The first frontiers
Carolina Reymundez / Altaïr Magazine
Exit to emerge. Exit the house, leave the neighborhood, leave the province, leave the country. The first frontiers, the ones that we cross at the age of twenty or twenty-five, with a back-pack, and a little money, function as a rite of passage into the adult world. Leave on a journey of discovery and initiation. Exit to find your own path. The first frontiers are challenges of responsibility, security and success in the feat of travel. We all remember our first frontiers as a hit. Exit as a metaphor for personal constitution.
To know seventy countries I had to cross many frontiers. At some point an immigration employee made a joke and said “Maradona” or “Messi,” but most of the time they looked at me with distrust while asking: “How long are you going to stay, where, you’ve been her before, what are you coming for, do you know somebody?” In Jamaica they invited me to come inside a cabin and I was searched from head to toe. And, in the Czech Republic it was necessary to explain what mate grass was using a language of gestures. In Chile I almost went to jail for a mango fruit that had fallen on a car seat without notice, and in Peru I had to explain why I travelled with a sharpened knife. The explanation was less than truthful. Had I explained that the knife was to cut the cheese I had in my backpack I would not have been allowed to pass. […]
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