Nothing like having the National Guard rifle through your personal belongings to liven up a 17 hour bus ride.
I’ve scaled myself back to a proper backpacker budget now, having left Patagonia. So in order to get to Mendoza for my wine tasting adventure, I decided to take a long haul bus ride from Buenos Aires to Mendoza. In a moment of pure stupidity I booked a ticket on a bus leaving at 7am from Retiro, thinking I’d enjoy some scenery along the way.
As it turns out Central Argentina is mostly flat, and largely flooded. Torrential rain has heavily affected the area; in Mendoza, they have received as much rain in the last month as they have in the last six years.
So after 11 hours of soggy soybean fields, it seemed a bit novel to have the bus pulled over by a swarm of guards in army green.
Until they turned the focus of their investigation on me, that is.
Obviously, there are major issues with drug trafficking in South America. And apparently looking confused or disinterested when the Guard begins addressing the assembled company is kind of a red flag that you might be up to something.
Without so much as a “how do you do”, a square-jawed officer (think “Small Soldiers”) began pawing through my backpack, opening water bottles and notebooks, lingering over my artisanal hand cream until I was able to convey through mime that it’s purpose was to hydrate rather than hallucinate.
Finally, he turned up the small first aid kit in which I’ve been stashing my American cash.
I watched him thumb through the bills, then stick his nose in for a deeper investigation.
“Fuck,” I thought. “Here comes the fabled ‘Road Tax’ of South America.”
Miraculously, he returned the stash to the small case, and zipped it back up.
“Amarillo,” he says, jabbing at the little case with one finger.
“Si,” I agree, acknowledging that the bag is, in fact, yellow.
“Is the yellow backpack also yours?” He asks, referring to my obviously-a-tourist 60L bag that’s currently stashed in the hold.
This feels like a loaded question.
“Yes,” I admit, wondering what sort of hell I might be about to unleash on myself.
But it seems to be the right answer. He puts the first aid kit back in to my bag, and beats a brisk exit. After an hour of waiting, the bus is waived through the checkpoint, and we’re back on our way to Mendoza.
I assume they were looking for drugs, and my lack of comprehension made me a likely target for investigation. They also hauled off a kid dressed in a track suit and baseball cap, so maybe anyone under the age of 30 is fair game. But all’s well that ends well; my bag was still waiting for me below when I finally disembarked.
Not for the first time on this trip, I’m reminded of how wildly different this place is from home. And though I’ll appreciate my nice North American bubble once I’ve returned, I’ll be glad to have these stories and memories to help me cherish it more.
pixelskylines
titsay
blakekathryn
dailybridgerton
gummygunk
dededos