Arrived! It’s still raining.

I delivered the bike safely on Wednesday morning, 4^th July, as arranged, to the Cargo carrier at Gatwick airport. No problems. I had spotted on Tuesday night that there seemed as if there would be a window in the bad weather right down the M1 corridor between about 2.00 and 7.00 in the morning, and when I set off at 3.20, it was damp but not raining, and so, as dawn broke about 4.20, the weather was stable, and apart from a bit of spray on the motorway, the trip was dry and uneventful, although the splendid clean that Eddie Wright’s Harley dealership had done, was rather spoilt.

The carrier, put the bike on to a steel pallet with rollers inside a large thick plastic bag which is then vacuumed and buckled in with a cargo net. To all intent and purpose it’s the same process that the supermarkets use to wrap cheese and meat, although I assume that it is a rather more substantial machine that does it. I did not realise how it had been done until I went to collect it in Montreal.

The flight duly took off at 5.30pm, a six and a half hour flight which meant that we landed at just after 7.00pm in Montreal. I slept quite a lot of the way deliberately, to try to avoid jet-lag, but the films were dubbed in French and the following TV programmes were for children. The £1-00 ear plugs were so big, that one couldn’t possibly have used them to hear the T.V. anyway. The meals were pretty miserable, but the company was not at all bad. I sat next to a 20 year old British Lebanese lass who was there with her 12 year old brother, two sisters, and their mum. Nazim was a medical student at King’s College Hospital Medical School in London. Her brother never rested the whole of the trip! They were on their way to see Mum’s brother in Canada who had paid for their trip over. Somehow they had got adult flights at 2/3^rd the cost of mine, which was actually a bit irritating, but, I was determined to remain cool, and soon forgot it ( although clearly I haven’t because I’m mentioning it now.)

When we arrived, I asked about the cargo collection and was told that I could collect my bike tonight as the cargo customs officers did not finish ‘til 8.00pm. Now, this would have been fine, but the baggage conveyor belt and carrousel for our flight packed up after 7 bags had come off and there was then an announcement that our luggage would be slightly delayed. I enquired of an immigration officer whether I could clear immigration and come back for my bags after I had been to the cargo office, but was told that I had to stay in the arrivals area until my bags were in my possession. I was told that, if I was too late, I could go to the cargo area and collect the paperwork for the customs officers inside the passenger arrival area to sign off. Eventually, at 7.55pm the carrousel started , but it was ten past eight by the time I got my two bags and after I got out of the terminal, I telephoned the cargo handler who said they were open all night and to call in for the documents. I took a taxi there which cost about $8 Canadian. The agents were very pleasant and welcoming. They let me leave my bags there while I took the papers back to the arrivals area, about a mile and a half away. The first taxi driver had gone immediately as he said he had another fare to collect, so they called me another taxi and we went a slightly different way, which cost me $6.50. At the customs office, I waited in a queue for about 15 minutes and handed in my papers, explaining why they were late and why I had brought them there. The official looked at them and said that they only cleared personal baggage, and that my bike had to be cleared by a cargo customs officer. I remonstrated a bit, but it was no use, he was not going to budge. He told me that I could take it to the cargo office at 9.00 in the morning, but, just as I was leaving, he corrected himself, and said, “No, that will be 9.00 on Monday morning”, i.e after the weekend. “But”, I said, “this is not my fault, it’s the fault of the airport authority whose conveyor belt broke down”. This was apparently of no consequence to the Douane, although he said that there was a duty cargo officer on in the morning for emergencies and I could telephone them then and ask about it. So, I took another taxi, back to the handlers, by which time it was 10.15. The guy at the desk was very pleasant and sympathetic. “Look”, he said, “in an hour my boss is back. I’ll give him a ring and see if he can sort it. I got a coffee from their machine and sat outside having a smoke. About half an hour later, he called me and said it was sorted. He handed me the Customs’ papers and said his boss would release the bike after he checked it was OK. The lad asked if I wanted to check it over, so I agreed and went to see it, and this is when I first saw it in it’s shrink wrapped shroud. I checked the time, 11.20. Just then his boss turned up. He politely said that he was sorry to have kept me, but he had been to their other bonded warehouse. He took the papers from me and said “But these have not been stamped off”. “No” said the clerk. “I thought you said it would be O.K.?” “Well I’m sorry that I can’t release the bike without the customs stamp of clearance”. I was now getting slightly desperate. It was obvious that I would have to stay overnight, and another guy in the office, who was Morrocan originally, offered to take me to a hotel. I readily accepted. He too was very kind and an interesting man to talk to. It was about 4 miles from the airport, and he took me to two hotels, at Pointe-Claire, because the first, The Comfort Inn was full. The Holiday Inn however had a single bedroom available, and by midnight, I was well ready for it; my actual body clock time reading 5.00 in the morning. This “single” bedroom was, by any standards, huge, and the “single” bed was undoubtedly the largest bed I have ever seen in my life, fully 9 feet wide and 6ft 6 long. It had four pillows arranged across the headboard and clearly was actually the centre of the group sex suite. It appears that this was not part of the hotel services however, which was probably just as well, since I don’t think, at my best, I could have contributed adequately to the proceedings, and now, at my worst, and thoroughly exhausted, most definitely had nothing left to give at all, even with Viagra. The following morning, it was raining.

