Nevermind that the hot water nozzle drains a dismal ice cool, when I tell our hostess with the mostess at breakfast over some Calafate jam–oh yeah, we eat the elusive Calafate berry, and if legends are true, it seals our fate for a comeback to its namesake town for more scrumptious savoring of this tangy blueberry-esque purple yumminess–she might as well just spit, “no shit, Sherlock,” because if looks could kill, hers makes me feel like somehow, it’s my fault.
Guess I will not be properly limpiared prior to recrossing the border.
Exit Hostal Geminis, our home away from home, and enter 8 AM bus to Calafate, theoretically only a hop, skip, and a jump away, but because immigration is involved, the journey doubles in time.
And, in drama.
We leave two ladies in no man’s land, a skinny European chick bawling her eyes out once she realizes she is two hours into this bus ride, sin passeporte, and I admire her buddy for keeping calm and cool, for if there is one thing I obsessively check prior to going anywhere, it’s 1) passport, 2) wallet, 3) camera.
Lady number two is an Asian American chica who arranges her tour via an agency, and upon presenting her passport to get into Argentina, they politely refuse her entry, for she lacks the quintessential piece of paper worth her $140 pre-arrival visa, and, just like the honey badger, immigration here simply don’t care that whatever-you-call-it agency misleads you all the way to Timbuktu.
Just give ’em a call, lady friend.
Two down, we make it through the Chile check-out, Argentina check-in for lunch in the berry city, El Calafate, the remaining passengers happy to have survived the jaws of administrative nightmares.