Friday, April 13, 2001
It occurred to me recently that I had received the first badge of my life. Not a badge of courage or something philosophical like that, but rather a literal photo ID badge that clips to a shirt pocket in order to gain access to the tarmac at the St Kitts airport.
St Kitts boasts the newest and nicest of the airports in the eastern Caribbean. It can easily handle heavy jets and the new terminal building is first rate especially considering it is servicing such a small population on a relatively small island. Of late we have acquired a steady stream of routine jet traffic and there are at least five private jets parked on the ramp at any given time but only two or three private planes live here, as there are no maintenance facilities, hangars, or even fuel for private airplanes. The airport has jet fuel available but no avgas, which means that in order to get aircraft fuel one must fly to another island. Now flying to another island means lots of paperwork, a minimum of twelve 8 1/2 X 11” forms to be completed, stamped, dated, and signed. This process of paper shuffling can often take longer than the flight itself.
As it happens our plane is the smallest and newest of the aircraft on the field, but according to Maureen it’s the cutest. Calling a plane cute is a bit off the mark but it gets worse, Maureen has named our Cessna 182 Turbo “Little Bird.” I suppose the name is not wholly inappropriate, but it doesn’t sound very masculine, so I am loath to refer to the plane as she has christened it. When Maureen said we had to name the plane, a process demanded of boat owners but not in vogue amongst pilots, I suggested “Kidnapper” or perhaps “Puddle Jumper” but she says no, our little single engine 4-seater aircraft reminds her of a little bird, ergo…
It was not five months ago, right after Thanksgiving, on a return trip to the islands from Portland, Oregon, that I saw this plane for the first time. In Tamiami airport just outside the Miami, Florida city limits, Tim Hocklander, the Cessna sales guy, gave me the keys and within the hour I was in the left seat taking her off with another pilot sitting right seat, outbound for the Bahamas. Two days later when we landed in St Kitts, West Indies I had completed my bi-annual review, and my logbook was signed off for this aircraft model. To date, we’ve had 7 airplanes, two twin-engine aircraft and five single-engine planes.
It then took five months, nine trips to the airport, multiple phone calls, and three letters, before I was granted the exalted privilege of receiving a badge providing easier access to the tie down ramp at the St Kitts airport. During this period I had flown to Antigua, Nevis, St Lucia, Dominica, St Vincent’s, Grenada, Puerto Rico, and most recently, the Dominican Republic, (most of these destinations multiple times), without any problem gaining airport access, but in St Kitts it has taken me an average of about 50 minutes each time I try to simply walk out to the plane to make the five minute flight to nearby Nevis. Nevis is part of the Federation of St Kitts & Nevis and the islands are only two miles apart at their closest but for some reason they treat air flight between the islands as if you are leaving for a foreign country or arriving from one. Never mind that the tower can actually see you go from one airport to the other and that you are on the radio with them the entire time and that to go by ferry requires no paperwork at all. Ah, the joys of living in the Caribbean. It seems that governments like to process lots of forms regardless of whether they have any practical point whatsoever. No hurry Mon, be happy.
During this same five month period I have also over flown at low altitudes Montserrat, (recently wrecked by a pesky volcano), Barbados, the Grenadines, Guadeloupe, Martinique, St Martins, the British Virgin Islands, St Croix, St John’s, St Thomas, Saba, and St Eustatius, to name a few of the larger islands in the West Indies. And, I’m prompted to admit, that although I bought Little Bird, (there I said it), to more easily get around the local islands; its chief value is that it is way more fun than flying commercially and of course it is considerably more flexible. Except for the paperwork.
Today is Friday the 13th Good Friday actually, and Maureen and I have just now returned from the Dominican Republic. This little trip began the morning of April 9th at 2:00 PM, when I delivered two outbound Gen Dec’s (General Declaration forms) to Immigration – one was kept and one was stamped and dated which I was obliged to hand carry to Customs and then fill out two more Gen Dec’s, one for Customs and the other to take to the Port Authority along with both Immigration and Customs clearances stamped, signed and dated. Then it was on to weather briefing where we filed a flight plan, then to the Port Authority to file more documents and pay landing and parking fees. Whew. Airport access was finally achieved after baggage examination and a standard personal x-ray. Total time 40 minutes, the fastest time yet.
Both of us use a simple carry-on-style, black roller luggage, and that coupled with my flight bag, backpack and Maureen’s humongous purse, planner notebook, etc., were to accompany us on our trip to Santo Domingo. As it happens, we almost always carry to much stuff, which tends to cause a cockpit management problem of where to put what within reach of the pilot while flying. Charts, approach plates and aircraft reference materials are supposed to take priority but frequently suffer when contrasted against a woman’s purse, a multitude of edibles, sodas and water bottles and more interesting things to read, (for the passenger not the pilot.)
