he called the Office of the Governor of Louisiana to offer help during Katrina but was declined, ala Fidel Castro when he offered aid from Cuba.
Another noticeable difference is the tons of old taxis and private autos - relics from the oil boom - clunking around in the streets. Personal cars are much more common here than in Brazil as well. So are, consequently, traffic jams. Why? Gas is about 15 cents a gallon; much cheaper than water (or rum for that matter). Venezuela is, I believe, the world's fifth largest and least Muslim producer of oil. Therefore, of strategic importance to the US. That is all I will say about that. Near the borders many Venezuelans line up at the gas pumps every morning to drive across the border to sell their car's gas in a neighboring country and return home in the evening.
There are also the million little differences that can be found between any two bordering countries: the culture, music, food, the faces of the people and their behavior. Just take a look at some of the differences between the US and Mexico or Canada. Or even the variation in different parts within those countries. As far as the people go, Venezuelans don't seem to be as overtly outgoing as Brazilians. But while they may not come up to you and give you a high five, once you strike up a conversation they are very kind and helpful (if you can speak Spanish). Finally, the geography of Venezuela is fantastic and contrasting. In the south is a tropical savannah region creatively called la Gran Sabana (the great savannah). In the southwest is Amazonian jungle. The northeast holds the enormous Orinoco River delta. The northern coast is full of Caribbean beaches and islands. And the northwest, where I am currently, is defined by the northern tip of the Andes mountains, with peaks as high as 5000 meters. However, from the tops of these great mountains I am tempted even further west by the allure of forbidden Colombia in the distance. Needless to say, there will inevitably be a Tyson Strips sequel coming soon to a border crossing near you.
