Into Bolivia as a Citizen of Texas, Colombia

Guest Post by Dirk Weisiger

I’d heard horror stories of US citizens having a hard time traveling through Bolivia.

My new British friend, Ian and I decided to ride through Bolivia together. He was riding a Yamaha, but he knew more about my BMW than I did since he’d owned one before.

As we reached the border of Peru and queued up in the line, a man stepped out from the crowd and asked us to pay five dollars to cross the bridge to the immigration station. We paid, but it seemed odd.

Odd was about to get even odder.

As we waited in line to have our passports stamped, Ian received his as they waved him through. I, on the other hand, was ushered to another room because I didn’t have a visa.

They wanted to deport me back to Peru to get a visa. An Argentine rider persuaded the policeman to let me apply for the visa there at the border. Twenty dollars to help “the children” persuaded the official to let me stay.

After seven—yes, seven—hours obtaining bank documents and proving I’d be staying in La Paz, and then verifying I was gainfully employed, the officials gave me a visa. “Gave” might not be the right word since it cost three hundred dollars.

On the positive side, I’m now the proud owner of a ten-year visa to the country of Bolivia.

Fair enough, it’s their country. It seems the officials of Bolivia simply make Americans do what we make foreign visitors to our country do. As I headed for the Iron Horse, I noticed my backpack had been stolen. My laptop was inside… with all my travel writings.

I was totally deflated. This was the low point of my trip, and I was ready to head back to Texas.

“Cheer up, mate,” Ian chirped, snapping me out of my gloom. We had a three-hour ride before nightfall. Never underestimate the power of a good riding buddy. So, onward to La Paz.

All through Bolivia, I followed Ian through the gas stations. If you’re a foreigner, you pay double for fuel, as it’s subsidized for citizens by the government. If your home country wasn’t on the computer list, you couldn’t buy gasoline.

England was on the list. I never saw the USA. They never scrolled down that far.

As we were about to leave the country, the gas station attendant asked for my passport. I quickly showed her my Texas driver’s license—well, we were a Republic once. She didn’t see Texas on her list.

“Where is that?” she asked.

I pointed to the first country I saw, Colombia. “Texas is a little province in the north, near the Amazon. Delighted, she wrote down Texas, Colombia.

I don’t know if US citizens can buy gas in Bolivia, but a Texan can!