Improv: The One About Corruption
This is the second in a series about my eighteen-month kerfuffle with Ecuadorean Customs. For background, please see my earlier post, Check-In Checklist.
In October, Ecuador is besieged by protests over a fuel hike. The government shuts down for the duration, imposing a curfew and road closures. We decide to postpone our return until things cool down.
It means we’ll need another extension of our temporary import, our DJT. There’s a small problem, though. You can only extend a DJT from inside Ecuador. Any irregularity could lead to expensive consequences. The one-man Customs office was known to levy fines of $150 for not having a captain’s license (which wasn’t a requirement for entry) –always payable in cash, no receipt.
Noonsite reported a $70,000 fine for overstaying despite the captain notifying the marina of a medical situation. A closer read showed the fine reduced to $3,800, but still.
I email the Puerto Lucia Yacht Club for advice, but my contact, Diana Jose, doesn’t respond.
Five days before our DJT expires, the government re-opens and I catch a plane.
Something’s Fishy
In the marina office, Diana Jose doesn’t mention our unanswered emails. She is full of information now. Other captains have paid $300 and $400 for their three-month extensions.I point out that a DJT is supposed to be free, good for one year. She sends me to talk to Customs myself.
Fishing panga in La Libertad.
“Something smells fishy around Puerto Lucia and it isn’t a trawler.”
Help?
“We’d like to help.” The Customs agent shrugs, palms turned up as though bureaucracy conspires against humanitarian impulses.
I’m getting a bad feeling. Like he isn’t the solution. He’s the problem.
My Spanish is good. It’s cultural nuance that I’m unfamiliar with, the codes. That’s the thing about a cruising lifestyle. Being a foreigner is fine as long as everyone is on their best behavior. Cross-cultural communication can be fascinating; you exchange views, share information, participate in debate.
You don’t really belong, though, despite bringing your home with you. When moral questions arise, you can’t consult a lifetime of cultural experience or call on networks of friends. There’s not even a cheat sheet. You’re making it up as you go. You know, improv.
Okay, then. I’ll see your impotence and raise you a naïve American. “So you will issue my prórroga tomorrow?”
He shakes his head no.
Nonverbal communication. I raise my eyebrows.
“I need your original captain’s license.”
I know this to be a lie. Maybe I should just give him money, like the other foreign captains do. What would an Ecuadorean do?
I know what I feel about this. I feel exploited. And feisty. I shrug breezily. “Sorry. I have to fly home. I’ll overnight it to you. Next week, promise.”
Not so fast, his sad eyes say. “Your DJT expires in two days.”
Okay, we’re gonna fight brazen with more brazen. “I guess I’ll have to splash the boat and leave tomorrow.”
He’s not buying it. “First I must inspect the boat.”
He’s bluffing. Grasping at straws. Trying to salvage his bribe. At least I hope he is.
Victory. SV Hanalei DJT extension.
The agent sees Hanalei where we’ve left her, eight feet off the ground. He blanches. It’s tricky to wield power when you’re afraid of heights. He sends an electrician up the ladder to copy down our engine’s serial number.
He isn’t bluffing, though. He’s discovered I checked in with the wrong registration. The fact that he’s the one who signed it does not faze him.
“I cannot extend your DJT. You must first change your paperwork irregularities. We’d like to help,” he repeats, his message crystal clear. He won’t come out and ask for money, that would be wrong.
I’d like some help, too. My list of options that begins and ends with calling the US Embassy. This is improv. I can bluff, too. “Then I’ll sail to Peru.”
“But you cannot check out, not with the wrong papers.”
“Alone,” I say for emphasis, hoping the Embassy will frown on this.
The game of chicken ends when he agrees to issue a three-month prórroga, no charge. He’s furious, though. “Nothing more after that.”
“Right.” I tumble into the waiting taxi, not sure what my tactics have accomplished.
I’ll find out soon enough.
Fair winds,
Christine
What happens now? Read the next post in this series, When the World Goes Crazy, Do The Right Thing: Pandemic, Sloth and Trámite.
Do Tell!
Have you run into problems with corruption while traveling? Where? What did you do?
