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  It would have been difficult to get to these sights from Brazil. On the other hand, we were very worried about the Shining Path, Marxist guerrillas who seemed to be increasing their attacks against anything and anyone connected to Peru’s establishment. We decided to stop at every Peruvian consulate along the way to check on the insurrection’s progress. We could always turn into Brazil if the war got too hot in Peru.

  Finally, after seven weeks, it was time to leave Argentina for Uruguay, something we hated doing since we loved the ambiance, people, and vibrancy of Buenos Aires.

  Montevideo certainly lived up to its reputation as the Switzerland of South America. A huge number of foreign banks were here, including Swiss, Dutch, and German. One reason tiny Uruguay, with only 3 million people, still existed was because the establishments of Brazil and Argentina wanted it here. They needed it. Everybody in South America needed a haven for money, just as European countries all needed Switzerland. Once Uruguay had lost all its money after the cattle boom collapsed, it had adapted by becoming the place its giant neighbors could stash their money. Its neighbors voted with suitcases full of cash to keep Uruguay in business as Latin American countries kept imposing currency controls.

  Today enforcing the controls is becoming harder and harder to accomplish because of low-priced air fares, increased travel, wire transfers, and various other ways of circumventing them. And are governments today going to destroy international trade? Put on exchange controls and I might just buy Swiss watches with dollars and sell the watches in Germany for marks, which I might leave in Munich. With global trade booming, and with governments acknowledging their countries’ need for it, it is going to be much more difficult than in the past to control currencies.

  Uruguay filled a basic human need, a place where people could protect their hard-won assets. If the country didn’t exist, South Americans would have invented another to hide their cash from their confiscatory governments. Perhaps with the easing of restrictions in South America, it won’t be needed as much, but Uruguay will still benefit from the boom times of its neighbors.

  There was virtually no stock market here. I tried to find a broker to buy me some issues, but several balked, as the market was inactive and no one bothered with shares. All this whetted my appetite, made me want them all the more. Eventually I found a willing broker and started buying.

  We drove through central Uruguay and were delighted by the country. We would cross the continent by reentering Argentina and driving to Santiago. We passed through a rolling landscape and isolated but friendly towns. Plenty of sheep. No one here had ever seen the likes of us, a couple of Americans on German motorcycles. A continuing parade of old vehicles rolled by, many from the twenties, bought new in palmier days and maintained till now since no one could afford a new car.

  As usual, a few days before the border crossing, we looked at the maps and doped out where to cross. Americans, used to traveling to Mexico and Canada, think one border entry is much like another in that a country’s central bureaucracy issues orders and the guards obey them. Nothing could be farther from the truth. Border crossings differ enormously, and we spent lots of time asking other travelers about their experiences and consulting guidebooks for the best places to cross. We always wanted frequently traveled crossings, where holdups would engender complaints from many travelers and where the guards had plenty of experience with foreign vehicles and carnets.

  To leave Uruguay and reenter Argentina we picked the crossing at Colón, which the guidebook said was easy. Normally we budgeted a day for crossings, but as we had been weeks in Argentina, we arrived just after noon, figuring to spend the night across the border in Colón.

  “Wait a minute,” said the guard, “both these carnets are in the same name. A single person can’t be driving two motorcycles.”

  “No,” I said, “these are my carnets, and these are both my motorcycles. This is my wife, and we’re traveling around the world. From the stamps, you can see we’ve been through all these other countries.”

  He gave me the look of a country bumpkin who knew when a city slicker was having one on him. “Señor Rogers, you can’t be driving two vehicles, can you? She has to have permission to drive your vehicle.”

  “Well, she has permission. I’m standing right here, and I give it to her.”

  “No, no, we must have it in writing.”

  “Okay, I’ll write it down.”

  “No, you must have special permission, notarized by the embassy. It has to be written up in four copies, with the ambassador’s signature.”

