Moments in Other Latitudes:
Travel Anecdotes

Soweto, Phuket, and the Value of the Unnecessary

Part 1: South Africa, the Country That Bet on the Improbable

In 1995, South Africa was the emotional center of the world. Not because of a war, nor a catastrophe, but because of something unprecedented. After decades of oppression, despair, and crushed rebellions—like the tragic Soweto uprising in 1976—a revolution had reached its conclusion without descending into civil war.

Against all odds, the country had entered a new era without vengeance, without further bloodshed, and with a dignity that moved the world.

Just twenty months earlier, in April 1994, the country's first free and multiracial elections were held. And that gaunt man who emerged after twenty-seven years in prison, emerged from his cell not to seek revenge, but with an outstretched hand: Nelson Mandela was elected president.

Apartheid—that monstrous architecture of legalized hatred—had fallen. The Nobel Peace Prize, jointly awarded to Mandela and F.W. de Klerk in December 1993, was merely the prologue. The real story was being written in the streets, in the stadiums—and in the soul of a nation.

In June 1995, the Springboks—a symbol of the old order—won the Rugby World Cup against New Zealand.

But the enduring image wasn't the final try—it was something far more powerful: Mandela, clad in the green jersey of a team that for decades had represented white power, presenting the trophy to that very team's captain. This was more than sport—it was political alchemy.

It was that torrent of news—the end of apartheid, the shared Nobel Peace Prize, the free elections, the Rugby World Cup won at home—that made me organize my trip to South Africa. Johannesburg was, at the time, one of the most dangerous cities on the planet, yet I felt drawn to the history unfolding before the world's eyes. The internet was still in its infancy... and all available chess news fit on barely twenty websites.

I knew no one in this simmering country, which was just beginning to redraw its identity. So I came up with a simple and somewhat naive idea: to email some Mathematics professors at the University of Johannesburg, under the pretext of asking academic questions... while actually seeking travel advice. When I had nearly given up hope, one of them replied. And that timely response sealed my decision.

And so it was that, with ticket in hand, backpack on my shoulder, and passport ready, I embarked on an adventure I never imagined would be so moving and transformative; one of those journeys where, as often happens, what truly leaves its mark isn't what you planned for... but rather the unexpected move that catches you off guard.

Part 2: The Unnecessary Prevention of a Harmless Oversight

The adventure began taking shape in Montevideo, during the spring of 1995. My first step was to visit the South African consulate, where I inquired about entry requirements for the trip I was planning months later.

"Valid passport and yellow fever vaccination certificate," they told me.

"Is the vaccine mandatory?"

"Yes, to protect you from the virus at your destination."

There was no room for doubt. I set out to find where they administered that exotic vaccine in Montevideo. I ended up at the Military Hospital, where they still kept reserved doses, primarily for Uruguayan soldiers departing on peacekeeping missions in Africa. They injected me with the attenuated virus, and for three days I cursed the fever, the chills, and the absurd idea of wanting to travel so far.

After overcoming the fever and with certificate in hand, I resumed my preparations with the feeling —naive, as so often— that I now had everything under control. I packed my bags, organized my documents, had my flight status OK. Everything seemed in order.

But I hadn't accounted for last-minute traps. I realized this when the plane began its descent into Johannesburg. The captain announced the local time, the destination temperature... and reminded us that as this was a flight originating from South America (São Paulo–Johannesburg), it was mandatory to present the yellow fever vaccination certificate. I checked my waist pouch several times. Nothing. The yellow document was missing.

It was a direct flight, but in 1995 —when current international regulations about layovers didn't yet exist— the rules were more flexible. Today, just a few hours transit in a yellow fever country would require the certificate, even for Uruguayans. But that year, as I checked my waist pouch during descent, I discovered something worse than bureaucracy: I had traveled confidently... but unprotected.

Panic set in. Would they deport me? Put me in quarantine?

I clenched my teeth and walked toward immigration control. During that long walk, approaching the extensive lines of passengers waiting to stamp their passports, I encountered about five enormous columns whose signs indicated, by continent or region, which countries' citizens needed to have their yellow fever vaccination cards ready.

In the column corresponding to South America, I believe all countries were listed except Uruguay and possibly Chile. The list followed alphabetical order: Argentina, Bolivia, Brazil, Colombia, Ecuador... ending with V for Venezuela.

Truth be told, I thought: "How insignificant we are—we don’t even make it onto the column!"

—"Passport, please," an officer said to me, sounding more bored than hostile.

I handed over my passport, holding my breath.

Stamp! Just like that. No further questions. Not even a mention of the yellow fever vaccine.