Once to the plane we performed a standard pre-flight, added a quart of oil, and untied the wings from the tie-downs, which I wish to point out, I personally installed on the ramp just before Christmas. We then fired up the engine, (Maureen constantly refers to it as a lawnmower motor), and called the tower. Taxi cleared we made an intersection takeoff with a climbing left turn and rounded the north end of the island just five minutes later in route to our planned fuel stop at Isle Grande, San Juan, Puerto Rico; the old downtown airport.
Rather than fly direct San Juan we decided to deviate course slightly adding about twenty minutes time enroute to fly up the length of St Croix and then on to the US Naval bombing island of Isla De Vieques that has been in the news of late. Special permission to fly the corridor was granted by air traffic control after they determined that the restricted area was cold, meaning there were no jets flying make believe bombing and strafing runs in the zone which otherwise would have made the transit a very dangerous place.
We killed off about 5,000 feet of elevation and flew in low over Vieques. The island was actually quite beautiful, with lovely beaches and wonderful little inlet bays, and it is easy to see why so many Puerto Ricans believe this island should be turned into a nature preserve instead of being used as a bombing test site for the U.S. government.
Flying across the short channel that separates Vieques from Puerto Rico we gained the extreme east end of Puerto Rico and crossed Roosevelt Roads airport at center field, dodging low lying cumulous build-ups, and climbed enough to top a mountainous ridge and homed directly in on Isla Grande airport. Approach control gave us a new squawk code for the transponder, asked us to ident, and fast-talked target advisories on the way through the traffic control area towards San Juan International. Over flying the San Juan International tower at 2,200 feet we looped out over the Caribbean and tacked back in for a left base approach past the Capitol Building, turned final at the west end of the bay, and set down right on the threshold strips on runway 9 of Isle Grande; a perfect flight all in all. Cleared to taxi to customs we swung around, shutdown, and walked into a nightmare of U.S. paperwork and bureaucracy.
Immigration and Customs are next to one another in the same building. In fact, they are actually desks sitting side by side. Feeling rather proud of myself for quasi-impressing Maureen with such a slick bit of flying I was immediately brought up short by a verbal attack by both the immigration and customs officers for not giving them an hour’s notice before our expected arrival. These people launched into an aggressive diatribe about how it was our responsibility to know all of the laws of the U.S. and that there was a $3,000 fine for not calling customs an hour in advance before arriving in a private plane.
Now, as it happened, we had requested that the person who took our flight plan advise customs of our expected arrival and we later cross checked this with the flight service station when over flying St Croix. A third time we checked in with San Juan center to make sure that customs was expecting us and after a short delay the air traffic controller came back on the radio to advise us that it was a done deal. Wrong. We spent the next 90 minutes being lectured by condescending technocrats with evidently nothing better to do. Talk about unfriendly, these guys were hell-bent on proving the widely held belief that government enforcement people hate their jobs and hate the people they are retained to serve. A combination of arrogance and distain coupled with the knowledge that they have the power to ruin someone’s day, week, or worse, was their all to obvious attitude.
Maureen took careful notes about their explicit interpretation of what they claimed was government policy in dealing with private aircraft arriving in Puerto Rico. Amongst other things, they would not accept a third-party advising them of our planned arrival, we must call them ourselves directly, no matter whether this is virtually impossible from other islands. And we must know when we are going to arrive, another very difficult thing to predict, especially if one must call from home before going through the myriad delays at the airport before takeoff.
Immigration preferred we fax them with all our particulars, another extremely difficult thing to do if traveling amongst islands whose communication systems are terribly antiquated and where just finding a fax machine could be an all day chore.
We had originally planned to simply refuel and use the rest rooms at Isle Grande airport and then take off for our final destination in Santo Domingo, after all it was less than two hours flight time on from San Juan. But the incredibly stupid delays caused by U.S. civil servants (an oxymoron if ever I heard one) caused us to rethink the process and decide to spend the night in Puerto Rico. Two and a half hours after our arrival a taxi picked us up at the private terminal and drove us to the Caribe Hilton, a newly refurbished property we could see from where our plane was tied down for the night.
After the sticker shock of $320 for a room, Maureen got all dressed up and we dined at Morton’s steak house on the Hilton premises, which ended up costing us almost as much as the room. Maureen looked simply terrific, a result of her quiet confidence, a recent diet and exercise routine, and the flush of excitement that seems to follow a new adventure. It was an incredible evening, the moon shone bright on the ocean, a pleasant breeze played gently through the palms, white foam swirled around the rocks and reefs that defined the beach area directly in front of the hotel. I was in love all over again.
