Refusenik

I am currently in Chicago. I was supposed to be here last Saturday. But I arrived on Wednesday. Not by choice of course. Finally arriving in Chicago can only been described as a series of unexpected, though not completely unfortunate events.

On Friday night Carlos and I set of from Cuenca to Guayaquil. Not only did he want to accompany me to the airport to say goodbye, but he also had to work near Guayaquil over the weekend. We slept well and Carlos dropped be off at the airport at 8AM (for a 10:30AM flight), we said our goodbyes and I waited in line. And waited. And waited. After almost an hour the departures board changed from “On Time” to “Delayed”. I waited some more. I made some friends in line, sharing the bilingual gossip. The flight had been canceled. A replacement part needed to be flown in from the states. The agents were rebooking everyone on the Delta flight at 11PM.

After three hours in line I reached the desk. I was rebooked on the evening Delta flight and given a hotel voucher and told to wait for the hotel van. Waiting with me were two Canadians. We started chatting and I asked them to watch my bags for a moment while I got a coffee. It was almost lunch time and I hadn't had breakfast, so I was starving. When I got in line a century ago I had assumed that it would be quick. But at that point I needed to eat. Anyway, after returning with the mocha, the Canadians told me that the hotel where we were supposed to go was almost filled and that they were going to go to another hotel and would I like to join them. Hmm, sure.

The Canadians were in Ecuador on business, working on a gold mine in Machala. One was Colombian and a lawyer, the other a mining engineer, both based out of Quebec. Between the three of us we could communicate in mainly English, some Spanish, and even a touch of French. We went to the hotel, all called home to give updates on the flights, then went out for lunch. During lunch I asked lots of questions about mining (since the January 2009 issue of National Geographic was on gold mining) and about the politics here and base metal prices and everything else that I learned from The Economist. Then I told them a bit about me, my background, some stories about the middle of nowhere Zambia.

That's when they expressed a bit of surprise. The lawyer then told me that at the airport they had seen me looking a bit frazzled and felt sort of sorry for me. They had assumed that this had been my first trip out of the country and I had been a nervous and confused and wanted to help me. They felt sorry for me!?! I'll admit that I was frazzled, but that's just because I was hungry.

Long side note - When I say I was hungry, it wasn't just a bit of stomach rumbling. Because of the steroids that I'm currently on for my thyroid, I am always famished. Every few hours I whine to Carlos that I'm hungry. His mom is astonished that I am actually saying yes when she asks me if I want more to eat. I crave meat (steak sandwich for breakfast) and sugar (a liter of Gatorade at a time and two servings of ice cream a day).

Anyway, I spent the rest of the afternoon with the Canadians and by the time we returned to the airport they had almost offered me a job. The whole day was actually an interview. They told me that they needed a civil engineer, especially one with experience in water. I actually got my first job through a friend of my parents who met my former boss on a plane. So, I'll see how that turns out.

Back in the airport, I finally got in contact with Carlos again and he was a bit shocked to hear that I hadn't left yet and he joined me there for a short while. He had had a long day in a forest on the coast. After an hour together in the airport we said goodbye (again) and I went through immigration.

And that's where the problems began. I got to the desk and the man behind it said that I couldn't leave. WTF? He didn't speak any English. I told him that I knew that I may have to pay a fine, but he said that that wasn't possible. Censo, censo. I need a censo. What the hell is a censo? I asked to speak to his boss, but no. Just no (it was about 10PM at this point). He told me just to leave. I wasn't crying yet, so was able to ask him if I could call my boyfriend to translate. I just thought this was a language issue. I mean, I consider myself almost fluent. So I called Carlos and he spoke to the immigration officer and after a few minutes it was clear that I was not leaving. Carlos said he would come back to the airport to meet me.