I had slept a solid eight hours, and rose at about 8.15, rushed to get washed and dressed, missed out on breakfast and went to get a taxi back to the airport. The lady at the desk said that there was a complimentary bus to the airport, and I was delighted, until she told me that it would next go there at 9.30. I got a taxi. This time it was $13.00. I arrived at the cargo customs office and was greeted there by a very polite and pleasant young man who listened to my story. “Tell them that it’s urgent”, my Moroccan of the previous night had said. “They usually only clear perishable goods on a Saturday.” I explained what had happened with the baggage carrousel, that the customs at arrivals had refused to clear cargo, and that I was now getting behind on my trip and having the extra costs of taxis and hotels. He was very understanding, and indeed sympathetic, but he was on by himself and was not a fully trained and experienced officer. He gave me a telephone number and said to phone back at noon and he would speak to his colleague who came on duty then. I returned across the car park to the cargo office to give them the news of the delay. I walked back across the small 9 hole golf course at the edge of the cargo area, which belongs to the Canadian Legion, and thence, around the service road to the arrivals area to pick up a taxi. I was pleased to be walking in the air. It was no longer raining and was warm and sunny. As I walked along the road, in the banks of sandy grass, I became aware of some large diggings around smallish central holes. Rabbits, I supposed, but then I saw a couple of the occupants pop up, definitely not rabbits, but what? I watched for a while. To my eyes, they were quite pretty, definitely more so that the scores of rabbits with which we are over-run at home. Light brown with slightly darker stripes down their back, short hairy tails, short pointed ears, and rather rabbit shaped heads. I focused in on the hole with the camera on my mobile phone, and zoomed, waiting for one to come up and sit at the top of the hole again. Click, got me one! While standing at the arrivals forecourt, sat in the queue, this time determined to get the complimentary hotel bus, I asked a pilot who was standing there what it was. “It’s a Gopher” he told me, so here you have a picture of something that looks a bit like a cross between and beaver and a hamster and is about the size of a rabbit. What do you know!

When I returned to the Holiday Inn, I spoke to the receptionist and asked if I could stay a further night because the room had to be vacated at noon.

I left it ‘til about twenty past twelve before ‘phoning. A very nice lady spoke to me. “Yes, I think we can sort it out. You will have to pay the import duties, of course, and I will have to speak to the Department of Transportation, because you will need Canadian registration plates and road tax.” I challenged her on this. “But it is a six year old bike, all fully paid up and with current registration and road tax paid and I am only coming here on holiday!” “Yes”, she agreed, but you may stay here and then there would be no import tax paid. The import tax you paid in England you can claim back if you have permanently exported the bike, or you can claim back the Canadian import tax when you leave Canada” “But I have a ticket to go home on 25^th October”. “But you may not go! I’m sorry that is the law. Call me back at 3.00 o’clock”. I called back at three. All was O.K. If I paid the import tax I could clear the bike, and I did not need to change the registration plates.

