When the World Goes Crazy, Do the Right Thing: Pandemic, Sloth, and Trámite
This is the third in a series about my eighteen-month kerfuffle with Ecuadorean Customs. For context, see my earlier posts, Check-In Checklist and Improv: The One About Corruption.
When Ecuadorean Customs said I have a problem, it’s because they do. Corruption. There’s even a dedicated anti-corruption branch. It’s called hazlocorrecto.
Translation: Do the right thing.
Remember how that Customs agent told me no more extensions? The one who threatened not to let our boat leave Ecuador?
If there was any question he was bluffing, the answer came in January. An American boat did an emergency clearance at Manta, another Ecuadorean port. When the couple arrived at Puerto Lucia Yacht Club to haul out for repairs, they were told they had the wrong paperwork. When they refused to pay a “fine,” the boat was impounded.
Turns out, Customs isn’t all bad. I explained the situation to a sympathetic attorney-agent who helped me extend our temporary import (DJT) through a different district. Offended by the rogue agent’s behavior, she told me about hazlocorrecto.
When Diana Jose, PLYC’s facilitator, told me darkly that I was “okay for now,” it sounded vaguely threatening. Like she was the good cop to the Customs bad cop. Before we left for Peru, I reported the agent to hazlocorrecto. Call me a paranoid tattletale, but I wanted my story on the record in case he made trouble when it came time to leave Ecuador.
I never dreamed the problem would be getting back in.
Social distancing in line for bank. Puerto Maldonado, Peru.
Pandemic
The virus arrived in Peru about the time we did. Borders, roads and airports closed. Mandatory quarantine. Nobody went anywhere and, if they tried, the Army enforced curfew. I mean, enforced with guns! That’s serious lockdown. (see Advent to Adventure). Not to be out-pandemicked, Ecuador did the same.
Thousands of trapped foreigners jockeyed for repatriation flights, but with a catch. You couldn’t go just anywhere, you had to go home. We weren’t residents or citizens of Ecuador. The argument that SV Hanalei was technically U.S. soil did not hold any water with the embassy. They politely advised us to shut up and go home while we were still healthy.
If we were healthy why not stay put? Where else could I hug a sloth?
Who cares about quarantine when you can hug a sloth?
Trámite
SV Hanalei’s DJT was due to expire at the end of April. I informed the Customs service desk what had happened, asked for an emergency extension, and settled into talking to a sloth. (See Advent to Adventure.)
The service desk replied with good news, sort of. All trámites had been suspended during the State of Emergency. Trámite translates as navigating government hoops. Those of us with pending Immigration or Customs issues now lived in a state of grace, or at least a state of emergency. Once it was lifted, we’d have a month to tidy loose ends and leave the country. Easy-peasy.
Here’s the problem with that thinking: Not one single country was open to an arriving foreign-flagged sailboat. Chile was closed. Panama was closed. French Polynesia was closed. Even if the border had been open, even if there were flights, even if we could get a port clearance, the nearest port that would accept an American-flagged vessel was in Hawaii, six weeks’ sail away. If one or both of us got sick during the passage, we’d be goners.
Every two weeks, the lockdown was extended. Every two weeks I wrote another email. After two months, the quarantine seemed no closer to being lifted. COVID was rampant in Ecuador, on the upswing in Peru and in a lull at home. We decided it might be easier to return to our boat from the U.S. In mid-May, we received permission to travel by road, then flew home.
Post-trámite Stress
At home I wrote another letter to the service desk, inquiring politely about the length of the grace period. The service desk sent me a new ticket and reiterated the process to import a vehicle. Then they said to submit a letter to a different desk. I dutifully explained and sent my papers. I phoned the Embassy. No answer. I tried Customs’ website but faced infinite redirection. This wasn’t something I could do remotely.
July’s response came with an attached screenshot that showed the name of the agent assigned to my case since June 16. Assurances it was being worked on. Then silence.
I emailed two other captains trapped outside Ecuador. Both of their boats were being stored on the hard in Puerto Lucia. They weren’t faring any better. Shipping agents and attorneys couldn’t tell them what was going on. How hard could this be? Was the State of Emergency some kind of State secret?
By August, I was suffering from post-trámite stress. I worried constantly about the boat and our belongings. Flights resumed. I considered travel. At least in Ecuador, there could be meetings, arguments, pleas, even payoffs. Maybe I’d get the extension. Maybe I’d get COVID-19. What if they said we had to leave? Where could we take the boat? The only country open to cruising boats was Panama.
Pan! Pan! Pan!
In October, a friend with international legal connections put out a call for assistance. I imagine the lawyerly version of a VHF radio distress call. Not “Mayday!” The boat was not about to sink. More like “Pan! Pan! Pan!” No physical danger, situation urgent.
A week later my new attorney phoned with an answer. It wasn’t good.
She’d learned what Customs hadn’t bothered to tell me: the grace period ended back in June. According to them, SV Hanalei had overstayed her DJT and was incurring fines.
What??? My inner redhead raged. What happened to government transparency?
– They’re bluffing. What fines?
– $400 per day.
– Four months. $50,000. Seriously????!!!!!
The inner redhead was outraged. Unfair! Wrong! How can a foreign guest find out anything? Where’s the benefit of the doubt? I’m innocent, don’t speak the language fluently. Aren’t I entitled to better treatment? (The inner redhead can be pretty entitled.)
– Customs is taking steps to seize the boat.
Pan! Pan! Pan! No physical danger. Situation urgent.
My outer captain remained calm.
– What can we do?
– Nothing.
Hanalei had run out of time.
– How long do I have?
– I don’t know.
Now what? Scenarios revved through my mind of closed government offices, canceled appointments, windows closing. They careened into a padlocked boat and court appearances; accelerated into quarantine and COVID-19. Each new image told the same truth: This will not end well.
Do the right thing, but how?
Before she hung up, she casually tossed me a lifeline. “According to my information, nothing would prevent you from setting sail right now.”
I knew what I had to do, but not if I could pull it off.
Fair winds,
Christine
Do Tell!
How has the pandemic changed your plans? Are you okay?
