Equipo Williams

I had devolved into stalking a ship.  We were pretty desperate to get the car, not because we were in any hurry to do anything in particular, but because the steady drips of delays were making any planning difficult. 

On Monday the vessel tracker showed her sailing past the point at Punta del Este, so we went down to the point and saw her on the horizon.  There was much cheering.  The vessel tracker also showed her steaming at a paltry seven knots.  The Tavvishi can go faster, so I screamed some encouragement to her from the rocks, to the bewilderment of the Uruguayans and probably to not much effect.  Made me feel better, though.

On Monday evening she (finally) docked in Montevideo, and by Tuesday morning she was gone again.  The tracker indicated that our container had been unloaded, and on Tuesday evening I got a notice from Eduardo saying that the container was in port and it would be a few days. 

On Wednesday morning I got a WhatsApp from Eduardo that he needed to move the container within the port and that he would give me instructions. 

Wednesday evening, I got the instructions: one o’clock at Eduardo’s office, bring my documents, and $2300 USD cash.  Huzzah!

Punta del Este is about two hours from Montevideo, so, with documents in a backpack and a stack of hundred-dollar bills strapped to me, I set of Thursday morning.  A comfortable bus ride and a speedy Uber ride later, I was at Eduardo’s office.

I had arrived early, so I got to see the shipping and operations specialist in his natural habitat: pacing his office while yelling at someone on the phone.  He finished up, looked at me, and said “Vamos!”  We were off to the port.

I have always wanted to go wandering around a container port, and it was as great as I imagined it, though my tour was brief.  Containers stacked fifty feet high, massive forklifts racing around, cranes swinging tons of cargo through the air, trucks moving like ants through the port dropping off and picking up containers.  It was great. 

In a corner of the port we went into an office (made out of an old container), picked up our hard hats and safety vests, and I was directed to the most beat up, dented, and rusted container in the port.  The sides were kind of bulged out, as if something inside had exploded.  In it, I was told, was my car.

Bolt cutters took off the customs seal and the great doors were opened to reveal the back of my car, looking none the worse for the trip.

The car was tied and blocked in: it really didn’t seem sufficient to hold it in while on ship or while suspended from a crane, but there was no obvious damage, so I guess it was ok.  The port worker went to work with crow-bar and hammer removing the chocks.  “Ok, you can drive it out”. 

I could just squeeze up the passenger side, then climbed in through the window.  I had been told that normally cars are shipped with the batteries disconnected, but ours were still connected; I was glad I had the secondary battery available, because the primary was kind of low while the accessory battery showed a pretty good charge.  She came alive, and I backed out.

Car in hand, I ran into problem one: the title was not in the car and is still at the shipper’s in New Jersey.  Why they have it I don’t know, but a quick phone call sorted it out and it should be in a FedEx envelope to Montevideo.  It’s fine for now, but we’ll need it to cross a border.

I gave Eduardo his money, and we set off for the customs station.  I was expecting that someone would at least look at the car, but all we did was go to an office for the Temporary Import Permit.  TIP in hand and pleasantries exchanged, and the car was legally and officially in Uruguay.

The drive back to Punta del Este was mostly uneventful: I had a long time to reflect on why it is I keep finding myself in these situations while trying to figure out unique Uruguyan driving habits.  Lanes here seem to be mostly a suggestion, with people taking up multiple lanes while driving and using driving lanes for parking, but Massachusetts is basically like that as well.

The only hiccup was the toll booths: they’re fully automated and charge an account.  I had thought that I had set up a tourist pass on their website, but when I pulled up to the gate it steadfastly remained closed.  I backed up in the toll lane (that would not be possible in Massachusetts) and parked on the shoulder, and went in to speak to the toll attendant. 

She was great: I’m clearly some sort of foreign idiot who barely speaks the language trying to do something complicated, but after some back and forth we finally arrived at the truth of the matter which was that I needed to prepay.  She charged my card, I walked back to the car, pulled up to the gate, and… nothing. 

At this point a policeman came out who spoke much Spanish to me, which I assumed boiled down to “go talk to the lady, idiot”.  I tried to explain that I had already spoken to her and paid, but he correctly pointed out that the gate wasn’t opening so I must not have done everything.  It turned out he was right, and I also needed a sticker for the windshield.  Now fully registered and paid, I was on my way

The car is now in our possession, and we’re loading her up to head up the coast.  Everyone is excited to be back on the road again.