The next morning was one of those amazingly beautiful days with which the Caribbean is so often blessed. After a breakfast buffet at the shoreline we caught a taxi back to the airfield and filed a flight plan. We took off using the Tango departure guidelines for the Isle Grande airport area, which requires that we angle out the gap of the inlet bay at 070 degrees so as not to disturb residents in old town. About a mile out over the Atlantic we banked left and proceeded to track the north coast almost due west. One gorgeous resort after another passed under our left wing as we flew at low altitude mesmerized by the magnificent line of white sand beaches, cresting waves, golf courses and coral reefs.
Eventually we came to the west end of Puerto Rico and climbed out over the Mona channel on our way to the Dominican Republic. Thirty minutes later at 9,500 feet we made the transition from sea to land at the eastern end of the island of Hispaniola. Continuing to fly pretty much due west along we proceeded up the southern side of the island and were once more greeted by one fabulous resort and golf course after another. Looking inland was a green patchwork quilt of considerable agricultural endeavor just about as far as the eye could see. The inland view, stunning in its own right, was interspersed with green bordered rivers flowing to the sea from their beginnings high up in a 10,000 foot mountain chain that runs east to west down the back of Hispaniola.
We called up Santo Domingo approach control and as in Puerto Rico cleared the primary international airport traffic by crossing mid field over the tower and began our descent into the old part of the city from just off the coast over the Caribbean Sea for noise abatement reasons then turned north two miles into town to land at Herrera airport, a relatively short and narrow runway slightly to the north of a whole slew of government buildings.
The difference between landing in Puerto Rico and the Dominican Republic was night and day. As we taxied to the terminal we were waved into a parking space by a friendly fellow who was clearly familiar with the needs of private aircraft owners. Both customs and immigration officers met us at the plane before we had shutdown the engine and were quick to welcome us to our new “second home in Santo Domingo.” After a quick once over they asked for the ubiquitous Gen Dec’s used by all the nations of the Caribbean when arriving in a private aircraft. Within five minutes the fellow who had waved us to parking was functioning as an official ombudsman, he organized our plane to be detailed, washed and waxed, deployed a guard to watch over it, made copies of the required forms for the various government agencies, had the plane fueled and secured us a cab and made an appointment to meet us three days hence to facilitate our speedy departure. It cost a few dollars but was it worth it! We were off the airport in just ten minutes time. Customer service at it’s finest!
According to the local Travel Guide, the Dominican Republic’s capital has now surpassed 2.5 million with about 8 million population on island all total. Santo Domingo might not be the tropical paradise most travelers expect from the Caribbean, but once you penetrate the outer chaos the old Spanish colonial capital stands magically intact along the western bank of the Ozama River. This is the oldest European city in the New World, Columbus City, which was founded by Christopher Columbus’ brother Bartolomé, ruled by him for a time and claimed a decade later by his son Diego.
During the Columbus rule Santo Domingo was the center of colonial administration and the setting off point for the Spanish conquests of Mexico, South and Central America and the rest of the Caribbean. After five centuries, the palace of the Columbus family can still be found alongside the cobblestone streets and monumental architecture of the walled, limestone city they built. This particular area, known as the Zona Colonial, is not only the most historic part of the city, it is home to the first cathedral, university, hospital, monastery and nunnery in the entire Western Hemisphere. It’s also a vibrant, contemporary neighborhood thanks to the many trendy cafes, bars and old style houses where thousands of people live and work. According to the Guinness Book of World Records, the nightlife along the enormous seaside boardwalk called the Malecon, constitutes the world’s largest disco.
Maureen had previously made reservations via the Internet at the Santo Domingo Hotel, an elegant but quiet property located on the Caribbean in the heart of the upscale part of the city. Old world charm permeates the entire complex of outdoor restaurants, salons and the like, and all are covered with beautifully hand worked hard woods in the dark polished stains so common of the Spanish culture. We were uncharacteristically impressed and our first night’s experience in Santo Domingo was particularly pleasant.
We had come to be part of a wedding and part we were. Upon arrival we located a private taxi driver who had lived two years in the States and spoke passable English, we retained him for the duration of our stay. The next two days were filled with related activities wherein at one point we hosted a dinner at an outdoor fine-dining Italian restaurant with friends from as far away as Everett, Washington, Salt Lake City, Utah and another twenty odd friends from St Kitts.
At one point our driver contracted a small bus, which along with his full sized car ferried our guests to the dinner we hosted.
