Wednesday, January 27th. - 1200 - Fabi cranks up the gears of her tired black Chevy. “I tell you, Girls, you’re not going to clear entry in Floripa so easily.” Smoke billows from her vermillon lips. I read out loud from the South Atlantic Cruising Guide: “Immigration office is before the bridge;” “Next exit!” encourages Betsy, her fingers following the road map. Fabi crushes the gas pedal as she blissfully crosses the Florianopolis bridge and enter the Beira Mar district. “Naw… Ordem e Progreso … Immigration has moved.” The little black Chevy screeches to a stop in front of a modern glass building and the three of us are promptly ushered in front of a tall, clean-cut Brazilian official wearing a gray US-DEA polo shirt. I present our passports, ship documents, and copies thereof, not without eyeing suspiciously a barrage of 20 or so stamps of all shapes and sizes that separate us from the official. “Yes, my stamps are mightier than my guns!” Thus, in perfect English, we are warned. Fabi fingers her cigarettes. Betsy wonders if her visa will be honored. I keep chatting about the DEA. “Yes, I trained with the DEA. Now, I want to go into Intelligence.” Smart! Mr. DEA rummages through a dozen empty desk drawers: “Out of ammunition!” Fabi rolls her eyes: without ink, no stamp, no entry… Finally, an old inkpad appears from a forgotten drawer, and Bam! Bam! “Welcome to Brasil, Ladies.”In yet another cloud of smoke, Fabi pushes the Chevy passed the Sambadrome and parks at the Bus Terminal Station. We rush through the market (“Should we come back to buy oysters?”) and up the main street to the address in the Cruising Guide. “I tell you, kids, the Receta Federal has moved” warns Fabi who, with a shoulder shrug, passes the disaffected building and marches us to yet another brand new glass building. Receta Federal is where we expect to clear customs (according to the Guide.) The friendly official is so sorry to turn us away: “There is no customs office in Florianopolis. You must go to Itajai or Imbituba for formal customs declaration of the ship.” Fingering her cigarettes, Fabi point out to the signs on the walls. In my mediocre understanding of Portuguese, I make out something like: “Insulting an official is punishable by imprisonment.” We smile, and agree to travel 80 km north or south to the next customs office. Betsy is steaming, Fabi is smoking, and I simmer in a bath of confusion, so we decide to cool off with an assortment of chocolate ice cream for Betsy and iced frapuccinos for the Frenchies.
Still, we have time to try to clear entrance with the Capitania dos Portos. Since there is no customs office, therefore can’t clear customs, we should go to the next step: naval authorities. Good argument, Fabi thinks… But the Capitania is closed for the day, attending the public only from 0830 to 1130, Monday through Friday. Oysters in the trunk of the Chevy, we rush the 45 minutes back to the anchorage.
Thursday, January 28th – 0810- JP rushes me up the Palmas-Florianopolis bus and we get off before the bridge, walk the windy mile under the bridge to the Capitania. The tall, clean-cut, silver hair, blue-eyed officer Ronaldo (who looks like my uncle Gros Minou) is very sorry, but he can’t clear DOMINO’s entry without a customs declaration. “Just take the bus to Imbituba, it’s only a little more than an hour, and come back this afternoon, I’ll wait for you. So sorry, but Florianopolis is not set up as a port of entry for foreign yachts. Perhaps you should have stopped in Rio Grande, possibly, I’m not sure.”
1115 – JP and I hop in the bus to Imbituba, descend an hour later, hail a taxi to take us to “Receta Federal.” Even with our improving Portuguese, the cabbie draws a blank. Finally, he finds out that there is a customs office inside the commercial harbor and takes us there and through the barrage of access formalities.
1400 – The tall, clean-cut officials who accept my inch-thick documentation, apologizes in perfect English. “We are so sorry. This harbor is a commercial harbor and we’re not set up for clearing private ship. But it can be done. You need to get a customs agent and fill out a Simplified Declaration of Temporary Import.” While they shove the Customs Code book on the counter and I read the 2009-enacted law regarding non-Mercosul vehicles (including ships), JP points out to the same placard I had noticed the day before: “Insulting an official in the course of his duty….” OK, OK… Call the agent… enters Green-Eyed Marcello… documentation is free… agent is not… $350 senhora… and bring the ship for inspection tomorrow… no, we can’t send you an inspector in Florianopolis, you must present the ship and we will board for inspection and photographic record… see you tomorrow at noon.
1530 – The taxi driver offers to drive us back to Floripa for $100 – Whaddayathink? We’re BUS people now, especially after Marcello’s bill (We settled for $300)
1610 – Board the bus that says “De: FLORIPA” ---right, our destination is FLORIPA.
