I recently had the pleasure of being denied a work visa for Colombia. One word was my downfall, finances. My job has nothing to do with finance. I’m being hired because of my ability to speak English and understand climbing equipment. In an attempt to impress the consular we decided to include my banking background on my application. The attempted flattery cost me 30 hours on a bus, 250,000 pesos, 450 bolivars and $50.

Colombia heavily regulates finance, including the word in my contract unleashed a new set of regulation that I wasn’t prepared to deal with. The consular wasn’t indifferent to my plight. He told me I would have to return to Bogota to rewrite my contract, warned me I only had three weeks left on my visa and smiled as he wrote down exactly what to include on my new contract. We shook hands after finishing our coffees and I told him I would see him in two weeks.

After lining up to collect my exit stamp I had a mile stroll to the Colombian border. The weight of my pack doubled under the equatorial sun. Because I didn’t have a 30 day tourist stamp left I would have to answer some questions for the boarder officer. They questions started out normally enough.

“Why do you want to enter Colombia? Where are you going? Why were you in Venezuela for only one day? Do you have an onward ticket? How will you support yourself while in Colombia?”

Things seemed fine but he wouldn’t give me an entry stamp. When I asked why he insisted there must be a way I could show him I was financially secure. He didn’t ask for a bribe directly but twice stated that I must be carrying dollars.

Not wanting to encourage future bribes I excused myself and decided I would head back to Venezuela. I walked back across the Rio Pamplonita only to be informed that I had to wait 24 hours before I could re-enter the country.

Realizing that I was stuck with a couple of bad options I did what any rational person would; I panicked. I sat on the edge of the bridge watching Venezuelans smuggle gasoline they purchase for 15 cents across the river where it sells for over $4. My thoughts wondered from my own peril to the difficult lives of those I watched below. I set speculating how much the cartels spent to pay the police to look the other way, how much they profited and how large the drain was on Chavez’s government. The thoughts of corruption brought me full circle to my situation. I had a few options, none of them good.

1) Pay off the border agent.

2) Spend a very dangerous night in no man’s land.

3) Enter Colombia illegally to get my stuff from Bogota, pay a fine and leave the country.

As I sat watching the river a women’s chant caught my ear. She was selling coffee with a cigarette for 500 pesos. I’m not a smoker, but it was the best cigarette of my life. I’m not sure if it was the caffeine or the nicotine but something brought me an idea. The boarder agent would also be taking a coffee break around two in the afternoon. Someone had to replace him, hopefully someone honest. I sat down where I could see in the windows but wouldn’t attract attention. Like clockwork the boarder agent left his post and was replaced by young women.

I hurried to the window and she stamped my passport without as much as a second look. I have two weeks to prepare my paperwork and head back to Venezuela but I’m not worried now. I know that when you’re legally in no country the answer is enjoy the coffee, it’s the best you will ever have.