You've Got Mail

In theory, the idea of sending a care package from the States that my parents had made a lot of sense. Things that I just hadn’t had room for in my bags, or some small items that would remind me of home would be a great additional birthday present.

Well, just like communism or a jump-to-conclusions mat, theory did not exactly play out as expected in practice.

On January 30th, my parents investigated the various options available to send a package to Ecuador. The prices of a box of approximately 4 kilos (I guess about 8.5 lbs) ranged from $100 - $450. Wisely, they selected the $100 option noting that the contents were not worth more than $50, and according to one of the employees of the shipping company, there was “less than a 40% chance of this package even getting there…”

It was shipped.

Now seeing as at the time, I did not have an address, they shipped the package to my friend at Hacienda Cusin (see previous blog, “Playing Tourist”). The employees at Cusin were well aware that I had a package on the way. I called often, and emailed more often to see if it had arrived. Coincidentally, about ten days after it had been sent, I was going to Cusin with Paul, Kristen and the girls to show them around. I checked in at the desk, and was told that no package had arrived.
The next time I spoke to my parents, we came to the conclusion that it had been stolen. Mom and Dad joked that “if you see someone walking around with a Florida Gators championship hat and shirt on, you’ve found your thief!”

Fast-forward a week. I had a completely free day one day and decided I was going to visit a nearby town called Iluman. I walked into town in the morning to catch the bus. The bus to Iluman goes to a town called Araque as well. What I didn’t know at the time is that these were the two final cities in very opposite directions. I sat patiently on the bus, watching as we seemed to be heading South, when I knew from maps that I should have been going North. Eventually we arrived at Lago San Pablo (the lake mentioned from previous blogs, also the site of Hacienda Cusin). I realized when the bus stopped and everyone disembarked that I had indeed taken the right bus, but in the wrong direction. The beauty of going nowhere in particular and having no specific agenda is that hitches such as these don’t ruffle your feathers.

That being said, I figured that since I was here, I may as well walk over to Cusin and see if my friend, the owner, had arrived back from his most recent trip to the States. I walked first to reception to ask the manager if he was in. Before I could get the question out, she said “Oh Kent, your package has arrived.” Yay!! The long lost package that I and my parents had all but given up on had made it. I started to feel a little bad for doubting and presuming the Ecuadorian postal workers. Before I could finish the guilty thought, Monica (the manager) interrupted to say “by the way, you will have to go to the post office to pick it up and pay duty.” “How much is that going to be?” I replied. “$112” she said. I sat there in shock and speechless for a minute, and finally transitioned into a long unnecessary rant about how ridiculous that was and how I was being taken advantage of and how Ecuador was corrupt… All fair points, but not when they were directed at poor Monica behind the desk. “One more thing,” she mumbled. “You can only go to pick it up on Wednesday because the customs officer only comes to Otavalo one day per week.”

I stewed over this for the rest of my time at Cusin, and was getting anxious to get back to town and see what more I could find out at the post office. I got back around lunchtime and went straight to the post office. I walked in, said hello, and asked if there was a package there from the States. I didn’t even have to say a name, he invited me into the back and pointed to a package wrapped in that wonderful blue tape used by the US Postal Service. What is more, it didn’t take but another second for me to recognize my Dad’s hand-writing on the address label. Seeing it, only feet away, made me want it even more. I inquired as to the supposed duty that had been applied to my package. He annoyingly came back with the same dreaded number, “$112 senor.”

It may have been the ‘senor’ that set it off, but once again I was ranting and yelling about the vileness of corruption that plagues this country and how there was no chance I was going to pay his ‘gratuity,’ etc, etc. (although I confess this time it was intentional, thinking that since Ecuadorians are pretty passive people who hate confrontation, maybe I could make him feel so bad, he would accept a fiver and I would be on my way with my nice shiny package). No such luck. He felt bad alright, but then defended himself by explaining that only his boss, the customs officer, was permitted to give me the package and that he was only there on Wednesdays. He said that if I wanted to be angry with anyone, it was his boss and then proceeded to provide me with the man’s home and cell phone numbers.

I stormed out very dramatically, with the intention of returning later that day with allies. I went home and told Segundo what had happened. He promptly threw on a jacket and told me that we were going back to get my package. I loved his enthusiasm and didn’t need telling twice. Along the way, we stopped to call the customs official. The man’s first question was “how did you get this number?” He said something about duty prices being non-negotiable and hung up, which really set Segundo off. We continued on to the post office, recruiting two friends of his whom we passed on the street and seemed just as peeved by this act of corruption against “his” gringo.

The gang and I entered the office once again, and I could see the frightened expression on this poor postal worker’s face. The shouting match that ensued, albeit amusing, did nothing for gaining procession of my box. Once again, I left after being told that we needed to return Wednesday. It was Thursday which left me 6 days to get to the bottom of this.

Fast forward now to the following Wednesday morning. Since the previous encounter 6 days prior, I had spoken with the Legal Affairs Officer in the US Embassy, the assistant to the Mayor of Otavalo, the Deputy Chief of Customs Regulations in Quito, and countless friends and companions of Segundo and of employees at Cusin. In short, I was ready for this guy.

I walked in promptly at 9 am, and asked to speak with Sr. Pavon (the customs officer). The same employee from last week looked up from his desk, and his smile immediately turned to more of a quivering frown as he was forced to explain that “Sr. Pavon is running a few minutes late.” In the same manner Dean Acheson explained to the Russian Ambassador during the UN Secuirty Council session regarding the Cuban Missile Crisis, I pompously announced that “I am willing to wait here until Hell freezes over” (maybe not verbatim….

At 915, Sr. Pavon strolled in looking very smug until he saw me standing there. Clearly, word of my investigation and pursuit of justice had reached his desk and he didn’t need to ask who I was or why I was there. He nervously waved me into the back, and once again I found myself standing just feet from my now infamous “birthday box.” For the first 10 minutes, he leaned over a computer and not wanting to ‘blink first,’ I stood stoically waiting for him to make the first move. His first question was “Do you speak any Spanish?” My response: “Enough to deal with this.” He immediately started into a long panicky explanation of how his initial math may have been ‘fuzzy,’ and presented me with a new figure, half that of the original. Well prepared for this encounter, I coldly said that I wouldn’t give him a dime until I saw an official customs form that laid out the pricing scheme. He looked shocked and taken aback, and began to fumble around a stack of papers on his desk, and after a few seconds yelled for one of his associates to come help him. The dynamic duo finally found the requested document, presented it to me in regal fashion, and asked if there was anything else. I smiled and said no, pulled out the money, threw it on the table , grabbed my box, and walked out without another word.

As I sat in the taxi with my open box, I smugly ate a bag of Entenmann’s Brownie Bites that my Mom had included. Chocolate had never tasted so good.