Fat Cats, Fast Cars

Forgive the alliteration, but after a long day at work I will seize upon any available stylistic crutch on order to force myself to get words to screen.

First, the cats. We have two of them. We inherited them from a former consulate employee who had the misfortune of being posted to Bermuda – where, evidently, British Commonwealth regulations require that all incoming animals be quarantined for some length of time. Either he didn’t like the cats that much or he figured the quarantine would break their little kitty spirits, but either way he decided to pawn (paw?) them off on us.

The cats are great. Really the only problem with them was their names: originally, as I understand it, Lilo and Sinatra. Well, they are now Edgar and Sanchez. Edgar keeps himself relatively clean, but Sanchez can be a bit dirtier. When we first got the cats, we were told that Edgar (né Lilo – or was it Sinatra?) is affectionate and cuddly, whereas Sanchez (né Sinatra – or was it Lilo?) is rather more the scruffy cat-about-town. In fact, however, Sanchez appears to be the more house-bound. In fact, he’s turned into a bit of a nuisance. If Anya is not crying, then the sound we are hearing is Sanchez at the bottom of the stairs, mewling loudly to be allowed into our room. The really annoying thing is that our room door is generally open, and all Sanchez has to do is get his lazy cat ass up the stairs and through the door.

Once in the room, however (usually after a combination of coaxing and carrying, the latter often in guilty recompense for having angrily thrown a shoe at the whiny bastard), Sanchez likes to meow a “hello” then curl up in a corner of the bed and get his serious catnap on.

Edgar, on the other hand, has turned out to be downright aloof. A week after we got him, in fact, Lisa let him out, and he disappeared. And the cat did not come back the very next day. In fact, after five days without seeing him we were pretty sure that he had been eaten by one of the wolf-like dogs prowling unleashed along the goat path. Imagine my surprise, then, to look up from my reading a couple weeks ago and see Edgar padding across the floor of the living room. He must have slipped in when one of us wasn't looking.

On to the cars. Or, more specifically, ours. It's here. In fact, it's been here since November 20. But we can't drive it yet. Allow me to offer you a window into the bureaucracy.

The car was apparently offloaded in the Port of Vladivostok on the evening of November 20. We were told that it would take some time to clear customs – perhaps until Friday, November 24. Friday, of course, came and went, as did the following Monday. On Tuesday the 27th, we got the green light (I don't know who gives the green light, but we got it). Usually our GSO (General Services Office) guys go down to the port themselves and pick vehicles up, but I wanted to go with them, which they kindly allowed.

We arrived at the port at around 3:30pm and waited a bit in order to meet the relevant people (in particular the representative of the freight forwarder that handled the shipment). Once these people showed up, it looked like things were going to happen. But at 4pm, we were told that it was "tea time." I thought maybe this was a joke – even the Russian GSO staff thought maybe it was a joke – but, no, in fact the period from 4 to 5 is tea-time and no-one works during that time. This was a little frustrating because we could see the crane operator sitting in his seat, and with the push of a few levers he could grab our container and send us on our way. We started to wonder: Robert Shonov, second-in-command at the GSO, thought we might have to wait until 6pm, since “coffee break” might run from 5 to 6. But, I said, 6 to 7 must surely be vodka break. But our driver, Sergey, said that vodka break likely began at 8am, and had not yet stopped.

Long story, um, long, we got the car at 5pm. Very exciting to see as they opened up the container and there it was: our 2006 Nissan X-terra, in an entirely different part of the world from where we saw it last. A little heart flutter as it failed to start, but then we realized the battery was not connected. Success! We got our paperwork and drove out of the port.

Success, however, turned out to be a relative term. It would require a few days to register the car with the traffic cops and get plates for it. Fine. I figured we could go in the next day. But, as it turned out, they don’t do inspections on Wednesdays. So, Thursday, Sergey takes the car down to the traffic police. He returned later that day, however, saying that the traffic police could not find the “engine number” on the car. That is, we had the VIN, but they wanted the engine number before registering it. We looked ourselves, but could find nothing. The traffic cops told us to bring it by the next day, Friday, and they would have an “expert” in who could presumably find the number.

So Sergey brought the car in on Friday and, sure enough, the expert found the number. (It’s buried under the exhaust manifold on the left side of the car, by the way, almost at the bottom of the engine.) Success! I again (foolishly) thought. But no. Now that we had found the correct engine number, it had to be entered onto our customs form (on which an incorrect number had earlier been written). And this was not simply a matter of us running by the customs agency. No, we had to contact our freight forwarders, who would themselves handle the paperwork. They had of course closed by this time.

On Monday, we did finally get the form – someone had simply crossed out the incorrect number and scrawled in the correct one, slapping it with a fat stamp making it all official. Off to get the plates! I thought. Of course not: I should have remembered that they are closed on Monday.

So Tuesday, we set out. I have the feeling that I will be driving the car home. This time Sergey is not available, so Robert and I drive the car up ourselves to meet with Sergey’s traffic cop contact. First, the car is briefly inspected, during which we spend a considerable amount of time showing the traffic cops where the engine number is. (Time goes a little slower as well for us because what must be the first X-terra in Vlad is attracting a little attention – which is in and of itself somewhat surprising, because the X-terra’s more pimped-out, gas-guzzling cousin, the Armada, is in plentiful supply here.)

Inspection successful. Success! Of course not. Now we must bring the forms to the traffic police office where they will be officially received. It is there that the news is broken to me that the license plates are in another location altogether, and I won’t be getting those today. In fact, there appears to be some question about whether the plates are even available – since we need special red diplomatic plates ordered from Moscow. If we are out of them, we are doomed, because it will surely take months to get them.

Update: the plates came! We are now free to roam the madcap streets of Vladivostok. We’ll talk about driving in a subsequent post...