I push open the door of the Chilean customs house and step back out onto the desert frontier. Wind gusts off the icy, sapphire waters of Lago Buenos Aires, threatening to knock me over. I clutch my backpack strap in one hand and in the other a white slip of paper with two stamps from Chile’s migration authority. I’m to receive two more stamps at the Argentinian customs house on the other side of the Río Jeinimeni (although more of a creek than river upon presentation) in another 10 kilometers. Ahead of me, the lunar landscape of Chile Chico stretches out beyond a lone stretch of road. Where the road doubles back to cross the river, the rocky earth continues rumbling into hills on the horizon.

It’s been a couple of hours of walking at this point. Having underestimated the time it would take on this Sunday morning to walk from the border town of Chile Chico to the first customs checkpoint, I am severely behind schedule. My bus southbound to Argentinian Patagonia—the only one of the week—departs from Los Antiguos, Chile Chico’s Argentinian twin across the border, in a handful of hours. My choice to decline the generous offer for a ride made by one of the few passing vehicles on the road was starting to seem like a poor one.

I was curious to walk this stretch though. What would it be like to cross a border on foot that most cross in a vehicle? What would the feeling of standing between borders be like? Will I be alone? Do I have anything better to do anyway?

The final answer was clear: if there was one resource I was flush with as a solo traveler, it was time. Albeit, having failed to account for delays due to an unnecessary distraction by a momma hen and her chiclets followed by a less agreeable encounter with a posse of stray dogs, I had relinquished even that luxury.

Another car whisks by me, vrooming out of the customs house and kicking up a cloud of desert dust in its wake. A shoulder would be nice on this road. All 35 liters of my backpack sit heavier with each step.

Just ahead of me, a lone figure strides. He’s dressed in all black. I’m gaining ground on him. My heart beats a bit faster. Who knows what kind of character walks across this border? Did I even research if this was a safe crossing?

Once parallel with my counterpart, I can size him up better: a young face, a black beanie to match his outfit, and a backpack twice the size of mine. If rubber were to meet the road with this fellow vagrant, I resolve that I could buy myself some precious seconds by simply pushing the man in black onto his turtle shell of a bag and render him harmless.

Before I let my Spanish-speaking insecurities keep me mute, I blurt out a “cómo va?” and flash my best smile.

The young man turns and matches my smile with his own discolored toothy one, clearly just as starved for company out in this deserted no-man’s-land as me. He introduces himself as Jonny. 

“Where are you heading, friend?” Jonny asks between strained breaths and heavy steps—his pack makes mine look like a drawstring.

“To Argentina. I have a bus to Patagonia soon.”

“And why do you walk?” Jonny gestures to the car ahead of us peeling around the bend. His demeanor is cautious, yet eager to listen. “Many tourists cross by car.”

 “I’ve never crossed a border on foot. It seemed like an interesting experience. Also, I have time.” 

Jonny’s eyebrows raise at this response, and the rambler lets out a simple “Hm” before continuing with questions about topics any Yankee becomes quickly accustomed to abroad: our politicians, Disney World, football, American football, how I distinguish between the two, etc. We cover a decent stretch of ground in this time and, before we know it, round the bend in the road.

“… yes, I agree, it doesn’t make a lot of sense considering we use our hands to catch the ball.” I wrap up my monologue. “But Jonny, I still don’t know anything about you, and we’re already halfway there. Tell me, are you walking to or from home?”

“I’m going home, thanks to God,” smiles Jonny. “I get to see my little girl again.”

 “How long do you normally work?” I inquire. It’s morning, so I take it his shift must be a long, overnight one.

“14 days.”

Noting the shock on my face, Jonny continues to explain how he’s on the latter half of his commute home. He’s a salmon fisherman in Chilean Patagonia and works 14 days straight at sea. Once back at port after two weeks, he receives 14 days off and begins the laborious journey home to Argentina: a 3-hour car ride through the ridges of the southern Andes, a 30-minute prop plane to cross the massive Lago Buenos Aires (or Lago General Carrera if you’re on the Chilean side), a 4-hour walk from Chile Chico to Los Antiguos, and a 5-hour bus deeper to Pico Truncado.

Jonny informs me proudly that Pico Truncado is most notably where two of Argentina’s major southern highways intersect. I feign impression at this trivia; any place known for being one that people pass through on their way to greater destinations does not bode well for Jonny’s little municipality in the Santa Cruz province.

“Why do you travel so far to work?” I ask innocently and equally ignorantly. “Is there nothing closer to your home?”