Confused, I walked into the airport’s main hall. Now unhurried, and more curious than afraid, I approached the column again. I struggled to accept that while others were being asked for their certificate, I had been let through as if nothing was amiss.

The doubt nagged at me, but I couldn’t just approach any official—what if they asked me, "And your certificate? Don’t you have one?"

So I looked around, trying to find someone who seemed trustworthy. That’s when I saw her: an elderly woman in a discreet uniform, with a calm face and a patient demeanour, like someone who had answered hundreds of questions without ever losing her temper.

I approached cautiously, almost whispering, as if sharing a secret:

—"Excuse me, why isn’t Uruguay on that list?"

The woman smiled with unexpected warmth, as if she knew exactly what was going through my mind. Her answer was simple, final, and almost motherly:

—"Very simple, young man. I believe Uruguay is the only country in South America without yellow fever."

I walked away in silence. I didn’t know whether to laugh or be grateful. That document I had gone to such lengths to obtain wasn’t even necessary. South Africa didn’t require the certificate because Uruguay posed no risk. Ironically, I’d been vaccinated to protect a country that didn’t need it… from another that didn’t require it either.

Now more at ease, I began my exploration of Johannesburg and, especially, Soweto, the vast Black township that became the symbolic heart of South African resistance during apartheid.

Of all the images etched in my memory from that trip, one has endured: Vilakazi Street, the only street in the world where two Nobel Peace Prize winners once lived.

Desmond Tutu was awarded the prize in 1984 for his courageous and steadfast resistance against the brutality of apartheid. Nelson Mandela won it in 1993 for achieving the seemingly impossible: reconciling a broken nation.

Their humble homes, now museums, stand open to the public as secular temples of memory. I walked down that street with reverence, knowing that more than just history lingered there.

Part 3: Thailand: The Immunological Echo of an Old Lesson

Some thirty years later, the scene would repeat itself—though on a different stage: Phuket Airport, Thailand.

I was travelling from Istanbul, with a layover in Singapore, heading to Southeast Asia for a few days of rest. That 1995 episode was far from forgotten, but it had faded from active memory… until the passenger ahead of me was called aside by an officer. Seeing his South American passport, the agent barely hesitated: he was immediately referred to Health Control.

Moments later, it was my turn. I approached the same officer, who flipped through my Uruguayan passport with the same suspicious look:

—"You must also go through Health Control first," he said firmly.

—"Uruguay doesn’t have yellow fever," I replied. "Besides, I’ve just spent two weeks in Europe."

The young officer hesitated. He consulted a more experienced colleague, who barely glanced up and nodded sternly, as if to say: *"You should know this."* The stamp came down with a sharp thud, followed by a dismissive *"Ok, ok"*, muttered without looking up.

Tucked in a fold of my money belt was not the old 1995 certificate, but the one I’d renewed in 2018 while planning another trip to Thailand. I’d preferred to be cautious: my yellow fever vaccination card was still valid, though worn and frayed by time. Back in Montevideo, renewing it, I discovered—not without irony—that the paperwork cost the same as a new vaccination. I didn’t need the jab, just the stamp. But life has these little quirks: paying the same for ink as for a needle. Two continents, three decades… and the same story. A nearly useless document… yet unforgettable.

Epilogue: The Value of What’s Missing

Some countries have oil. Others, diamonds. We Uruguayans have something more modest: a sanitary privilege. An epidemiological detail that goes unnoticed, yet at times becomes an unspoken passport.

Doors open for us not just because of the absence of a virus, but also because of that Uruguayan way of being in the world: discreet, hospitable, unconfrontational, and—at times—surprisingly trustworthy.

In two airports, in two different hemispheres, I witnessed a fact few know and even fewer appreciate: Uruguay has no yellow fever.

The silver lining came from elsewhere. Because while South Africa didn’t require it, other destinations demand the certificate if you’ve transited through a risk country. And there, having it—even if forgotten at the time—became a retroactive blessing. So in the end, it wasn’t so bad to have gotten vaccinated after all.

Years later, the lesson took another unexpected turn: the World Health Organization updated its guidelines, declaring the yellow fever vaccine confers lifelong immunity.

In the 1990s, that same certificate had an expiry date—ten years, according to the paper—but time extended its value, just as it does with certain memories that, far from fading, grow sharper.

So yes, the certificate was, in part, useless… but it was also a teacher. It taught me that some documents we carry out of fear end up being understood through gratitude. And it reminded me that even what we forget can protect us.

Some countries reinvent themselves from tragedy. South Africa did. Some dazzle through tourism. Thailand achieves that. And then there are small, unassuming countries that surprise by what they *don’t* have.

That day in Phuket, I understood something else: that sometimes the paper is the least of it… and that what’s truly useless—if we let it grow—is fear itself.