Buenos Aires Customs
Added on Thursday, April 1st, 2010 by Carole Nash Editor
Buenos Aires Customs
At the port of Buenos Aires customs, the Afip Astana scanner machine was positioned by the water’s edge. It was as big as a very large ice cream van, larger than something you might put a horse in but something the Argentine customs officials were mighty pleased about. The scanner was Immigration’s latest toy and as well as sniffing out narcotics could check the level of your battery acid. Its X-ray sweep was preceded by the high-pitched intermittent whine that simulated the sound of a bus reversing and yes, it could see if our tyres were stuffed with cocaine.
The weather was benign, warm even and interesting though it was, waiting for hours as the scanner machine scanned its way up and down. Minutes at a time, X-ray scans were poured over, Maté drunk and heated conversations as to whether they should turn up the intensity of the X-ray and blow up a top box or physically open it and look inside. It would not be fair to ridicule something of such extraordinary complexity, but let’s try, because such magnitude of technology compares to something that would have taken 20 minutes by hand.
Drasticko Follic was our customs agent. I didn’t not like him, which is not quite the same as liking him, but he was cleanly dressed in a red checked shirt and smart jeans. Sure he had a round face and the rough complexion of a bald distressed chicken, but he meant well, even when he kept asking for money. He said his wife needed a new dress and he would be able to facilitate our progress through immigration procedures faster. I enjoyed his honesty, it was refreshing to be with a man who wanted to help with no thought for himself, “ze dress is for my wife, ” he said, “it ees not at all for me, although I admit to trying on her shoes when she was not at ‘ome, but only once.” Really!
Still the scanner machine worked its way up and down another group of bikes. The whine of the x-rays competed only with the clatter of the air conditioning but so finely tuned it blew off another top box, cleanly into the River.
The riders were sanguine about what was evidently an important weapon against contraband being smuggled indiscriminately. Drastico explained that only two months ago 200 kilos of drugs had been found in the trunk of a car imported from Spain and even though most of the stuff was distributed generously and fairly to all the customs officials, they still asked the driver for a present. No, on balance, we had a good time when suddenly, the scanner suddenly stopped scanning. Drastico stopped asking for more money and the riders said they looked forward to doing it again, after which we started our engines and made our way to the exit, except that is for Roy. My XT was poorly and mechanic Roy had pushed the XT for 2 miles past tower blocks of containers. On account of it miss-firing through rust and filthy fuel, or maybe it had been a chicken laying an egg in the tank, or a birds nest, you could have cooked toast on the top end of the exhaust.
Meanwhile I offered Dras a warm scone that I’d been keeping for special occasions and hoped he might take that in lieu of a bribe, but he disappeared into the office by the port entrance to discuss whether we were to camp in-between the barrier that prevented us from escaping and the forest of cranes.
By the time we got to the exit to sign more papers I had hoped not to have to pay anything to these greasy chorizo loving cheese monkeys, especially baldy, otherwise known as Dras- the-transvestite-chicken-killer, who means well and cares for tourists like us who know no better. Still we wait, “now I get good shoes, like zed wife, red ones wiv ze big heels yes.” At which point the barrier was lifted and at eight minutes past midnight, we were allowed to leave. Not. Dras began to sweat. The barrier went down again and hit Graeme on the head to which he cursed blue murder. We were now lined up at the barrier. Dras leaned out of a red kiosk that lined one of the exit lanes and spoke to Erik. He said all the bikes but one had been processed and that the computer had crashed and they would enter it manually, what, with a pen? “And,” he said, “ze police have noticed our movements, and they want to check our VIN numbers and look through our bags so I have given them some money.” That was my prompt so I gave our custom handler friend $500 for his patience and also overtime for the customs officials at the final exit to the port. I also gave him $700 because he said he once saw several customs officers exposing themselves in public, and such was his shame, a gift like this, he said, in a rather perverse logic, ameliorated his guilt. Quite. Good bye Port of Buenos Aires.
