Crossing Borders

A girl stood beside the glass doors of a supermarket called La Vivanda. She held a cellphone to her ear, she seemed angry and moved her hands a lot, she seemed like she wanted the other person on the line to see what she was seeing, pointing down the street at the green park with the art exhibit which was hosted by theMiraflores municipality. The sun was high. When she moved her arms, the silver mesh on her belt glittered, like snowflakes.

"Rich bitches" thought Max, entering the market. You can do better than that, Max. You know her only too well. Educated, but too stupid for it. Fatuous. He walked through the isles lined with expensive food that he had never seen in Peru. He looked at the girl through the glass door, talking on her cellphone like that, moving her arms, the sun spotting the silver on her waist. He wasn't sure what to make of a girl like that, here in Peru. He knew her only too well. He wondered why he felt this way. She wasn't so bad. Was it that he didn't like girls like that, or that they generally did not like him? He contemplated this point, sifting through cheeses. A man across the counter looked weary. After all, he was of her class, he knew: these girls and him -- man, they were just the same.

Spoiled bitches? Yes, he thought, spoiled bitches. Things need proper names.

At the checkout counter the woman in front of Max placed on the conveyor belt a jar of olives and a couple of peppered sausages and a loaf of French bread. She was a quiet-looking girl, and you knew that she didn't belong here. She checked the list as the food rolled by. One imagines this kind of woman setting tables and taking out the garbage from a big manner home somewhere. Maybe she sends money to her mother. Five hundred years of blood and fire held in those brown hands.

The woman paid for the groceries and walked out of the store. The girl was still beside the door, apparently waiting. She did not speak anymore. As the maid passed, she did not even look.

"Spoiled rich bitches" thought Max, putting his brie on the conveyor.

- - -

The rain stopped as Max turned from the main road towards the beach. The sun was setting over the Pacific Ocean and the fishing boats were returning to the shore. The wind was blowing while the shadows darkened on the sand. Beaches are perfect in the dusk, after rain. Better than in the sun. Yes, much better.

Max bought a beer and sat on the beach, against a stone wall which bordered a raised platform with benches made of cement and cement tables painted in bright colors. Sand blew against the wall and stuck to the wet bottom of the beer bottle. Beaches are perfect in the dusk.

Above, on the stone wall, sat a man. He knew he was there, when Max sat, though he couldn't see his face. When he heard him shift, Max knew that he was going to say something.

"Where do you come from young friend?" said the man.

"The United States. New York." said Max. "And you, sir?"

"I am from here, Mancora"

"What do you think (how is it)?"

"Oh, Mancora is very beautiful" said the man. "Are you traveling alone?"

"Yes. Alone"

"How long are you staying here?"

"I lived in Huancayo for five months. Working with artisans. I am going to stay in Mancora for two more days."

"Oh Huancayo. The south."

"I am going to Colombia next."

"Oh Colombia is very beautiful" said the man. Max looked up at him. He was big and his face was sweaty, though the night was cool.

"You know (about) Colombia?"

"I lived in Cartajena. Beautiful, like Mancora."

Max poured his glass full of beer and handed it to the man. He didn't say anything when he did this.

"Where are you staying (in a hotel)?"

"La posada."

"Over there" the man said, pointing.

"Yes"

"How much does it cost?"

"15 soles a night"

"Do you know Miami?" he asked.

"No. I do not know Miami."

"How much is it to stay in a hotel in the United States?"

"Forty dollars a night. I don't know. But the economy is different. You make more money, too."

"Are there jobs in the United States?"

"Yes" said Max.

He considered saying that there are poor people in the United States, too. He considered saying that life in Mancora is calm and beautiful, and that though he was young and didn't know a lot, he knew that beautiful things are worth too much to run from. But he did not say these things. He was watching the boats get larger as they returned to the coast. When he thought about all the things he wanted to say his heart tightened. These past months he had changed, he knew that. He first to ditched ideas about futility. People can change the world, he really believed that now. Then he began to talk about duty. The poor girl on the street, crying like that. I could be her, he knew. I've got to use what I have. But this wasn't enough, he began to understand, recently. He saw that he was sad, sadder than ever before. This wasn't enough, to think about helping. He had replaced one sadness, the personal sadness of futility, with another one, more universal: the sadness of the human condition. He felt things were very serious. Max knew he was hardening.

One must be very serious, he thought to himself looking at the ocean, to ride a fishing boat like that, moving goods through the dark water, all alone. One has got to be serious to steer a boat like that. The sky was pink now and the clouds were moving quickly. Max was not sure whether he wanted company or to be alone.

- - -

Funny thing happened at the Ecuadorian border. Just really funny.

Max had overstayed his three-month Visa in Peru, once again, and he noticed this two days before he was to cross into Ecuador. He wanted to travel to Colombia, because the woman are beautiful there, he was told, and it is a warm, wonderful place. They told him that. It was his second Visa which he had overstayed, which he purchased at the Bolivian border, when he traveled there with Conor. He did not want more problems. Crossing borders is almost always difficult, at least for Max. He hated borders.

