Bad News at the Bolivian Border

When I first planned this trip, one of the items near the top of my bucket list was a visit to the Uyuni Salt Flats.  I had seen photos and watched videos and it is other worldly. An infinite mirror stretching past the horizon.  I wanted to experience it for myself and so made certain to work it into my itinerary. 

What I didn’t realize until I started researching was that the Salt Flats are located in the middle of nowhere.  The only way to get there was by plane from La Paz (which wasn’t cheap) or by bus (or series of buses) that would take anywhere from 10 to 18 hours depending on the route.  I was not dissuaded.  Since I would be departing my cruise in Buenos Aires, I booked a cheap flight to Salta with plans to spend a day there resting and catching up on work.  The next day would consist of an 18-hour journey through the Jujuy province, across the border and then up to Uyuni. 

Further research indicated that as an American citizen, I would need a visa to enter the country.  These days obtaining a visa can generally be obtained online, but not for Bolivia.  I would either need to visit the embassy or a consulate or, I could obtain my visa at the border.  The more I researched, the more complicated it all seemed.  They required copies of your passport, passport photos, hotel and transportation confirmations, a copy of your bank statement, a yellow fever vaccine.  Actually, I discovered that the vaccine was only required if you were coming from a country where yellow fever is a thing so for me it was optional. 

Then I found a great blog post that discussed in detail the process for getting a visa at the border. It contained a link to the Bolivian Ministry of External Relations where I could pre-register by uploading all of the required documentation prior to arrival.  Alright, looks like I have a plan.  I did a little more digging to get corroborating information and found a couple of other articles that confirmed what I had read.  I set up an account and uploaded all of the required documentation. It took forever because the web site was far from user friendly and the English version was still mostly in Spanish, but I got it done two weeks before I was scheduled to arrive.

On the big travel day, I left my hotel in Salta at 4:30 a.m.  I hadn’t spent much time there but I didn’t vibe with the place.  Maybe it was the neighborhood that I was staying in. The area seemed largely deserted during the day then around 10:00 pm it became party central with loud music and jubilant voices preventing any kind of restful sleep.  Of course, if I were 20 years younger, I might have appreciated the lively nightlife. 

When I boarded the bus I found it clean and comfortable.  Not as nice as the buses in Turkey, but definitely a step above Greyhound.  I settled in for the 7-hour journey to the border.  I had taken long bus rides before and thought that the bus would stop every few hours at a rest stop where passengers could get out, walk around for a bit, and get something to eat or drink. That wasn't the case. Instead, the bus wound it’s way through steep mountains on a two lane road stopping at every station in every little town and burro along the way.  The stops were rarely longer than 5 minutes.  Just enough time for local women to board the bus with baskets and coolers offering sandwiches, cakes, empanadas, and various juices.  I had become fond of empanadas during my time in Argentina, but I resisted buying any.  I wasn’t sure that eating any kind of meat dish pulled out of out of a Styrofoam cooler that had been sitting for hours on the side of the road was a wise decision. 

During the ride, I slept awhile, did some reading, tried to do some writing but found myself distracted by the scenery. It was spectacular.  Beautiful mountains that started out a lush green and as the journey continued changed color to brown, then gold then red then all colors mixed together.  I wish we could have stopped for some photo ops but alas, this was not a tour bus and it had a schedule to keep.

When we arrived at the border town of La Quiaca I knew that all passengers would have to exit the bus and cross the border on foot.  There was a young couple that I had heard speaking English so as we were getting off the bus I casually asked, “Do you know how this works?”  I had read about what to expect and was hoping that maybe I could follow some younger, bolder travelers as a kind of added security.  The young couple was from Australia, and they were lovely.  The woman said that she had done this crossing several years prior (before COVID) but didn’t really remember much about it.  Still, they invited me to tag along with them. 

It was a 15 minute walk down a hill littered with cracks and potholes.  We had to line up to get stamped out of Argentina.  That took about an hour.  When it was my turn the immigration guy asked about my visa.  I told him that I was under the impression that I could get it at the border.  He asked me to step aside.  Another immigration officer stepped out of the trailer like building and motioned for me to follow him.  He entered a different trailer like building, came out quickly and told me it was fine, and motioned for me to get into the line to enter Bolivia. 

That line took about another hour.  When I finally approached the Bolivian Immigration Officer I handed over my passport along with a printed copy of the pre-registration package that I had completed. He looked at me with distain and picked up his phone.  His fingers were typing quickly, and I wasn’t sure if he was texting someone or looking something up or exactly what was going on.  After a minute he turned his phone toward me.  Ah, he was using a translation app.  I read in English “You need to go to the consulate and get a visa.”   I tried to explain that all my paperwork was in order, and I was following the instructions from the Bolivian web site but he was having none of it.  He typed some more, and I read in English, “There is a consulate in La Quiaca, go there and get your visa.”

