Up a creek without a passport: A chronicle of despair, perseverance, and redemption. (Part 4)

by Aaron Hotfelder on

The next day, I gather all my pertinent documents and walk to the US Embassy, where a crowd of 75 or so Ecuadorians has gathered. I suspect that I’m about to encounter an Iraq War protest or burning American flags, but instead it’s just a bunch of people in line for visas. I cruise right by that line and into the building, probably receiving a number of death glares from those left in my wake.

The woman at the desk helps me after ignoring 15 minutes of my staring at her. When all my papers are finally turned in, another woman appears to verify that I am, in fact, a US citizen.

“Where was your passport issued?” she asks.

I tell her St. Louis, and then she asks me what agency issued it. “New Orleans, I think.” She frowns. There is, she says, no record of my ever being issued a passport, possibly because of Hurricane Katrina. I consider asking if she is fucking kidding me, but worry that saying “fuck” to a government official might give them grounds to arrest me as a terrorist. I offer to answer some US history questions to prove my citizenship, but she suggests I produce a driver’s license instead. I do so, and that is proof enough for her.

She glances at my license, and that, along with my white skin and unaccented English, is presumably enough to grant me a US passport. With such tight security, I really can’t figure out how those planes were ever hijacked, I really can’t. Anyway, I’ll apparently have my passport in a week.

I am told that it will be available on Tuesday, but when I show up they tell me there’s been a problem, and that I need to come back the next day. I return on Wednesday afternoon, lay eyes on the prize (finally!) and see that my new passport expires in less than a month. Apparently, because they had no record of me ever being issued a passport, they don’t want me traveling around outside the US. Which means that this whole process, with American bureacracy in place of Ecuadorian, gets to be repeated in a month’s time. Hurrah!

New passport in hand, I take a taxi back to Immigration to obtain an entry stamp and a 30-day visa extension. As you can guess by now, that ordeal was far from painless– it took four hours. Never lose your passport.

Up a creek without a passport: A chronicle of despair, perseverance, and redemption. (Part 3)

by Aaron Hotfelder on

Fast forward two weeks. I am in Quito, attempting to get a document which states on what day I arrived in Ecuador. Don’t ask me why I need this; I just do.

First thing Monday morning, I go to the inconveniently-located Immigration Office. I arrive innocent, like a newborn, unaware of the long waits filled with interminable number-taking and line-standing that I’ll have to endure. Soon enough, the innocent newborn in me is clubbed to death, and I become a soiled, cranky crack baby.

The problems are manifold. The place is crowded so I must wait for hours to be seen. The Immigration Office inexplicably has no record of me ever entering the country; therefore, I must go to the airport to pick up proof of my arrival from the American Airlines office. That single piece of paper costs me thirty dollars, but to be fair, it is on high-quality American Airlines letterhead, and it takes over ninety seconds of someone’s time to produce it.

I return to Immigration, which has now closed for two hours for presumably the world’s longest lunch break. Several Ecuadorians and I elect to pass the time in the lobby by watching some hokey Mexican talk shows. Two hours is a long time to watch puppets interview real people, especially when you don’t understand what the hell anyone is saying (though perhaps that was for the best). My contemplation of suicide is interrupted by my number finally being called. Ten minutes later, I have everything I need, and I walk out the door at 3:30, after first arriving at 9:00.

[Tomorrow, part 4.]

Up a creek without a passport: A chronicle of despair, perseverance, and redemption. (Part 2)

by Aaron Hotfelder on

I need to file a police report concerning my passport that I lost recently in Quito, Ecuador, so Monday, I go to the police station, or rather, to where I think the police station is. I try out my best Spanish on the first person I see: “Hola, yo perdí mi pasaporte.” The man reacts as if I’d just told him I lost an eyeball instead of a passport– confusion, followed by offers of not-really-helpful help.

I am directed Upstairs to the police station, which directs me back Downstairs. Downstairs tells me to go back Upstairs. Finally, I explain to Upstairs that I am a lost puppy in search of a home, and they let me wait in their office until the Chief of the Lost Passports Division gets back from solving his later caper, or, more likely, lunch.

The Chief, a man of sixty-five whose picture is in the dictionary next to the word “grizzled,” invites me into his office, where he fires up his trusty typewriter. He feeds the paper in, asks me for some ID, and upon seeing my name, he frowns hard.

“Or-rin Oat-fail…” he says, pronouncing my name the way it probably sounds when someone says it underwater.

“Aaron,” I offer.

“Si, si. Orrin.”

“Si, es correcto.” Is this really necessary?

He punches my name into the typewriter– clack… clack… clack– with slow, methodical keystrokes. Each clack of the keyboard is followed by his triumphant pronouncement of the preceding letter. The song goes something like this:
CLACK! “A.”
CLACK! “A.”
Rest-two-three-four.
CLACK! “R.” And so on, with the rest of the letters, The Chief pronouncing each one carefully like he was in the finals of a spelling bee. Soon enough, I have my much-coveted police report.

[Tomorrow, part 3.]

