Fugitive, Peru

The kind women at the tourist office casually informed me that I could expect a five dollar fine for every day that I overstay my visa. Come January, they said with a smile, it could increase. With this, I gagged, calculating an eighty dollar tab already, a sum that would consume well over a week´s budget. The one dollar quote that I heard from other tourists was a dirty rumor that kept me thinking I could handle a few extra days in Peru. Not the case, according to the oracles at the information bank.

As soon as the blood returned to my face, I made arrangements to minimize my fine by jumping onto the first bus headed for the border with hopes of weaseling my way out of it by some stroke of luck or bribery. Hastily, nervously, I pocketed my passport and what little American money I had been hoarding and boarded a night bus for Bolivia to legitimize the remainder of my stay.

Sleep eluded me that night, but by the time the sun broke over the moutains that surrounded Lago Titicaca, I was alert enough to craft a story worthy of remorse. With an exhausted explanation of how tiresome this trip has been, complete with anecdotes that would surely impress a hardened Peruvian, I pleaded my case to the unresponsive countenance of the border official. I claimed that the pace I´ve been cycling has made it impossible to cross this country in ninety days, and when my alotted time expired in early December, I was far from any means to rectify my illegality. He humored my rambling, but in the end, disgustedly reminded me that I had broken the law and would have to pay, just like every other gringo that enjoys himself, extensively, in Peru.

Thankfully, his inaccurate longhand addition saved me a few dollars. When he passed his calculations to the accountant, I was surprised to hear his demand - only twenty-eight dollars. With this, I sighed. The first twenty dollar bill I offered him was rejected with confidence that the bank wouldn´t accept a note that had pen markings on it. Nothing more than a scribble, but to him, it might as well have been toilet paper. Thankfully, I had another, but this, too, he snuffed with an arrogant air. Never have I seen a cleaner bill in the United States, but according to his money-grubbing experience, the bank wouldn´t take it because it had a square of Scotch tape on the edge.

At this, my patience reached it´s breaking point. I raised my voice, turning more than a few heads, and demonstrated their authenticity by peeling off the scrap of tape and giving myself a paper cut with their crisp edges. For the first time, I egotistically played my ¨American card,¨ claiming to have extensive knowledge on the currency and demanded that he take the bills to the bank. It pained me to act so obtusely, but in that situation, nothing less would have worked.

It worked. After waiting for a few cooling moments in the immigration office, the handler returned with change. The first official stamped my passport, clearing me of my infringement whilethe second official relieved me of my last American money. When I told him I´ll be back mometarily after I get stamped in the Bolivian office, he said I´ll have to wait twenty-four hours - or pay him twenty dollars. Forget it. I could handle a night in Copacabana.

After an unburdened evening on the shores of Lago Titicaca, I returned to the Peruvian immigration office twenty-five hours after leaving it. The same official from the day before greeted me with surprising affection, asking me how long I planned on staying this time. With a brief explanation that accounted for only a few more weeks beyond the holiday season, he responded with a skeptical grin, saying that he would save me some trouble by giving me six months - just in case. The pain in my ass after twenty-six hours on a bus will remind me to obey the rules next time. Thankfully, I won´t have to confront this situation again for another 183 days.