Torrential rain greeted us on the morning of November 15th, the day before our departure from Leticia, Colombia for a four-day, slow-boat journey down the Amazon river to Manaus, Brazil. Our tuk-tuk driver picked us up at 8:30am to complete the morning’s tasks: an exit stamp on our passports from the Colombian migration office at the port of Leticia followed by an entry stamp from Brazilian migration officials in nearby Tabatinga.
After fording a few lakes that had taken over intersections, forcing motorcycle and scooter riders to lift their feet high, our driver parked the tuk tuk at the top of the hill leading down the recently ripped-up street to the edge of the river. A long set of concrete stairs led down to a flooded, muddy path that connected to a sheet of water racing down a concrete ramp. From there, it was a few short steps to a metal gangplank attached to the rectangular box that housed the Colombian migration office, which floats on the Amazon river near the triple border of Colombia, Peru, and Brazil. We descended the stairs, stepped carefully through the sloped, slippery mud, sloshed down the ramp, and entered the building. Other than the security guard, there was no one working in the office. He told us to wait for the agents to return but gave no indication when that might be.
One other person, a twenty-something man in a red soccer shirt, sat in the waiting room. We struck up a conversation and learned that our waiting room companion, Jose Romero, was trying to get to Chile. He had fled Venezuela on November 1st with his wife and two sons, aged 2 and 3. He showed me their Visa to enter Chile, which was valid until November 20, only five days away. They were desperately trying to reach the border before it expired. Their plan was to board a fast boat to Iquitos, the Peruvian capital of Amazonia, then fly to Lima, and take a bus across the border between Peru and Chile. But the Peruvian authorities would not let them enter the country without plane tickets out. Unfortunately, they had no money to buy those tickets, nor a credit card to book them, present them to the Peruvian migration officials, and cancel within 24 hours for a full refund. He said the migration official told him, “We don’t want any more Venezuelans in Peru.”
They had resigned themselves to going to Medellin, Colombia, where they had family ready to host them temporarily. Their plan was to find jobs, earn some money, and attempt to procure another Visa to Chile in the future. Somehow, he maintained a smile and a positive attitude while recounting his family’s depressing story. He said, “Colombia has been very welcoming to us. At every turn, Colombian officials have treated us with respect and made every effort to help us. I think this is because Venezuela was very welcoming to Colombians during their times of trouble, when Pablo Escobar was still alive.”
Our waiting tuk tuk driver was getting impatient, so we decided to abandon the Colombian migration office and make our way to Tabatinga to procure our passport stamps for entry into Brazil. Jose didn’t have his cell phone with him and didn’t remember his WhatsApp number, so I wrote down my contact information and asked him to please reach out, in case there was anything we could do to help. I thought perhaps I could use my own credit card to purchase plane tickets they could show the Peruvian authorities, then cancel them in time to receive a refund.
We splashed our way back up the hill, slipping and sliding on the washed out mud path, and – soaked to the core – climbed back into the tuk tuk for the trip across the border into Brazil.
To be honest, there is no actual border dividing Leticia and Tabatinga, and no need to present a passport to travel between them. In fact, you can drive from one to the other without even slowing down, as they simply blend into each other. The only indicator that you have crossed the border is the fact that the language on road signs and restaurant placards changes from Spanish to Portuguese. But if you’re planning to travel more than 80 km beyond the border, in either direction, you’ll need a passport stamp unless you want to pay a $500 fine upon arrival at your next destination. Since we were heading to Manaus – a 1,200 kilometer journey into Brazil – we needed to check in at this border.
Unlike in Colombia, the Brazilian migration office in Tabatinga was housed in an actual concrete building, with a parking lot, on the side of a main street in town. We entered the building, presented our passports to the agent, and told him we were going to Manaus. He stamped our passports, handed them back, and we returned to the tuk tuk, convinced we’d missed something because the process was so simple and successful.
Back at the hotel, I received a WhatsApp message from Jose.
