Hey Immigration Scam / Papier du Toilette

Three full weeks have elapsed waiting here in the Caicos Islands. The weather just won’t cooperate. Our daily trips to town ceased last week for a number of reasons, including that everything, especially us, was getting soaked on the way in. The monotony of the continuous high winds and frequent squalls finally got to me. I had been staring at the island we’re hiding behind, wondering if I could make it. Yesterday, desperate to leave the boat, I threw our little sit a-top kayak into the water. Strong gusts and heavy seas grabbed me as I left the lee side of the stern. Going was painfully slow and any momentary cessation of paddling resulted in a negative gain. Eventually, I reached the island's rocky shoreline, but there wasn't any shelter. Big rollers battered themselves against the boulders shooting spray high into the howling wind. Bobbing there, I noticed the surge was ricocheting off of the rocks and back into the oncoming seas. That made quite a mess, but one I could maneuver through. With only the wind to contend with, I decided to try to head up to the tip of the island. My plan was to then spin around and surf the towering waves back to the boat.

An hour later, just shy of the point, I spied a little cove tucked in between two high bluffs. I beached my boat among the thousands of empty pink conch shells that littered the sand. The island was flat and narrow here, perhaps fifty yards across. The jet wash from the massive windward seas drenched me as I secured my kayak which didn’t phase me since I was already completely soaked. My bare feet gingerly made it up the sharp coral precipice at the apex of the island. From there I had a full view of the harbor. I noticed the reef extended part way across the entrance which helped moderated the heavy surf.
“If I could make it past that, I’d be a third of the way to the harbor” I thought looking at the town. “What the hell?” I reasoned. “If it’s bad, I can turn with the seas and shoot back to the boat." Launching the kayak, I braced myself and cut left. I was just passing the last coral head when a long tail whipped across the water. I’d startled a shark. It rammed me on the side. I whacked at it with my paddle. After the third attempt it went away. I nervously forced my focus on my destination and paddled steadily between the rollers while the wind pushed me parallel to the craggy coastline. Fifteen minutes later I was in. I had heard there was a marine school affiliated with Boston University in the settlement. I happened to land right next to their pier.
“Mind if I leave my boat here?” I asked someone sitting in the main hall, leaving a small puddle at his feet in the process.
“Fine by me” he said looking at the tiny wet splotches that speckled his shoes.
Just then a group of waterlogged students led by a small, energetic woman (nicknamed “Fish” I later discovered) tromped by.
“We had to cancel the dive” she told another teacher. “It’s way too rough out there.” 
She spied my paddle. “Did you come across in that toy kayak?” she smirked gesturing towards the pier.
“I did” I confidently responded.  
“See any sharks” she continued.
“Yeah” I answered astonished. Beads of sweat stained my forehead as I recalled the encounter. “How’d you know?” 
“They love to bump those things” she replied. “That’s why we got rid of all of ours. Good luck on the ride back.”
The idea of fortifying myself with cold beers before returning vanished. Fighting off sharks in heavy seas while drunk suddenly sounded like a very bad idea.
“This will strictly have to be a business trip” I told myself.
Our visa happened to be up that day, so off I went to Immigration. Amazingly they were open. And awake.
“Good day” I said to the director. “We need to extend our visa another two weeks.”
“Because of the weather” I added, anticipating her next question. After spending five months visiting various islands I was getting familiar with the routine.
“That’ll cost you $50.00” she answered sternly. “Each.”
“Huh?” I exclaimed. “We just paid Customs $75.00 for a three-month cruising permit!”
“That’s for your boat” she countered. “Not for you.”
“But they told us the visa was included” I argued.
“I don’t know about that” she replied. “See the sign out front? We’re not Customs.”
I realized continuing this was useless. However, she suddenly turned nice.
“I’ll tell you what” she said. “I won’t renew you, but I won’t cite you either. It’s not your fault the weather’s bad. But you’ll need to leave as soon as it improves or pay the money. And I wouldn’t spend too much time in town” she added. “If the police stop you, you’re on your own.”
I thanked her. Then got the hell out of there before she changed her mind.
So here I bounce back out in the rough harbor. Rocking to and fro as low black clouds from yet another tropical trough zip by. I’m beginning to believe there are no more “windows” here. Just wind. 
Supplies are dangerously low. We’re down to an 18-pack of Miller High Life and two rolls of toilet paper. Nirvana in the guise of the Dominican Republic lies 110 miles due south of us; if we ever make it.