I had to leave back through the door that I entered, past the ticket checkers. A women that I had met in line that morning came chasing after me and asked if she could do anything to help. She was great, an Ecuadorian American travelling with her mother, almost six feet tall and very, um, sturdy. Not bit or fat, but solid. She had a look on her face like she would beat the guy up for me. Unfortunately, she couldn't help me. Everyone was so nice (except for the immigration officer) and I really was able to appreciate the kindness of strangers.

Anyway, when I got to the ticket checkers I was in tears. I wasn't going home. It took three months and I had paid over a thousand dollars to my work visa, to be able to stay in the country and now they wouldn't let me leave! The lawyers never told us anything about this censo. Censo, censo, what's a censo? Well, the censo is a stamp on my visa saying that it has been registered. Why would we ever even think that we need to register my visa? Isn't the visa registration itself? And at 10PM on a Saturday night there was nothing that could be done until Monday. Come on.

I made my way back to the check in desk and explained the situation to one of the agents. He went back to immigration to double check, but no, I couldn't leave. Well, actually I could leave, but if I did my work visa would be invalid, which means that I would have to return on a tourist visa and the time and money spent on the visa would have been worth nothing. That was worth knowing. That was the information, the reason, that I had been waiting for. So I wasn't going home. We had to follow the back alleys of the airport to pick up the bags. And leave.

I was depressed. And of course, because of the steroids, I couldn't drink. We went out to a bar with friends, but I was no fun. Still in shock. I called my parents and they were just as surprised as me, but made me feel better by telling me that I was lucky that I had Carlos which me (which is so true) and everything can be probably be fixed with a little time and money. If I need to wait a few days to come home so be it, everything will still be there. Just get things done and get home as soon as you can. Just make it home for passover.

I have very wise parents.

Carlos was supposed to go back to the coast on Sunday and I would hang out for the day while he worked. But that didn't happen. Nothing in Ecuador ever seems to go according to plan. The day before he had gotten a few bug bites. When I say a few I actually mean a few hundred. His body was covered and he was itching and swelling and in general, not good. His coworker was the same. So we returned to Cuenca, before going to the pharmacy. We went to the doctor and Carlos got a cortisone shot and spent the rest of the day passed out in bed. The family voted for me to visit the immigration office the next day.

First thing Monday morning we went to the immigration office. Then we found out that we were at the wrong immigration office and were sent to the other one. At the other office there weren't many people, which was good, but the officers were having some technical difficulties. Like they couldn't log onto their computers because the guys with the password was on vacation. So they had to call Quito. After half an hour they got onto the computer, but they couldn't do anything about my case on the computer. So they called Quito again. The guy wasn't there. We waited. Then they called again and again and again. Finally, they told us to come back after lunch, that they were open until 6PM. After a bit of negotiation they told us that if we return at 3PM they will help us as soon as we arrive.

That was a lie. At 3PM we got there and were told to wait. And wait. And they called Quito. At around 4PM we got the word that we had to pay a $200 fine. Fine, we said, we'll be back right away. No they replied, can't you see we're busy? Please, I asked, my flight leaves Wednesday. Yeah, was the response, everyone leaves tomorrow.

We were gone for 20 minutes and when we returned the full room was empty, except for one other person. We waited almost an hour, chatting with an American family who had lived there for two years and needed something renewed. These guys had so much to say about the bureaucracy here. The guy said that he would probably get kicked out if they recognized him there. The last time in the office he let out such a string of curses that the officer there said (in Spanish), “Sir, I do not speak English, but I know that 'that' is not a respectful word.”

But were finally served. I got another stamp in my passport and a really cheap looking ID card. And that was it. I can leave the country? I asked. Yes, they replied. And can I come back? They had no idea.

Back at home I called the Ecuadorian Embassy in D.C. And told them my story. They guy said that I had everything that I needed. He even gave me his phone number and told me to call him if I had problems again in immigration. Now that's good service.

Tuesday afternoon I went back to Guayaquil and spent the night there. Wednesday morning I arrived at the airport by 7AM and made it to the gate buy 7:20AM. Four hours to Miami. Two and a half hour layover, another three hours to Chicago.

And then I was home.