“There was a miracle. Peru is going to let us pass. I’m really happy!” he wrote. “Right now I am thinking about the money necessary to go to Lima from the Peruvian border. I hope our family in Venezuela can help us.”
He figured they would need around $250 to fly the family one way from Iquitos to Lima, where they could catch a 14-hour bus to Arica, Chile. The timing would be tight, but if their family could help them financially, their dream of reaching Chile could come true. I congratulated him on their good fortune and asked if they would like to meet for a celebratory beer later in the afternoon. The Colombian migration office was scheduled to open again at 2pm, where we’d need to return to get the stamp that had eluded us earlier in the day. We agreed to meet somewhere near the port of Leticia around 3:00 pm.
Our second visit to the Colombian migration office was quite different from the first. The rain had subsided, the ramp river had stopped flowing, and the muddy path was no longer submerged in standing water, thought it was still as slippery as snot. There were two agents working the counter, and one of them was available. We told him we were leaving the next day for Manaus on the boat, and he spent several minutes scrutinizing our passports before breaking into laughter. He pointed to our Brazilian entry stamps from earlier in the day and said, “You already got these?”
“There was no one here this morning, so we went to Tabatinga while we waited for you to come back,” I replied. At least, that’s what I think I said, in my toddler-level Spanish. He smiled, shook his head, and stamped our passports before handing them back.
An hour later, we were sitting with Jose, his wife, and their two children at an outdoor cafe. The two-year-old boy was asleep in his mom’s lap, while the three-year old boy and Jose shared a chair, both sniffling. Jose told me they had been traveling non-stop for two weeks, through Venezuela, Ecuador, and Colombia to try and make their way into Chile. Before leaving, they had sold both their cars, their furniture, television, cell phones, and anything else of value to gather enough money for the journey. They had slept in cheap motels when they could and on the ground outside the Peruvian migration office across the river from Leticia before being turned away by the agent who told them Venezuelans were not welcome. The constant travel, extreme changes in climate (from cold Bogota to the steaming Amazon), and lack of sleep had taken their toll, and their finances were depleted. Both Jose and Mateo, the older son, were running fevers. The youngest son’s sleep patterns were off, which meant that Jose and his wife would take turns entertaining him through the evening, as he had taken to waking up at 10:00 pm nightly, ready to play.
When I asked how they managed to get permission from the Peruvians to enter the country, Jose explained that they spoke with a female agent who sympathized with their situation and agreed to give them the visa they needed to travel through the country. After researching ticket prices, they discovered they would need nearly $600 for plane tickets for the four of them. And while their family in Venezuela was ready and able to help them financially, they were unable to send the money to Colombia, as the government was not allowing banks to transfer money out of the country.
So, dejected and exhausted, they had decided to go to Medellin after all. They had booked flights the following day, and their cousins were excited to greet them at the airport. After some rest and recuperation, they will begin looking for work. Jose – who is quite proficient in English – has a background in marketing and has worked previously for a beer company in Venezuela. His wife will look for a job in her field of Business Administration.
We made an email introduction to a friend of a friend in Medellin in the hopes that he can help them with networking. We also gave them a bit of money to hopefully ease some of their financial stress, though it won’t solve any long-term problems. During the six months we have been traveling through South America, we have seen Venezuelans doing whatever they can to survive in Peru, Bolivia, Ecuador, Argentina, Chile, and Colombia, whether that is peddling candy on the street for change, selling homemade arepas from styrofoam coolers, or working in restaurants, coffee shops, and tour companies. Nearly every Venezuelan we have talked to has expressed a desire to go home, and a deep sadness that returning is simply not an option right now, and may not be for a long time to come. And while we always carry spare change to give to people on the street, this has been our first opportunity to help in a specific and meaningful (though very small) way.
We will be keeping in touch with Jose and his family, as they map out their future. If you have connections in Medellin or a desire to provide this family with hope for the difficult journey ahead, we would be happy to connect you.