I called a taxi. The driver spoke broken English and poor French. I asked him to take me to 725, Stuart Graham, which, one has to admit is a pretty damn stupid name for a road, with no “Road”, or “rue” or “avenue” or “boulevard”, but there it is, that’s all it is called and that’s what it is. “Who Stuart Graham?” he asked. “It’s the name of the road, the cargo area at the airport” I said. “No, that man name, no road, no know man” was the reply. He started off the wrong way. “Cargo?” he asked. “Yes, cargo, but this is the wrong way!” I replied. “No wrong, cargo” he stated and hit the freeway, towards Montreal. We had not needed to travel on the freeway before, the route was on the local main roads. “ Look, Ecoutez” I remonstrated, “This is not the right way, Ce n’est pas vrais, incorrect route, route incorrige, this is stupid” He pulled up fast and hard on the hard shoulder of the freeway. He turned round and stared at me. “Who you call me stupid bastard?” A slight panic struck me, but I held my ground. “I didn’t call you stupid, I said all this is stupid, you don’t know where I want to go and you’re going the wrong way” “I know cargo, this quickly way on freeway”

I sat back in some despair, intending to try to take his number and ask him to let me out as soon as we were off the freeway, but he then turned off and went back up the freeway again and came off at the right turning. We passed another small airfield. “Not airport” he said, “Private.” Finally he was on the right road and pulled in to the cargo area. He saw the sign on the road side. “Huh! Stuart Graham, see! We arrived at 725. “That $31.00 dollar” he said. I paid up and got out and he sped away. Why didn’t I argue about it? Don’t ask! And I didn’t get his number either; I was just relieved to be there.

The Customs’ lady was only in her early twenties, but clearly more experienced than the young man, who was still on duty. He had been over to the cargo area when she had come in to check the bike against the documents sent from England. “How much is this invoice when you bought it in Holland?” she asked me. “That was in 2001 and it was in Germany and in Deutschmarks, I think it was about 2.1DM to the pound then” I offered. “But I don’t have a conversion rate for Dutch Marks” she said, and she would have known no better because she have been no more than about 12 when the European currency changed in 1998. “That’s because the Germans now use Euros, but we still use pounds Sterling.” “So how much is this in pounds Sterling today” she responded. “The same as it was then” I said, “but the bike is now six years old and is worth only half that!” I pleaded with her, “The tax should be on the present value as a second hand bike; it was fully paid when it was new, and if I were to permanently import it, it would be the import of a used motorcycle”. She thought for a minute and looked at the papers and worked something out on the computer. “Shall we say 900 Canadian Dollars” she offered. “Yes, I suppose so.” I gave in, knowing that if I didn’t get this paid, I was never going to even get started, let alone complete my Dream Trip. “Do you know whether the U.S. will charge me tax when I go into the States?” I asked her. “I can’t say, but you can claim the tax back with these forms if you leave Canada anyway, so then you only pay tax there and not here” she said. I presented my VISA card and completed the transaction.

This had been a disastrous start, huge taxi fares, two nights in a not cheap hotel, and now walloped with import tax. I was only staying in Canada for a few days at the most before trying to enter the U.S. A. by road, but I had already decided that I was not going to claim the Canadian tax back at that stage because I shall be returning in October to fly home again, and I most certainly don’t want to go through all that again.

At 4.00pm on Saturday afternoon, I finally cleared the bike out of the cargo warehouse. I set the Satnav (GPS for my American friends) to the Holiday Inn address, and, firstly it recognised Stuart Graham, and secondly, it got me there by a shorter route than anybody previously, and free! Brilliant bit of kit!

Sunday morning arrived and I woke up about 6.00, body clock not yet properly adjusted. I made coffee in my room and bathed and shaved and watched some rubbish T.V. until 7.00 when I could go down to breakfast. It was hard, amidst the doughnuts, fry up and all sorts of eggs, to choose any sort of healthy option. I took the Bran flakes with sultanas and put a pile of fresh fruit salad over that; glass of apple juice, glass of milk, toast and marmalade and coffee. It was good. I was sorry I had missed it the day before. It was pouring with rain. I packed slowly and waited for a gap in the rain to load up the bike. By noon, when I had to vacate, it was slightly drizzly, but I set off without my wet weather gear on, setting the Satnav for the border crossing at Philipsburg, Quebec Province. The road was rough, almost as rough as some in Bosnia, but I had chosen this route as being more likely to be picturesque than the Canadian Freeway. It was only 32 miles and the trip started well. The area is very flat, largely arable farming, and actually rather disappointing. About 2 miles out from the border there was a queue of cars returning from Canada after a weekend away. I sailed up the middle of the two lanes to where it broke into four, getting to within 100 yards of the crossing, and feeling rather apprehensive about the loss of my U.S. Visa, and concerned about whether they would let me in, my foreign registered bike and the possibility of being hit for more import taxes. “Good Afternoon, Sir” I started, in my best plain English accent, to the Immigration and Border Control Officer, “I am from England and would like to enter the States under your Visa Waiver Program for British Citizens.” “G‘dafternoon Sir” he replied, “what is this Registration Plate?” “It’s English, from the United Kingdom. I brought it over with me to Montreal on Friday night from Gatwick” “Is that in Canada Sir? he asked. “No, I flew with it as cargo from Gatwick Airport, London to Montreal, it’s a British bike, from England; I have all the registration and proof of ownership here with me, if you need them, and I have the proof that I have paid import duty on it in Canada already” I said. “That won’t be necessary Sir”, he said, “just pull over in front of that first door there and wait in the office.” He pointed to the first of about four roller shuttered garage style doors in a hanger adjoining the Border Control and Immigration office.

