The Andean Customs Game

I believe it's not really fair game to make fun of foreign customs experiences – there’s something illogical about any bureaucracy, and making fun of it in other countries just because it's unfamiliar somehow seems…unsporting.

Nonetheless, I recently discovered that crossing from Argentina to Chile in a rental car is a lot like a video game. I don’t play them, myself, but it’s my understanding that they generally involve moving through different levels, each of which requires you to advance via various skills, assets, and accomplishments.

First, the setting: 9,000 feet of elevation, in the Andes. Dry, dusty rock and snowy peaks all around. One lone road winding through a series of unimposing buildings and roadside booths.

Level 1: Random Guys in Sweatpants. At this level, a couple of guys in sweatpants, looking completely unofficial, run out of their booth to our car and take away our passports, leaving behind some immigration and customs paperwork to fill out. They come back a while later and explain that I, as the driver, must enter the main customs building for further procedures because of the rental car. We pull over to the side of the road, and I go into the building, leaving my friends in the car at the side of the road. Goal of Level 1: Obtain immigration paperwork. Don’t freak out.

Level 2: Argentine Customs. Entering the main building, I ask (as instructed) for Senior Amalfi. I hand him the paperwork for our rental car – three pages given to us by Hertz, with spaces to indicate the car’s entries and exits between countries. Mr. Amalfi looks very professional and kind, with small round glasses. He reads the whole document, slowly, as if he has never seen it before. This seems like a bad sign. He then asks “Is this all they gave you in Buenos Aires?” That also seems like a bad sign. However, he makes a photocopy and accompanies me back out to the Booth of the Sweatpants Men. They trash-talk him good-naturedly as he arrives – “Hoo, bigshot Mr. Customs comes out to our little booth...what do you want out here, exaulted Senor?” That sort of thing.

As Mr. Amalfi works on my paperwork, one of the Sweatpants Men asks me to please translate something for him into English. He wants to be able to say “Where would you like me to put the stamp in your passport?” At first I am confused. Shouldn’t he be the one to decide where the passport stamp goes, rather than the travelers? Nonetheless, I try a few versions out for him. He frowns dubiously at my first couple efforts, indicating that they are too complicated. Mr. Amalfi pitches in occasionally to reassure him that I’m not bullshitting. “Si, si, ‘put,’ es ‘poner.'” Finally we settle on, “Where should I stamp your passport?” and I dutifully write it down in English and Spanish. Mr. Amalfi provides me with my car paperwork, and explains, slowly and carefully, what I’ll need to do at Chilean customs and again on the way back.

Goal of Level 2: Obtain rental car paperwork. Demonstrate English-Spanish translation skills.

Level 4: Chilean Entry Fee. I return to the car and we drive to a booth where we are to pay an entry fee into Chile. They do not take Argentine pesos or American dollars. Thus, we must backtrack down to…

Level 3: Currency exchange. Goal of Level 3: Obtain Chilean pesos. Demonstrate mathematical dexterity required to shift from a 3-per-dollar currency, to a 580-per-dollar currency.

Level 4, again. We pay our fee. Goal of Level 4: Obtain little red receipt.

Level 5: Chilean Immigration. We pull up to a booth where a young, well-dressed man sits with a laptop. I get out of the car and walk to the booth, handing him all of our passports and immigration paperwork. He checks the computer to verify that we aren’t terrorists or criminals, and stamps our paperwork and passports, all of which takes a while. I breath in the mountain air and appreciate the strong sun on the rust-colored mountains. There is cheerful Latin music playing in the booth, and I begin to dance in place. I look over to my traveling companions in the car, and they are laughing at me. “Hey,” I say, “For all you guys know, I am required to rumba our way into Chile. I’m not sure you should really be laughing at the only Spanish-speaker right now.” But I laugh too, and continue to dance until the nice man finishes our paperwork. Goal of Level 5: Prove we are not terrorists. Obtain passport stamps. Demonstrate salsa-dancing skills and/or willingness to publicly embarrass oneself in front of a long line of cranky travelers.

Level 6: Chilean Customs. A polite man asks me to step out of the car and open the trunk. He asks the usual sorts of questions about what we’re carrying, including whether we have any fruits or vegetables. They’re very serious about that here, and I crack, admitting that we have some almonds. “Is that ok?”

No no, they say. I reach for the almonds – at least where I thought they were – and they’re not there. Afraid they will begin searching the whole car now that I’ve admitted to transporting illicit nut products, I notice a small bag of cashews that I’ve brought from the States. “Here,” I say, “They aren’t actually almonds, but I don’t know the word.” The customs inspectors examine my cashews intently and discuss them at great length, finally indicating that I can keep them, and be on my way. Goal of Level 6: Demonstrate quick-thinking abilities.

Level 7: Random Last Stop Just Because They Can. Goal of Level 7: Hand over the little red receipt from Level 4. (Surely this doesn’t require its own booth?)

Total game time: About one hour.

Unfortunately, on our return trip, the Chilean customs people seemed quite insistent that we did not, in fact, have the right paperwork for the rental car. This woman was seriously angry with me and accused me several times of lying. I cannot for the life of me understand what scam I could be perceived as trying to pull by bringing a rental car back to its country of origin four days after it left. I refrain from pointing that out, however. Eventually she let us go, but as we are driving away, Megan says “Jeez, she really looks like she hates you. I mean hates you. She's glaring at you like you just killed her dog.”

But that was later. On the way in to Chile, all of the men just seemed relieved, when confronted with a carload of American tourists, to have one who speaks even my level of spotty Spanish.

I'm happy to be back in Argentina. Tomorrow, more about our actual adventures the past few days.