Epilogue: Papier du Toilette (One week later)
The rain has ceased, but the wind’s increased. We’re down to one roll of Charmin 2-ply, with Aloe; the good stuff! We’ll have to sneak into the settlement soon and track down the local brand. I hear they also use it to sand their boat hulls. Oh joy.
Speaking of which, I have a toilet paper story and plenty of time to tell it.
It was on the same trip where “Wary Jere’s Ghostly Tale” originated. After leaving San Augustin, Colombia behind (along with more than a few of my brain cells), we headed for the colonial city of Popayan with a brief stop in a tiny, picturesque pueblo called “Silvia”. We arrived on a Friday. Small vitreous streams brimming with trout bisected the narrow pathways nestled on the fertile valley floor. Outside my small hotel, I met a fellow traveler.
“Tomorrow’s market day” he said. “The Indians come down from the mountains and sell some amazing stuff”.
“Like what?” I asked him.
“Weavings and carvings mostly” he continued. “You can also buy coca leaves.”
“Really?” I exclaimed.
“Yeah, but they don’t have any effect unless you add an activator; ash. You’ve got to gather branches, start a fire then wait all day to get enough. It’s a pain in the ass.”
“Baking soda also works” he added. “But you can’t get it here.”
"Hang on" I said. "I'll be right back." A moment later I pulled a box of Arm and Hammer from my backpack. It was for brushing my teeth. I gave him some and waited for market day.
The following dawn, streams of brightly-colored couples emerged from beneath the grey morning mist. They slowly made their way to the moisture-soaked marketplace. I approached an elderly woman who had an assortment of dried herbs spread across her blanket.
“Coca?” I whispered down at her.
“Que?” she replied in a high-pitched voice.
“Tiene coca?” I repeated.
Her eyes narrowed up at me. She stared for another moment, then said “Diez minutos”.
Ten minutes later I was back. She glanced around, reached under her intricately embroidered skirt and thrust a small paper bag at me. I hastily shoved it into my pack.
“Diez pesos” she demanded. Three dollars.
I gave her the money and she shooed me away. I stole behind the old church and reached inside. The bag brimmed with scores of tiny green leaves. I practically pranced back to my room in anticipation.
A week later we prepared to leave Popayan. Our destination was Otovalo, Ecuador, a good fourteen-hour bus ride. I had developed a minor leaf-chewing habit by then. The effects were mild, more of a mood enhancer. It was pleasurable and gave me something to do.
We hiked to the depot in the pre-dawn hours. The remaining half-bag of leaves was crammed into the back pocket of my jeans. The bus was packed with Ecuadorians. Boxes, bags and bundles were strewn about and above the vehicle just like you see in old movies. Remarkably, the entire upper inside rack was stuffed with toilet paper. 4-packs to be exact. There had to be fifty of them.
We wrenched away at dawn. After an hour of bouncing along the wide gravel road I started chewing. Moments later my mouth went numb. Next to me sat a young Indian woman. I euphorically decided to practice my budding Spanish on her.
“Buenos dias, senora” I began. “Como le va?”
She turned to answer. A look of absolute horror spread across her face. Nothing came from her broad lips.
“Es una bien dia.” I happily continued. “Te gusta este’ autobus?”
The shock stayed plastered across her oval features.
“I guess it’s not good etiquette to chat without a proper introduction” I reasoned and turned towards the window.
A short while later we jerked into a rest stop. After a quick pee I glanced at myself in the bathroom mirror. A dark-green line of dried spittle ran from the corner of my mouth, down my chin and onto my shirt, ending in a crusty blob. I tidied myself up and returned to the bus. My compatriot had moved. A stern compensino sat in her place. I gave him a weak “Hola” and took my seat. He didn’t reply.
We arrived at the border. Only then did it occur to me that I was about to smuggle narcotics into another country. While I contemplated this minor misstep, a mild pandemonium ensued as two Ecuadorian soldiers ambled towards the bus. Small plastic bags and fistfuls of sundries suddenly appeared from under all of the male passenger’s coats. They thrust them at the nearest female who secreted them under their skirts. I noticed tiny cans of Right Guard and tubes of Pepsodent, as I furtively attempted to stuff my wadded bag of leaves under my seat.
The first soldier stood on the steps and motioned for us to exit. All the men got up. The women remained. We were politely searched then allowed to re-board. As the men made their way past, the women returned the items. Except for one. That was their payment. I reached my seat and looked down. The shredded sack stuck halfway out of the corner of the cushion, split down the middle. Leaves were everywhere. My seatmate looked up at me. Then clucked while he sadly shook his head. When we rounded the next turn, I tossed the rumpled parcel out the window.
A few miles down the narrowing road, we hit a roadblock manned by members of the military government. A soldier got on the bus and leisurely walked down the aisle. When he reached the rear, he helped himself to a couple of the 4-packs then left. The realization hit me that I had just entered a country where the main item of barter was toilet paper.
The scenario repeated itself throughout the long day with the 4-packs slowly disappearing. Occasionally, we’d be motioned off the bus where the back and forth exchange would re-commence.
At dusk, we pulled into the tiny depot in Otovalo. As we shuffled off, I turned and looked back inside. Every package of toilet paper had vanished. Only a few shiny leaves remained scattered about the floor.