Friday morning we were off to the airport by 9:30 after calling Customs in San Juan to advise them of our intended arrival. The office number they had given us for Isle Grande was not answered and there was no voice recording so we called the Customs office at the main international airport and told them of our plight. They took down all of our arrival information, gave us a Custom’s number to confirm we had provided adequate notice and advised they would confirm with Customs at Isle Grande. After spending less than fifteen minutes on the field filing a flight plan, doing a pre-flight and settling up with our airport interface guy, we took off for our return trip home. We climbed out to 11,000 feet to top the broken clouds along the seashore but after a half hour settled back down to 9,500 feet so as not to become to gitty from a lack of oxygen. After crossing the Mona channel we set up for a slow but steady descent to gain as much airspeed as possible in order to offset the 30-knot headwind we encountered. Another stunning day and another uneventful flight saw us safely back to Isle Grande airport.
After landing we taxied to the Customs slash Immigration building, walked in the door completely prepared to expedite the process only to encounter Mister Attitude. With two Custom officers watching, the Immigration officer immediately tore into us about transient procedures, the $3,000 fine we were going to have to pay, and the scalding report he was going to make to his superiors about our not having notified him of our impending arrival. Never mind that it hardly mattered whether or not he had advance notice as there were no other customer’s in the building and he clearly had nothing else to do.
This guy was aggressively angry and outspoken and literally swaggered around with his hand poised over the gun at his hip in an unabashed threatening manner. During the course of his long-winded diatribe he several times mentioned that it was simply inappropriate for us to be flying on Good Friday anyway, probable insight that he was angry about having to work on a holiday.
Mr. Attitude from Immigration was so caught up in himself that he simply would not listen to us as we tried to explain that we had called and no one answered and there was no voice mail so we contacted the Customs office at the main international airport. When I was finally able to explain that we had received a confirmation number three hours prior to landing and that we hand landed exactly on the minute that we predicted, (by shear luck), he then blurted out that Customs couldn’t give us a confirmation number for Immigration.
I don’t’ know whether he simply did not believe us or he was so worked up that he did not know how to back down but he then began to loudly demand we provide him the name of the person at the international airport that had given us the confirmation number. Got me…. I had no idea. On the other hand we had no reason to suspect this might be needed.
Once again he launched into a tirade pointing out that we weren’t off the hook and that he would hold us to the letter of the law, (laws he could not show or give us but summarized for our benefit stating that it was our responsibility to know these laws for ourselves and not his to provide to us.) Although I did not know the name of the person I talked with earlier I held firmly but quietly to the point that we had called and did receive a confirmation number which was what we had been instructed to do just three days prior in this very office.
Now mind you, this guy was a bully and when confronted with people like this the best tack is to be meek and mild, especially when they have the power of the gun and the government on their side. So I listened politely and tried my level best to be understanding and nice, and said my yes-sir’s right on cue, but my normally sweet natured wife was so incensed with this overbearing psychotic that she proceeded to lay into him with both barrels blazing.
“Why does this have to be such an excruciating process?” see queried. “Is there some rule that you have to be rude and overbearing?” she continued. “Why is it that everywhere else we go people are at least generally polite but in this office we are treated like criminals for apparently no reason other than you appear to be having a bad day?” “You do know that all we want to do is get gas for the plane and leave?”
Of course, she was absolutely correct in what she said and how she said it, but I was quite certain this was not the way to play this guy. One of the two customs officers watching this escalating confrontation quietly confirmed to Mr. Attitude that we did indeed have a confirmation number and in fact the notice of our expected arrival was actually sitting on his desk. It seems he had overlooked it. Now he was in a quandary, the Customs guys were not going to back him and the entire problem was in his lap. So… he began to probe us with questions and talked on about how it was his job to engage us in conversation to see if we slipped up on information we were giving him. Although I am quite sure that is a part of his training it was all so much crap insofar as it related to us. Finally he stamped our immigration card and stormed out the door calling back over his shoulder that he was headed to McDonalds.
Now began the “let’s get a customs clearance decal” procedure. I had been through this process twice before in this very office. The first time was when bringing the plane down from Miami the in December, a few months prior, but when they got around to issuing the decal they suddenly discovered they were out of them. The second time we went through the process was just three days earlier on our way north. That time they discovered the guy who could take the cash was missing. This time, after the forms were completed yet again, and another protracted wait ensued, we finally got our decal to be placed next to the door of the plane but Customs does not make change and it was a holiday and nothing else on this side of the field was open so we left them with a $50 bill for a $25 decal.
All in all, an hour and half was wasted by people who apparently had nothing better to do. I shutter to think the delays we might have experienced had others been waiting to clear Immigration and Customs. All of this hassle so we could simply buy fuel and get back on our way to St Kitts. Interestingly enough, and although our plane was parked not twenty feet from the glass door through which we entered the customs area, no one ever bothered to even look at the plane, its contents or anything else that might be relevant to smugglers, or what have you. In fact, to date, no one has ever looked in our plane, our luggage or even at our passports, in any of the myriad locations to which we have flown. This pretty clearly points out the obsession by all governments with “form over substance.”