Customs Adventure

Now that we are settled in our little Casita Oleander at Las Palmas Tropicales we have a somewhat reliable internet connection and can be back in touch.  Getting here was part of our adventure, beginning with a less than smooth trip through customs.  Before even claiming our bags, the fruit dog was on me!  Word must have traveled faster than we:  last year I forgot about a banana in my purse.  I had noticed the dog and his harness.  At first I thought he was an aid dog in training.  He was so cute and looked so friendly I did the usual reminder to self not to play with dogs in training.  Then I saw that the harness did not mark an aid dog and so I put my hand down to play with him and his accompanying agent began questioning me about fruit!  Busted.  Thank goodness Bruce had not slipped  a banana in my bag this year and the agent let me go after a quick rifle through my "purse."  (Aren't those dogs supposed to be mean and nasty and intimidating-looking?).  Meanwhile, Bruce  was having his own adventure with our packs.  He answered truthfully when asked, admitting to bringing in tobacco.  He had assured me during our packing process that he could take in two bags of his rollie smokes, if I carried one.  Yeah.  Bruce's honest answer put us in a special lineup.  Our bags were emptied; my brown rice confiscated and the two bags of tobacco separated out from the rest.  After many questions and stumbling through our rusty Spanish, the agents took some time to convert ounces to grams (something we should have done before leaving home) to discover we were over the allowable limit.  Ding.  Off Bruce went with his wallet and customs agent while I stayed with our bags.  One agent tapped me on the shoulder wanting to make sure I stopped at his little table before leaving.  Another female agent showed me which door would be my exit, as now the clump of touri from our plane had all dissipated.  The agent must have been bored too as she and I started up a converstion about language difficulties.  By the time the agent had finished with Bruce and his wallet, the place was deserted.  Even the officious little man who stood at the last table had disappeared without a trace.  The now-very-expensive tobacco went back in our bags and having completed that little adventure, we were on our way.

Next challenge: the Corridor of Condo Salesmen.  I seem to be one of those people that attracts not only customs dogs, but salespeople and street peddlers.  I breathed a sigh of relief to find the Corridor nearly empty.  One fellow remained, I had seen him with the customs agents, and he asked where we were headed.  Oh, he knew of a bus to Pescadero leaving in a few minutes and a hotel which would only cost us $30.  At first I thought he was sympathetic to our ordeal and wanted to help us out.  Then the light bulb came on.....these guys are pros!  They know exactly how to read you and how to get to you...."No, no...we have a hotel, I just can't remember the name of it."   And off we scurried into the warm Baja sunshine, following the shift-finishing airport workers to the bus stop.