How To Leave Without A Bike

I love Latin American bureaucracy.  Have I mentioned that before?

To leave the country, you must get an exit stamp in your passport that corresponds to the entry stamp you got when you arrived.  There's a small slip of paper that is filled out when you enter that says where you entered, what mode of transport, etc.  You have to keep that slip of paper to show to the officials when you're getting your exit stamp.  My problem was that I had entered Chile on a bike, but now was leaving on a plane.  They take this stuff very seriously.

"I'm just leaving for ten days," I explain in broken, Tarzan-Spanish.

"You arrived on a bike.  Where is the bike now," the official asks, thankfully speaking slower now that he realizes just how bad my Spanish is.

"It's in Coyhaique."  He doesn't seem to go for this.  "I'll be coming back for it.  In ten days.  I'm coming back in ten days."  I have a sudden urge to pantomime airplanes going and returning and me riding away happily ten days hence.

He spends a few more minutes flipping back and forth in my passport.  "You need to talk to him."  The exit-stamper points to an unlabeled window down the hall with another passport official sound asleep on his desk.

I try to wake him as carefully as I can.  "Excuse me."  Nothing.  A little louder, "Pardon me."  Nothing.  From in front of the window, I can see there's a small office behind the wall.  One of the official's office-mates gives him a poke in the ribs.  Before he can get upset, I say, "I was told to see you by the man over there about leaving Chile without my bike."  That was the best I could do with my current Spanish vocabulary.  I had him my passport and point to my entrance papers by way of explanation.

He, too, takes a few minutes to familiarize himself with the insides of my passport before handing it back to me and telling me that he's in charge of strange things coming into the country, not strange things leaving it.  I'll have to talk to the officials down the stairs and he points further down the hall.

At this point, I'm starting to get a little nervous.  I'm getting farther from my flight which each official I talk to.  It's now a few minutes before 1am and my flight leaves at 1:30.  Dutifully, I find the stairs and another window-in-the-wall/office combination at the bottom.  This one seems to be where all the cool kids hang out as everyone is chatting and laughing and joking around.

Again I explain my situation: yes, I arrived by bike; no, I didn't sell it; yes, I'll be back in ten days to continue riding; no, I didn't sell it; yes, it's being stored at an hospedaje in Coyhaique; no, I didn't sell it.  I felt like I was getting somewhere!  My nervousness was leaving me -- I would make my flight and I would see Joanna again.

"I'm sorry, only the boss can approve this."  I'm nervous again.

"Where's the boss?"

"Oh, he'll be back in 20 minutes or so."  Not nervousness anymore, more like dread.

"I have a flight at 1:30," I plead.  He gives my a gesture that I've seen all over Latin America: he tips his head slightly and spreads his hands, palm-side up as if to say, "I'd like to help you, but it's out of my control."

This official knows about as much English as I do Spanish so we spend a while practicing each other's languages.  It's 1:20am and he notices I'm looking that the clock.  "Es el jefe de vuelta," I ask?

He looks around.  I know, as does he, that no one has come or gone, but I think he's starting to feel some sympathy for my plight.  He takes another look through my passport and then carefully prints on a small piece of paper: "Mike Keran has permission to leave the country without his bike for ten days."  He stamps the slip of paper, signs it and hands it to me.

"Gracias!"

I dash up the stairs and hurry to where my problems started.  The officer barely glances at my "official" permission slip before he thwack-thwack stamps my exit visa.  I jog to the gate.  The stewardess doesn't even give me a look of annoyance as I step onto the plane and they close the door behind me.