1630 – Ooops… the ocean seems to be on the wrong side of the bus… check with chauffeur… Yes, we’re coming DEsde (from) Floripa… We’re going the wrong way. Exit the bus in Laguna.
1800 – Board the bus TO FLORIPA… the right one this time.
2000 – Arrive Floripa, in search of the last bus for Palmas… too late… hire a taxi ($50) and regret not to have forked out the $100 to the nice cabbie in Imbituba.
2100 – Instead of chain-smoking, Fabi has prepared us a nice dinner… so has Betsy who, on DOMINO, is preparing the next leg of her trip. Yes, she is sailing back to Piriapolis on a yet a new adventure.
Friday, January 29th – 0750 – Fabi & Alain, old hands at Brazilian bureaucracy after more than 5 years in the country, join us to lend a hand. With winds and seas in our back, the 52 mile ride to Imbituba only takes DOMINO 2hours 40 minutes to achieve, a ride that suddenly gives Fabi regrets to have given up cruising due to sea-sickness. At 23 knots, DOMINO rides flat as a pancake.
1030 – Are we really in the right harbor? GPS says we are; Customs house says we are. No dock, no anchorage, no mooring, just 3 tugs rafted and side-tied to a construction dock 15 meter above water level. Green-eyed Marcello waves from the construction platform. “Marie! Side-tie to the tugs, and climb up-here!” YOU GOTTABE KIDDING ME! Remember what I told you in my Ninja Workout blog? Well, JP was up the challenge of seeing me off Scrappy, and clamber up old tire-fenders, straddle one, two, three tug gunwales, and take a potentially lethal jump off the last gunwale onto a 1-foot wide swaying and bobbing board, into the waiting arms of Green-Eyed Marcello. “We are so sorry to put you through all this. Actually, there is no inspector available, I don’t have a camera, so I’ll just use the picture you gave us from the Paraguayan Prefectura Naval. Let’s go to the office.”
1130 – The clean-looking officials are waiting behind the counter, behind the signs that say, “Insulting an official...” Here, the documents are ready to sign. A Senhora Chief Customs Officer emerges from her office, clad in leopard print spandex pants, laced 5” high heels, and a blouse that suggests that her position is commensurate with the size of her chest. Her bee-lips beam a welcome smile as she signs the documents and numbers the folio: 001 – Yep, DOMINO has now cleared customs, the FIRST ship ever to do this under the new law in the Imbituba office. To the curious officials, I introduce the LONDON-SYDNEY raid and the concept of healthy lifestyles. “Like me!” encourages Miss Leopard… indeed. I didn’t come to Imbituba in vain.
1330 – Retrace the Ninja Workout steeple chase run, this time without Marcello (who quietly pocketed the whittled-down $260 without invoice but stamped my trusted pocket notebook… and I can’t help thinking what great business stamp makers have in this country). Thankfully, knight in shining armor JP and his faithful ride Scrappy are waiting for me at the bottom of the tug, Betsy’s BBQ chicken and a nice salad are served on DOMINO.
1350 – Steaming just outside of Imbituba, DOMINO bravely beatsinto head seas, with 25-30 knots of wind and suddenly Fabi remembers why she gave up cruising. Ouch… poor Fabi.
Saturday, January 30th – 0900 – Once more, Fabi crushes the gas pedal of the whiny Chevy, “See, I told you it wasn’t gonna be simple…” Destination, Capitania dos Portos… Uncle Gros Minou had said he’d wait for me. “We are so sorry, Senhora, there is no attendance on the weekend, please come back on Monday.”… the sign reads, “Insulting and official….” Fabi drags on her cigarette, shrugging.
Monday, February 1st – Now a familiar sight, Fabi “murderizes” the whiny Chevy, abstaining from smoking in deference to her passengers (JP, on his side, abstains from his non-smoking remarks…) Once more, Uncle Gros Minou is ushering us in. Documents? Bom… Aduana? Bom… Bam! Bam! Stamped in due form… “So sorry, senhora, about putting you through all this, but Florianopolis is not really a port of entry…” Fabi is fidgeting with her “cibiches” again and I suddenly feel like a smoke. But how can I get upset at Gros Minou? Not only he looks like my favorite uncle, but he hands me our legal entry in Brasil! “By the way, can I purchase navigating charts of the Brasilian coast,” JP asks in broken Portuguese, looking at the list of available nautical charts. “So sorry, senhor, but the official in charge of that department is not in at the moment.” JP glances at the posted sign, “Insulting…” Fabi hands me a “taff” of her “Cibiche,” an insult to my own health that JP notices with a raised eyebrow but prefers to ignore. After all, we got our documents and we’re in Brasil, LEGAL!
Until our next adventures…. domino marie
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