I like borders. They are the confirmation that the world is not ending, more paths are left to go. Whenever I get to one, I want to cross the other side. It is hard to turn their backs, truth, Although administratives have taken over them and determine to turn them into simple customs, What little consideration. Its, general, An open book that outlines the ideosincrasia of its people and anticipates the landscapes of its geography. There is a pedagogy of the borders, yes. Some explain to a thousand wonders human stupidity; Others Seste in remote places, indifferent to the world around them, deliberately absent; A few continue to be closely monitored by past affronts that seem ridiculous and, In a handful of lucky, Only the rumor of a river or the howl of the wind is heard.
It is true that getting to them is, often, Tropez with plenipotentiaries of the official seal and apprentices of reeyzuelos of the barataria and that, around it, The furs of bonds and embouucadores proliferate, But it is no less true that in a few places like in the borders life with capital letters: The life you leave behind and, especially, The one you have ahead. Nothing more exciting than crossing that line.
Some explain to a thousand wonders human stupidity; Others Seste in remote places, indifferent to the world
My first border I crossed on foot as a child. My father pointed to me some stone cairns in the middle of the mountain, in Pyrenees Oscese. "That's France", I heard perplexed. And I walked for a few steps that, In a few seconds, already gave about another country. I thought that ease of transferring lines on the maps, When the United Europe was still a dream of crazy. Since then, I, I like borders.
And that I have known later has nothing to do with that dwelling children's memory. And Namanga, Between Kenya and Tanzania, They were about to steal my passports. To my mother, ORANDA AND BONANCIBLE APPEARANCE, did not wake up any suspicions, and offered to process the visa in exchange for ten dollars. It was my first trip to Africa and I didn't ask me questions. Judging by the pandemónium that was guessed in the border post Tanzano it seemed a reasonable price to save us that guirigay. Past half an hour, I started worrying. I approached the counter, Actually a revelry from hands to the air and sweat bodies. Suddenly I thought my name. I barely made way to the front row and searched among the passports spread around the bar until I found ours. There was no trace of the kind breast. At least I had given them to immigration officers.
My first border I crossed on foot as a child. My father pointed to me some cairns. "That's France", I heard perplexed
And Kodari, The passage of Tibet to Nepal, To get the papers I had to lose before, What a paradox, The papers. After having paid in Katmandu ten days before a visa that allowed a second entry in the country, They wanted to go back to stamp the seal. Then I ended up starring in one of the most surreal scenes in which I have seen myself wrapped, shouting in Spanish my tiredness and giving them reliably a photo of my four -year -old to process me a new visa. It was a sovereign stupidity that could have cost me face, but, fortunately, Sablazo's perpetrators were indolent even to put a tourist in Delirium tremens at the waist. By Kodari, however, I will always remember the passage of the border on foot, dragging the suitcases, For a bridge over the noisy waterfall that separates Nepal from Tibet, While the little girl rumbled around us like a festive troupe.
Some borders, Like the fence that Israel separates from Palestine in Galilee, They produce sadness. Others force you to contain breathing: in view of the Imperial Castillo de Ivangorod, On the other shore of the river Narva, Border between Estonia and Russia. In the Bosphorus, where the distance between Europe and Asia was never so short, The epic of the shelves of history is perceived, of those classics like herodotus that recorded the 300 D ends that jerges ordered to inflict the Hellespont to destroy the bridge that the Persians had tended from one shore to another. Few punishments as poetic as that.
In the Bosphorus the epic of the shelves of history is perceived, of Herodotus and the 300 Sleesponto jerkothes
In the north of Tigray, Between a sea of ??stones where Ethiopia and Eritrea drew their border line after the split of the second, It is difficult to understand that this arid horizon, still sown with mines, It has cost so many lives and continues to be the subject of eternal controversy among the old blood brothers. In the Ugandés Park of Ishasha, south of Lake Eduardo and north of the Mountains of Virunga, Only a small river of muddy waters separated us from the Congo. Across, The jungle swallowed everything, As if time had not passed since Stanley entered her entrails with her little army to cross Africa from this to west. Is, probably, one of the most aggressive borders in which I have been (leaving iguazú, already domesticated as a tourist attraction) and, nevertheless, They won to cross the other shore. The irresistible border magnetism.
Without a doubt, The passage from Argentina to Chile south of Patagonia, by border post of Tennis Career, It has been one of the most uncertain. I left the cafate in the middle of winter with dark omen. They assured us that we would not get it, warning us that any setback in Patagonian solitude (A puncture, A fault, An inopportune storm) We would complicate life and the possibility of helping. Omar, A gaucho converted in remiser, I thought it was possible. We got on your car.
In court careers officials, fought with loneliness, They entertained themselves by checking with more gasoline than allowed
One of the most imperishable moments was the passage of that border away from everything where the rules of men seemed ridiculous. The officials, fought with loneliness, They entertained themselves by checking with more gasoline than allowed (A habitual practice of Argentine cars drivers not to buy fuel in Chile, where the price is greater). Surrounded by resounding Patagonian immensity, A step away from the Torres del Paine and after many hours of gravel from Calafate, The desire to cross were immense. Almost as if life were in it. And we cross.
