I have now left Bolivian airspace while our beloved anesthesia machine hides somewhere in a warehouse north of Santa Cruz. This was no small feat, as many forces conspired against us. The big blue case did not escape notice upon our arrival - it clearly had not been purchased at the duty free and the new Bolivian customs officials (all of them had been replaced 5 days before our arrival) felt it their duty to keep the behemoth under their watch. Though we were ultimately able to take it with us and use it on the project, I had to agree to bring it back home or pay a hefty duty, though the amount was never specified. They were clearly angling for a bribe, otherwise they would have opened the case, inspected its contents, and assessed its value. As it were, they knew it was valuable to us, which was all that mattered. Francis called their bluff. If they are not bluffing, I will either need to return with the machine, or stay with it.
Through the two weeks that follow, Francis repeatedly tried to negotiate via phone with customs. This resulted in many wasted cell-phone minutes, but never was a ransom named. We drove to Santa Cruz on Friday with hopes of going to the airport and negotiating a deal - the baggage fees alone to return it would be $200, so anything near that figure would be worth it. Unfortunately, it is a national Holiday in Bolivia and nearly everything (except the zoo) was closed - even the souvenir shops where locked up. We would have to wait until the morning of our departure to learn the fate of Dr. Dre (and Dr. Campbell for that matter). The zoo was quite nice, by the way.
We departed for the ViruViru airport at 5:45am hoping to beat the lines. Francis suggested curbside check-in to find out early on if my passport was flagged in any way. He had the big blue case along with our luggage - I do not know what exactly was packed in it. For all I know, it could be the machine, or it could be the massive haul of decorative pan-flutes the Mayor of Santa Rosa had given to us at our last barbecue. My passport scanned without any problems and I was given a boarding pass - so far, so good. Francis, wanting to make sure I would not get stopped further on, still thought it would be a good idea to go down to the customs office and make sure the machine could stay and that I could go. Even though international flights had already arrived and people were entering the country, the customs office was locked and gated - a sign read that they would not open until 10:00am because of the holiday (Holiday's apparently take precedence over things like national security or customs extortion). Our flight was to leave at 9:10. We would need to make a choice - either check the trunk and bring Dre home, or leave Dre with our Bolivian staff and hope I wouldn't get stopped later. We chose to leave the machine (or whatever Francis had packed in the case). I checked my other bags and we say our goodbyes to Francis. I hope to see him again soon, but home is on our minds. I not truly rest until the plane is in the air.
We clear security, or at least one round of it - didn't even have to take off our shoes. We then pass a set of duty free shops and flat screens playing 1980's music videos. Now more security stations, at least two more hand searches of my carry-on bag, much scrutiny of my passport (They always look sideways at my Burmese visa before finding the Bolvian one. Later, I realize the Burmese visa is indeed sideways). One official takes my picture, scans my passport, then starts shaking his head disapprovingly. I have a moment of internal panic, but I am able to channel my internal Jason Bourne and secrete some endogenous metoprolol. I try not to sweat, but I have been constantly doing so for two weeks - lost cause. Finally, it turns out that the guy was just frustrated with his slow computer (I think he purchased it at the Santa Rosa Internet cafe). He says "No problem" and waves me through. I am now home free, or at least in the duty-free, where I immediately start to shop for over-priced chocolate and feel pressured to buy cologne.
Trying to decide if Jason Bourne would prefer his chocolate bar with or without Brazil nuts (Bolivian Brazil nuts, mind you), I hear my name paged overhead. I've seen the movies. Overhead pages are never a good thing. I ask myself WWJBD (what would Jason Bourne do) as I approach the desk. I know the answer, but I am pretty sure a sudden flurry of MMA skills would be ill-advised. The man at the American Airlines desk informs me that I have dangerous-appearing items in my suitcase (darn panflutes) and that I need to accompany him downstairs for an inspection. As we walk down a dark, lonely staircase, I try to determine if this is the part where I get kidnapped or become an organ donor (this would only be just, since I have been removing others' organs for the past fortnight). We reach the ground level and I am hand an orange vest (don't chain-gangs wear these?) to wear out onto the Tarmac. A big muscular guy with a gun is standing there with my bags and I am told to open the small side pocket on my rolling duffel. Thankfully, he also has a bible and this makes him seem a little less threatening (though it is open to Judges which I recall being a fairly violent book). He pulls out a laryngoscope and I am asked to safely dismantle the threatening-looking device. I show them the empty battery case and try to explain in Spanglish that it is a flashlight for looking into people's throats. This involves making some explanatory gestures - I decide to demonstrate on my own larynx rather than on the man with the gun. He seems satisfied. I give him my orange vest and they walk me back up the stairs to the terminal. I return to the duty free and buy my chocolate - both with and without the Brazil nuts. We soon board the flight and I am safely nestled in seat 24F amongst a crowd of softly snoring elderly British bird-watching tourists. My adventure complete, I fall asleep and contemplate selling the movie rights (but only if I am played by Matt Damon).
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Location:Viru Viru
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