  “What are you talking about?” I said, my patience evaporating. “We’ve already been in Argentina. We’ve already brought those vehicles into the country once. We’ve driven through Argentina’s entire length, been here seven weeks, and there was no problem.”

  As I pointed out the stamps of his own agency back in Buenos Aires, I remembered that the country had a long history of its people being desperate for bribes. Indeed, when we flew the bikes in we went through a mind-numbing amount of paperwork, making me reflect on how regulations were stifling trade here.

  “Isn’t there some sort of special fee we can pay to settle this?” In my experience this was the best phrasing to use to see if bribery was the object. While I detest bribes, I wasn’t going to let a few bucks delay us for days.

  He wouldn’t bend. I asked to see the head man. With pompous, weary shakes of his head, Corporal Mendez agreed with his minion. We had to have such permission throughout the world.

  “The world!” I said. “I’ve been around the world. I’ve been in forty countries, including yours, and never needed it.”

  “Well, everywhere in Latin America, certainly.”

  “I’ve been in Uruguay and I’ve been in your own country, and I didn’t need it.”

  Despite an hour of argument, Corporal Mendez wouldn’t give in. There was an Argentine consulate back in Paysandú, he said, back in Uruguay, where I might obtain the documentation that would satisfy them.

  As we cranked up our bikes, Tabitha said, “Jim, it’s Sunday. Are consulates open on Sundays?”

  “God knows. Let’s go see.”

  Through a miracle it was open. That day was election day in Argentina, and since its citizens by law had to vote, the consulate was open so expatriates could cast their ballots.

  We found a young consul-general, Raolf Santos, who had been in fancy capitals around the world, obviously a youthful comer in the diplomatic trade. Along with his eight-year-old daughter, Juanita, he was in the consulate for the afternoon to help out with the election. He was in this hick post for a couple of years so his and his wife’s parents, just over the border, could see their grandchildren while they were still children.

  In small talk, we learned he was quite a dynamic guy, bringing art shows to the consulate and doing everything he could to promote international relations. As this was a small consulate, he had all sorts of duties. For instance, when Argentines were killed in traffic accidents, mainly from rushing to and from Brazil, he had to return to Argentina to buy coffins because those in Uruguay—wood only, instead of wood and lead—didn’t pass the Argentine health code. Even the coffin makers in Argentina had a strong guild.

  “We’ve had constant complaints about that crossing,” he told us in better English than mine. “Let’s go there. I have no direct command over them, but theoretically they report to our service.”

  With Juanita perched on the front seat, our new friend drove his car to the border. We followed on our motorcycles. He argued strenuously with the guards, but it didn’t help.

  “I don’t want to lose my job,” said Corporal Mendez.

  Outside, Raolf said, “My wife and I even came out here and cooked a big Christmas dinner for these fellows, trying to make friends with them.”

  “What do we do?” I asked.

  “You need a notarized permission,” he said, “which means finding a magistrate on Sunday to certify the papers.”

  We a
sked for his help. First we had to find a lawyer, he said, because it wasn’t enough for a mere mortal like me to write out permission by hand and in English. It had to be in Spanish, it had to be phrased right, it had to be typed, and it had to be properly sealed and stamped by an officer of the law.

  Raolf made some calls. He found a magistrate-lawyer, a half-hour’s drive away, who was willing to give up part of his Sunday afternoon for a fee.

  In the magistrate’s home office, we gave him all the necessary information—passport numbers, vehicle numbers, carnet numbers, every number we could come up with. Covering all bases, I even had Tabitha give me permission to drive both vehicles. I wanted extra copies in case we ran into this north of here. Every copy had to be stamped and sealed. It wound up costing a few hundred dollars.

  A couple of hours later we returned with Raolf and proudly handed Corporal Mendez our shiny new documents.

  He scrutinized them as well as our registrations, licenses, passports, and carnets. Thank God I hadn’t brought that gold necklace. I’d never have gotten it through this inspection without Tabitha seeing it.