Up a creek without a passport: A chronicle of despair, perseverance, and redemption. (Part 1)

by Aaron Hotfelder on

I am on a bus moving from the south of Ecuador up to Quito. Soon, the bus drops off some passengers, myself included, in Quito, and proceeds on to God-knows-where. I hail a taxi, tell it the name of my hostel, and off we go. On the way, the cab gets into a little fender-bender with a pickup truck, but I remain unfazed– hey, it’s not my car. Suddenly, I am apoplectic, and not about the car accident. I realize that I’ve forgotten my jacket on that bus that just pulled away. Big deal, you say. Who cares?

I do. My passport was in the coat pocket. The realization hits me like the stabbing of a knife: surprise– then nothing– then pain.

After a frustrating trip to the bus station, in which I can’t remember the bus number or even the bus company of that fateful ride, I soon come to the conclusion that I will need a new passport.

As I am always occasionally one to turn lemons into lemonade, I’ve decided to chronicle my efforts at obtaining a new passport. I am confident that this excruciatingly bureaucratic process, combined with the formidable language barrier, will test the limits of human endurance and patience…

Of the numerous documents I need to scrape together, the easiest are passport photos. I decide to walk, here in Baños, Ecuador, to a place called Quito Photo, and I try to explain what I need. Though I am brutally hacking the Spanish language to pieces, the man understands. He can’t help me, so he directs me to another photo place that he thinks will have just what I’m looking for. I only partially understand his directions– the fact that I need to first exit his store, the verb “go”– but I arrive at the next place without a problem. There, the scene in Quito Photo repeats itself. They don’t do passport photos, but they think the place down the street does. Two photo stores later, my picture is taken and my photos are printed on the spot. It is telling, perhaps, that I consider this process to have been unexpectedly efficient. Later, I discover that these passport photos are in fact the wrong size, so I repeat essentially this same ordeal in Quito.

I go to the Baños police station to try to file a report about my lost passport, but the station is closed. Of course, it’s Sunday.

[Coming tomorrow, part 2.]

Concierge’s IT List: Places for upscale tastes, but maybe cheaper

by Jamie Rhein on

There’s The New York Times list of 53 places to go in 2008 (see post), the 40 travel tips and suggestions from London’s Times (see post )and now Concierge.com has an IT List of 10 more suggestions, all with sound reasoning behind each one.

The way a destination ends up on this list is that it’s had enough people show up to increase the odds that it has some sense of what travelers like, therefore it can deliver a vacation to write home about–or it’s a place people have gone to for years, but has something new to offer. In the case of this list, it’s luxury.

When I looked over the Concierge list, it occurred to me that there are places I’d like to go on a vacation if I had A LOT of money. Any place could be spiffy.

Oman, a place I never thought of going, but now that I’ve seen what it has to offer, I think it’s an option. For one thing, everyone I know who has gone to the United Arab Emirates talks about how expensive Dubai is. Oman, from Concierge’s description, seems to be a cheaper version of a place to travel in the Middle East that can provide some Western comfort, at least when it comes to lodging. Oman, like the UAE has luxurious hotels that I’d venture to guess are less expensive because a lot of people are not heading there yet.

The history of Oman is what attracts me the most.The 14th century explorer Ibn Battuta passed through here and from what I read, even though tourism is being developed, it’s possible to get a healthy dose of traditional culture.

If you’re looking for something tropical–like Bali, but not Bali since much of Bali has loads of tourists, one suggestion is Hainan Island, China. You can stay in luxury here too, but what caught my attention was the description of mountain villages. I’m not a more than a day or two beach person, but give me an afternoon of wandering through a village and I’m happy. Since I’ve been to several places in South East Asia, this would be a choice based on a place that would be different but familiar.

Mozambique is also on the list. I love the word Mozambique. Say it. Doesn’t that sound lovely? The trendy hotels and a beach scene are part of the draw, and the political stability has helped it excel. I’m intrigued by the Portuguese influence, plus the national parks and the music. I bet the traditional architecture is also fabulous. Besides that, I’d like to see how it compares to the other African countries I’ve been to.

Although I love Tuscany, Sicily, the Concierge.com’s suggestion of where to head in Italy this year, would be the place I’d pick to go if I could pick just one. The thing I like about this choice is that there is so much variety in not such a big place. I have a tendency to want to see everything. If there’s not so much ground to cover, it feels like the vacation can be interesting and restful.

After watching the Amazing Race teams navigate Croatia, Montenegro, a country that has been compared to it in looks and feel, seems as if it would be a fabulous choice. It’s also supposed to be cheaper than Italy and Croatia.

Paris, San Diego, Ecuador, St. Lucia, Puerto Escondido and the Oaxacan Coast are also on the list.

For some more details about what Ecuador offers, check out Aaron’s post on his trip there. For St. Lucia, check out Adrienne’s series St. Lucia There & Back. She has the ins and outs about all aspects of travel here. She did it all.

As for San Diego, Erik presented a list earlier in 2007 that tells you what to see there, a good place to start. He’s a guy who lived there, so he should know.

If you head to Paris, another possibility is a houseboat stay on the Seine, as Martha did with her mother.

As for the Oaxacan Coast, my dad, who has been to Mexico several times loves this section of Mexico. If I ever go to Mexico on an extended trip, Oaxaca is where I’m heading.