I knew there was no point in further conversation.  You don’t mess with immigration officials.  If he said I couldn’t get my visa at the border, then it wasn’t going to happen.  I stepped out of line, my mind racing.  So now what do I do?

The obvious answer was jump into one of the waiting taxis and ask to be taken to the consulate.  Then I checked the time and saw that my bus on the Bolivian side was scheduled to leave in just under an hour.  Even if I managed to get the visa in under 30 minutes, there was no way I would get through the immigration line in time to catch the last bus to Uyuni.

Some people might have gone to the consulate and then found a hotel in La Quiaca or Villazon (the Bolivian side of the border) and booked a bus to Uyuni the next day.  Not a bad idea in theory, but neither of these towns are places that you want to spend the night.  There isn’t much in the way of accommodation except a couple of seedy hostels.  All of my research stressed that these aren't towns where you want to hang out for any length of time and the feeling in my gut only confirmed everything that I had read.

I took a taxi back to the bus station.  I would get on the next bus back to Salta.  It would be another long ride, but there was an overpriced Sheraton Hotel there.   The only American brand hotel within a 500-mile radius.  Even as I was making that decision, I felt like I was wimping out.  Things got complicated so my answer was to seek out something comfortable and familiar.   I told myself that I was making a smart decision, not a wimpy one and in retrospect, I stand by that.

Unfortunately, my plan to seek out a made-in-America oasis wasn’t in the cards.  I found out at the bus station that the next bus to Salta was full, and the one after that didn’t leave until almost 1:00 a.m.  I pulled out my phone to look up options, thinking that I could find an open wireless connection.  There wasn’t one.  I turned on international roaming.  No signal.  I willed myself not to panic.  I looked up at the departure schedule and saw that there was a bus leaving in 15 minutes for San Salvador, Jujuy.  We had driven through there this morning.  Based on my recollection it was a sizable city and if I remembered correctly, it was the capital of the Jujuy province.  I would go there.  There would be ATM’s and Wi-Fi and hotels and restaurants.  Once I got to a real city, I could find a place to stay and regroup.

I spent roughly $20 on a ticket and took my seat.  Periodically I would check for a cell signal.  I wanted to find and book a hotel for the night so that once I arrived in San Salvador, I would have definite place to go.   Yeah, well that didn’t happen.  As the bus wound its way through the narrow mountain roads, I tried to enjoy the spectacular views, but I couldn’t.  My head hurt, I was tired and stressed and kicking myself for not planning better. 

When we arrived at the bus station it was just before 8:00 pm and still light outside.  The bus station was large and clean, and I felt certain they would have free wireless.  They did!  Yeah, I’m saved.  I was able to connect but wouldn’t you know it, it didn’t work.  I got that irritating yellow icon indicating that there was no internet connection.

I take a moment, sit down and assess my situation.  There is no ATM in the station, and I only have 4,800 pesos (about $4.00).  I have no internet access, the tourist information office is closed, and I have no where to go.  I took a deep breath and made my way out to the taxi line.  I managed to find a driver who spoke some English and asked if he could take me to a nice hotel.  I told him that I only had 4,800 pesos so it needed to be somewhere close. He smiled and said he could get me to a good hotel for less than 4,800. 

I was putting all my trust in a stranger because he had kind eyes and a soothing tone.  He was driving an official taxi, and they are highly regulated in Argentina, so I didn’t feel like I was putting myself in any physical danger.  Worst case he would drive me to an ATM to get more money, drop me off at some dumpy hotel and overcharge me for the ride, but given my limited options I said a silent prayer and climbed into the back of the taxi.

In less than 10 minutes we pulled up in front of a very nice-looking boutique hotel.  The meter read 3,600.  I gave him 4,800, all the pesos I had left.  He was my hero for the day and I wish I could have thanked him better.  When I entered the clean and cozy lobby I let out a sigh of relief.  The clerk behind the counter spoke enough English to quote me a reasonable price for a room and got me checked in quickly.  When I entered my room, I felt some of the stress of the day begin to dissipate. It was clean and comfortable and airconditioned.  I pulled out my laptop, connected to the Wi-Fi and started to think about what I was going to do and where I was going to go.  I stopped before I even got started.  “Not tonight.”  I told myself.  It had been a long and stressful day.  Now was time for rest and I could figure it all out after a good night’s sleep and a decent breakfast.

Check back tomorrow to find out about my day as the lone American tourist in a very non-touristy town.