  “We can’t stamp these carnet things,” Corporal Mendez said at last.

  In the ensuing argument it became clear he didn’t know what a carnet was. This border crossing was so out of the way, and Corporal Mendez and his detail so ill trained, that they had never seen one. So much for guidebooks.

  We explained several times, as did their own consul-general, that it was no skin off his country’s back if he stamped the carnets saying our vehicles had entered his country. In fact, his country would make hundreds of thousands of pesos if we left without having our carnets restamped. Argentina would automatically apply to the Royal Automobile Club in Great Britain and receive the full amount of the vehicle’s import duties from our failure.

  Nobody can go around the world in any sort of vehicle without a carnet de passage en douanes. Imagine having to post $20,000 in dinars on entering Algeria to guarantee that you don’t sell your motorcycle while you’re there. At the other side of Algeria you would receive your 200,000 dinars back, maybe, or it might take weeks, months, or years for the bureaucracy to get around to sending you a check—in dinars, of course. Travelers’ stories were full of bonds posted that had never been returned. Meanwhile, how would you deal with Niger? With Nigeria, Zaire, and Botswana?

  “I don’t care if Argentina gets millions of pesos,” said Corporal Mendez. “I care about my job.”

  After Raolf worked him over again, he said, “Señor, here is a form I have to fill out saying a vehicle came in the country. Now, if I stamp this carnet document, too, I will now have certified the vehicle has come into the country twice.”

  Incredulous, I pointed out it didn’t mean that at all. “And so what?” I added. “It’s simply two different forms for one event.”

  Corporal Mendez gave me the look an adult reserves for a child who has asked a particularly dumb question. “Señor, it is only one vehicle.”

  Fuming, I considered simply having him stamp his form and our entering Argentina with it alone, but I was worried about getting stopped inside the country or upon leaving it. He didn’t know about carnets, but the next dozen policemen might. And, too, perhaps Corporal Mendez was playing a far deeper game—let us in on his form, call a cop friend down the road, have us stopped without a carnet, and between the two of them share a really big bribe.

  Finally Raolf called up the guards’ boss, head of customs and immigration, at his home, this on a Sunday night. Pull counted for something. Señor Sanchez would see us.

  Leaving Tabitha to look after the bikes and gear, I piled into Raolf’s car and we drove into Colón.

  First we had to apologize for bothering Señor Sanchez on a Sunday night, then we had to sit and talk. Bone-tired, I had to show him our map of the world and tell a few spirited stories about our adventures. I met his wife and children. As the Latin American small talk wound on, I was beside myself, impatient and barely containing it, aching to be in a hotel room in this wretched city.

  Raolf explained he had been posted in many world capitals and had never had a problem like this. Mr. Rogers here, a learned professor, had been around the world and had never had such a problem, either. In a delicate fashion he suggested that Argentina might appear a touch backward and a laughingstock if this weren’t handled right.

  Finally I pulled out the carnets. It was immediately clear to Raolf and me that Señor Sanchez, too, didn’t know what a carnet was. I supposed when Uruguayans went into Argentina they filled out the local form at the crossing and that was enough.

  Finally Raolf came up with an idea to handle the “two documents, one vehicle” problem. Why didn’t the guards simply staple the two papers together?

  I almost groaned at the stupidity of the suggestion, but Señor Sanchez thought this was an exceptional idea. He wrote a letter instructing his people to do just this, in essence to make two pieces of paper into a single form.

  After much handshaking and mutual good wishes, we drove back to the crossing. By now it was nearly ten o’clock.

  I didn’t think anything was going to work. Staple two pieces of paper into one? Didn’t there have to be a wax stamp sealing the two together? A notarized cover letter in high-flown Spanish from an officer of the court describing the procedure? How many more hours, how many more hundreds of dollars would that take?