He decided to altered the visa with a black pen that he had in his bag, as he sat on the bed. He did not want to pay that shitty tax and deal with all those shitty problems, he decided to himself. Gringos were tanning by the pool, and Max sat in the dark room of his dorm. He meticulously wrote a 1 before the 90 on his passport. But it didn't look right. He went over the 190 with his pen. He did this a number of times, until all the numbers looked the same. But that did not look right, not at all. He wrote "6 Meses" beneath the 190. One hundred and ninety days is, after all, about seis meses. The American passport is a fine, stately thing. But this looked all wrong. Jarring and messy and large. He couldn't think of anything else to do.

Max rode on the bus the next morning and began to worry about the preposterous mess on his passport. It was the size of a playing card. He was traveling with two other people (a boy from New Zealand and a girl from Israel). He was sure this was going to be a problem.

The border official brought the foolish American to his office. "You wrote that" he said.

"No, sir," Max said, "I paid for 190 days. Perhaps the policeman at the border lied to me. Perhaps I was tricked."

"You wrote that 190. No immigration official would write 190 like that. You can only receive 30 or 60 or 90 days"

"I paid him, sir. Perhaps he fool me. I am just a student, sir."

"This is a crime. You know that? This is a crime. You're going to stay in Peru for a while."

"Well, sir, for me, Peru is a very beautiful country."

"Ever slept in jail before?"

"No."

"You like Jail?"

"No."

"You want to be deported?"

"No."

The man left the room. He said he was checking a system. He came back and asked Max to stand up and he took out handcuffs and put them on Max's wrists. Max could hear the others walking though the station, looking for him. When he left the room, the two travelers were standing, crazy-looking. Max winked at the Israeli girl. He was led him to another room by his elbow, because his hands were cuffed in front. It was an empty room with a chair and a desk and the walls were cracked with white concrete, like walls of poor buildings at beach towns. This joker is going to bluff all night, thought Max.

They continued, Max explaining calmly that he hadn't written anything on his passport, that he was only a student, that he was helping artisans in Peru, duped at the Bolivian border, and wasn't there something he could do. Isn't there sir anything I can do? The midday sun by now was tawny and gold, through the window. He offered him the 90 soles he had in his pocket. He didn't have any more money. That was all he had. The man took the bills and consulted a few more officers that had entered the room. It was all very impressive: they were not going to let him commit a federal crime. Their sense of justice was very great.

Another hour passed and Max just sat there grinning widely. The sun was glinting off his handcuffs.

"Do you have kids, sir?" asked Max. He was boring rappidly with the spectacle. A man like this, a mountain of man, I am sure he has kids. He did not answer. "Your kids, are they studying English?" He did not answer this either. "Well, look sir, I have a present for your kids. Here's an English book. Do you want a book in English for you kids? It is by Ernest Hemingway. He is very famous. Yes, he is very good."

He put his feet around his bag, so that he might open it with his hand cuffed together as they were. He showed him the book. On its cover was a picture of a boy on a train. It was a very American book. The man looked at Max and then he looked at the book. He looked at the bills sitting on the desk and then at the passport and then at the book again. He went out of the room. He came back with the passport stamped and he removed Max's handcuffs.

Neither of them said anything else. Max left the room, and walked quickly to the door. He did not want to look back to see, but he imagined the officer was smiling. It was a good time they had. And now the policeman had an English book.

Outside the two travelers were sitting in the street waiting. The girl was drawing pictures with her finger in the dust. On the bus Max watched the Peruvian streets recede into the distance. There are always problems crossing borders, he said quietly to himself. He look out the window, the dusty town of one country being replaced by the dusty town of another. It looked the same. He wondered whether any of it would be different after all. At least for me, he thought, there are always problems crossing borders.

He watched through the window for a long time, as he did not have his book to read anymore. He thought that Hemingway would not have liked it any other way.

- - -

Holding the map, she showed me where she lived. Max was lying on her hotel bed, looking at the map, trying to imagine a country. What are these mountains? And this city, what does it sound like? She was an artist, she had told him. She lived in Medellin and was 29 years old and her camera was in the corner on the green desk. He was thinking all sorts of things. They were saying almost everything. They talked about New York, she wanted to go to the Guggenheim, she said. And about the bible and art and vegetarianism, as she was a vegetarian, and love and about Simón Bolívar. You know, said Max, he was a brutal, brutal man. He shot all the Europeos, all of them, even the innocent. The secret, Max said, was not be a Europeo. Then you wouldn't get shot. Yes, she said nodding, the secret was not to be the one they wanted to shoot. That's still the secret, she said smiling. Claudia loved to smile, she smiled while she talked. It was all very jolly, lying on the bed that night.

Eventually they just looked at each other. She asked him what he was thinking. He said he was thinking about flowers and clouds and then he leaned in towards her lips. She turned her head. She looked at the wall for a moment. Max tried again, leaning against her body. He tried again to kiss her lips, and then she turned once more, this time, moving close to his ear. She was all seriousness now. She said, too loudly for a whisper: Not all Colombian girls are what you think.

He smiled and kissed her on the cheek and got up from the bed. It was late. Yes, he said, and not all American boys are what you think.

At the door he turned and she was smiling, leaning on her arms on that hotel bed, her black hair falling on her shoulders, blacker than the night through the window. Tomorrow we hike the volcano, Max said. Yes, tomorrow we hike the volcano, she agreed. She thought about blowing him a kiss, but Max wouldn't have seen it. He was already out the door. He was happy. Tomorrow they were going to climb the volcano. He loved Colombia already.