Spent most of today, 10 hours in all at the police station in the airport cargo area. Seems that shipping a bike into a country, not taking it out of customs then shipping it somewhere else, isn’t the usual thing to do.
Limited language to ahora, motobicicletta, no comprendo and, no americano gringo yo inglese, doesn’t help matter at all.
Two sniffer dogs (first one was either high or had a cold, couldn’t quite make out the Spanish there either).
The paperwork and the lyncargo people were great. They even bought in Ingrid, a dusky maiden in tight fitting clothes, high heels etc, to distract the ever growing line of young police who wanted to get involved and thereby delay the process even longer. I know, I really do know, that all they wanted to do was look at the bike, but for 10 soddin hours. Then one wrote inflamable, instead of inflammable on a document, that some beady-eyed hat wearing pseudo important git spotted and said needed changing, requiring umpteen queues to be rejoined for new numbers, copies and signatures.
I can just hear the flight crew of an airborne inferno screaming, “It was that missing M, that’s why we are all going to die”.
So, anyway, bike flies tomorrow and so do I.
Back to who knows what and for how long?