The truth is, Jonny plainly states, there are not any other opportunities. The Argentinian economic conditions are harsh on all its citizens, and the pain compounds in the forgotten communities in its arid southern interior.

Earlier in the year, Jonny lost his job at the local mechanic shop, and anything else he found after that point failed to pay the bills.

“This is my best option. I have a wife and a daughter with 5 years to care for,” Jonny concludes wistfully. 

Blood rushes to my cheeks, and I fall silent. The privilege in my reason to walk across the border is not lost on me.

Jonny is on this walk because there is no other option. There is no car, no bus, no closer employment—meanwhile, I’m walking for kicks.

With the Argentinian customs house approaching, Jonny notes my sudden retreat from our conversation and intuitively perceives what caused me to draw into my shell.

“This is not something I would have ever expected, walking home with a tourist,” he adds, breaking the silence. “I appreciate that you are walking this road with me.”

I glance at the once-again grinning Jonny, and my shame subsides. It’s clear how much my companionship means to him as he makes his tedious commute across this barren landscape.

“The pleasure is mine,” I sigh, relieved. “This is my chance to understand the perspective of walking across the border instead of riding in the luxury of a vehicle.”

Jonny lets out a laugh. “Friend, I don’t think you’ll ever understand what it’s like to walk this border out of necessity.”

“No, I didn’t mean—”

“Tranquilo,” Jonny interrupts my backpedaling. “This is what I appreciate about your walk. You won’t understand. Although, to travel at the same pace as me is the closest you can get. I respect the fact you’re willing to do that. 

Having gracefully overcome the clash between cultures, the remainder of our walk turns lighthearted once again as we make quick progress—only hampered by a couple of stops for Jonny to smoke a joint—towards the customs house with the faded blue and white flag.

Still uneasy at my haste for making the bus in Los Antiguos, I’m pleased to find processing at customs to be rather swift, the first and final efficient process in this southern brute of a nation I would find out in later travels. I turn in my white slip of paper, respond to a few questions with noncommittal answers about how long I’m staying, and am no sooner than a few minutes later back outside in the howling wind with Jonny.

We continue into Los Antiguos, and I’m amused to find both its buildings and inhabitants hardly distinct in appearance from its Chilean twin, still visible across the miserable river. Thinking back to the characterless wasteland Jonny and I had just crossed between the two nations, it begs the question: What good is that border?

There is no physical boundary here like mountains or a body of water. The buildings look identical, and the same cherry trees line the road as did in Chile Chico. No, the only purpose it serves is to sentence Argentinians like Jonny to the hands of a dwindling economy while those born 10 kilometers away take comfort in a relatively stable Chilean one—another manmade line determining one’s lot in life.

We make it to the bus station in the nick of time. Jonny’s bus sits alongside mine, chugging exhaust as its weary travelers hand their luggage to the young porter. He dutifully places a sticker on each bag, stows the bag in the below-deck storage compartment, and returns a claim ticket to its owner. Both parties know full well that the ticket will never be checked when retrieving the luggage at its destination.

It is here that Jonny and I part ways with a strong handshake and a hug as if our friendship spanned years instead of hours. I wish him the best in his endeavors and he in mine. Jonny boards his awaiting bus as I walk to the ticket counter to buy a last-minute southbound for El Calafate.

“No tickets remain,” the ticket office attendant indifferently informs me.  

“How do no tickets remain?” I counter, astonished. “I can see the bus. There are plenty of empty seats.”

The attendant takes a long draw from her cigarette and lowers her gaze.

“Those seats will be filled later in the journey,” she returns, pointing to an old school timetable board on the wall. “You can choose from those destinations.”

 Frustrated, I plop down on a bench in front of the bus timetables. All the planning for nothing. All the hurry for nothing. How am I supposed to get down south? I take after the irritable ticket lady and roll up a cigarette of my own as I search for a solution.

Determined for my crossing to have not been in vain, I scan the timetable through puffs of smoke for an alternate route. It’s slim pickings and, unremarkably, not a single one is heading south.

I watch as the other passengers board the bus, unfettered by any hurry to speak of. That’s when I’m reminded why I walked in the first place. While short on cash, I had a glut of time. Who said I had to get down to Patagonia by today? I simply needed to get out of dusty Los Antiguos.

Looking back at the timetables, the answer comes to me as I recognize a sole name on the list of destinations. I snap up a ticket from the counter and shoulder my backpack.

It’s my lucky day—I know someone in Pico Truncado.