  What worked were instructions from the boss. The documents were stapled together by Corporal Mendez in jig time and the ten-hour international snafu was over.

  Outside the guard station Tabitha and I swore undying devotion to Raolf, exchanged addresses, and invited him to stay with us when he was next in New York. As commemorative gifts, we had brought along a few Susan B. Anthony dollars. We gave him one each for his two daughters, his wife, and himself.

  We arrived at the hotel in Colón at midnight, and a bed has rarely felt as good.

  Coming out of Argentina toward Chile, the Andes rose in the distance, sixty or seventy miles away. Around us across the pampas stretched huge vineyards.

  As we drove into the mountains the temperature dropped. Every two or three hundred yards stood depth rods, four yards high, marked to show how deep the snow was.

  Around six thousand feet it began to snow, but we kept going, afraid we would become snowed in. We arrived at Puente del Inca at four or five in the afternoon. I was torn, wanting to go on, feeling we should continue so as to get through what might be a blizzard, yet wanting to spend a night in the Andes. By now we were nearly ten thousand feet high and there were ski lodges along the road.

  We found a delightful place to spend the night, so if we were snowed in, it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. At the hotel they told us we didn’t have to worry, the roads would be cleared. We’d be able to travel even if a blizzard hit.

  The next day was a beautiful sunny day, and we drove along the top of the world. At least that was what it felt like, more than ten thousand feet up, with the sun and air and snow on the mountains crystal clear. We happened to cross the Andes not as a struggle, but as an exhilarating experience. So we were on top of the world in two ways, high up and relieved it wasn’t like Siberia or the Sahara. It turned out to be one of our great rides, as easy as driving across the mountains in the summer.

  As we zoomed along, we learned to be careful of shadows, as these often contained patches of ice. I wore my electric vest, and Tabitha turned on her heated handlebars. With the frigid air blowing around us, these were important, providing lifesaving warmth and psychological comfort. Something else that kept up our energy and concentration were hard candies, feeding us minute hits of sugar to keep up our metabolism and our attentiveness.

  Finally we left Argentina, which took two minutes in the guard post instead of the ten hours it had taken to enter. And you guessed it: No one there or ever after asked to see our “permission papers.”

  We were now in no-man’s land, the several miles between the Argentine and C
hilean border posts.

  When I was a kid, I thought border posts were always back to back, that as soon as you left the States you were obliged to deal with the Canadians or the Mexicans. In many parts of the world there are miles between posts, with only an isolated sign saying you’ve crossed the border. Governments don’t want to maintain posts in extremely remote areas; guards don’t want to work there; and in the desert or the mountains, there might not be water. People leaving Argentina could go only one way, along this road, which led right into the Chilean border post a few miles away.

  We took advantage of this extended no-man’s-land to change our license plates. We had new plates and new numbers to replace our out-of-date registrations from the States, and we’d had to get new carnets. Just as we had done in North Africa, we had a local shop make up new plates with the correct numbers, and naturally they were in the Argentine colors. As we had several more war zones to go through, we didn’t want to be easily recognized as Americans. Since we had to make our carnets conform coming in and going out with the same registrations and plates, it made sense to change them between borders. This is an example of the sort of thinking we had to do, planning ahead, thinking through the details of each step.

  …

  I’d heard a lot about the new Chile, the Chilean miracle, and I was eager to see some of it. My first tip-off that the Chileans were running a tight ship was the border crossing. They seemed only to want to make sure that we weren’t bringing in any diseases on fruits or vegetables. I didn’t like the holdup, but at least preventing plant disease was a legitimate interest of Chile’s, since agriculture is its major industry.

  The border crossing reminded me of the necklace. Had it made it to New York? I kept reminding myself to ask Judd to see if the package had arrived, but I kept forgetting to do so.

  Several miles inside the border we were whizzing along, mountain peaks and snow on both sides, when we hit a flat stretch, one well paved and bare of snow.