I rode across the front of the four lanes of waiting cars, past the officers’ kiosks and parked up. The Satnav was still on. It was 1.18 p.m. on my watch. I entered the immigration service offices. This was a pleasant new building with a large smoked glass semi-circular front and, inside the central door, there were 7 computers arranged round a large curved counter and three officers seemingly on duty. On the left was a row of seats with about 4 people waiting, on the right, a similar row with two. I sat down on the left. The small older officer in the centre, clearly of Italian descent by the name on his navy shirt, was finger printing a lady and the took a computer photograph of her. He issued her with a ticket inside her passport and charged her $6 U.S. Dollars. She exchanged some pleasantry with him and he responded and then she left and was on her way. He then pottered about behind the counter for a few minutes looking at various papers and disappeared outside. The lady officer on the left was dealing with two of the people who had been sitting on my side of the room, and the third officer was at his desk, but appeared to be doing nothing much at all, but then he too got up, looked about at a few things and disappeared. Two cars containing 9 black men and women parked up outside and they entered the office. They all came in and sat down, except one man who stood right in the centre of the room, where, had there been a queue, he would have been at the front. For 25 minutes he stood there, while the last remaining female officer dealt with the four people on my left. In the meantime about another six people came in and sat down. When Ms Officer was finished, Mr Blackman asked when he and his group would be dealt with as they had been waiting a long time. Ms Officer replied that they were short staffed and there had been a bus come through, and they cleared bus passengers first because it held up the whole bus full if they were delayed. Mr Blackman was not very pleased. He said that they should be dealt with in order of coming in. She replied that they would be dealt with as soon as some other officers became available. It seems that the new four were also off the bus, and so were dealt with next, and periodically Don Giovanni and the third officer popped in for a minute or two, looking as if they might process some of us, but then they went out again. Eventually, after almost an hour they came in to stay. The bus, it seemed, had cleared. Don Giovanni asked Ms Officer something and she nodded towards Mr Blackman, who was duly called up. It seems that one of his passengers had a different passport and it needed clarifying where he was staying, and, almost as soon as Mr. Blackman insisted that he was the host and gave an address, the passports of all of them were cleared and stamped and away they went, grumbling about the service, and their treatment, which, since I was there first, seemed pretty good for them by any standards.

Don Giovanni beckoned to me and I attended his placement at the desk. I explained the sad story of the Passport and the Visa, almost as well as I blogged it, and Giovanni was actually really nice, helpful, friendly and welcoming to the U.S. He chatted to me about the trip, and seemed genuinely interested. I asked him about the bike, and its registration and importation and he simply said that he was not concerned, since that would be handled by a dealer if I sold it while I was in the States, and otherwise, presumably, I would want to take it back home. They were not concerned with the tax on a second hand bike. All he was concerned about was when my 90 day Visa would expire, which he worked out will be October 6^th. I asked him if he may possibly be able to extend it two weeks, and he replied not, but told me that, I have now got two options, either to leave the country for 24 hours or so, and fly back in, and then I could get another Visa for a further 90 days, or, that it is in the discretion of a Border Official to grant up to a further one months stay, although this was not guaranteed and if unsuccessful, would possibly lead to immediate deportation. He took my right and left index finger prints and the obligatory photograph for the computer, charged me the statutory $6, handed my back my passport, and wished me a pleasant stay. I left and rode off South on the 89 in drizzle. The screen of the Satnav was blank. I fiddled with the on/off button and wriggled it in its cradle on the handlebars. No, it was dead and the built in charger in the cradle was clearly not working. Dead Satnav. The clouds were thickening ahead of me as I approached the “Green Mountains” of Vermont. Then the cruise control packed up.

Best wishes,

Doc