Getting the sherpa out of turkish customs
The lady babe and I stood in front of a locked gate covered in sweat. I double checked the address on the shipping document in my hand. This was the place.
We had arrived in Turkey the previous day, spending the night in a cheap airport hotel before finding our way to the port, where my bike, the Super Sherpa awaited.
We eventual found a security gate. I showed my paper work and got waved through. There were no office buildings, just stacks of shipping containers. We wandered about.
The next day, I sent a flurry of Emails. “how do I get my bike, and where is it”? The Indian shipping broker who had gotten my bike into a create and on a ship in Mumbai, responded. Pay this, pay that and go here.
The next day, 10 k’s away from the port we arrived via foot to the address our Shipping agent had supplied. Payed a bill and we were in business. Scoring a lift back to the port, we were driven to an office block we hadn’t found on our first attempt.
Casually dressed men went about their business. Flicking through paper work while making phone calls. Cigarette smoke filled the air. I knew their type... Customs agents.
$300 USD was demanded plus any port fees on top. Feeling as though I had some experience now with agents, I offered $200 USD total nothing on top. Happy with my tough negotiation skills I was disappointed my offer was accepted so quickly. We shook hands and rub cheeks.
The paper work started. We marched into a cramped communal office with computers from last decade. Details including my father’s name were recorded. Two rooms later we had collected scribbles, numbers and signatures. Our man received a phone call, the volume steadily increased. My bike was still on the ship. Disappointed we arranged an hour-long time bracket in which to return tomorrow.
Back at the port the next day our man shows up, 2 hours late. He gets to work, on casually drinking tea with an associate, chatting in Turkish. We patiently wait.
The next four hours we drive in circles around the port. We collect various documents at each stop, take it to the next office, get a stamp, get a receipt, get a signature. Repeat the process.
At some point we entered a large warehouse. The Sherpa sat amongst a pile of crates. We rushed back out to another office. It’s now 6 pm, our man wants to go home and start again tomorrow. We are so close. I insist that we get the bike today.
Back at another office with blokes in important looking uniforms, I lose my shit. They ask, “Where’s my insurance, Where’s my Carnet”? It’s right here, I furiously point at paper work with stamps and signatures all over it. They look at me, my shit all everywhere, and the final stamp falls.
Our man kept his word, I paid the agreed sum. The various charges along the way weren't mentioned. We shook hands and rub cheeks. The Sherpa had been de-created. I put her back together, push started her, and rode out into the sunset.
We had arrived in Turkey the previous day, spending the night in a cheap airport hotel before finding our way to the port, where my bike, the Super Sherpa awaited.
We eventual found a security gate. I showed my paper work and got waved through. There were no office buildings, just stacks of shipping containers. We wandered about.
The next day, I sent a flurry of Emails. “how do I get my bike, and where is it”? The Indian shipping broker who had gotten my bike into a create and on a ship in Mumbai, responded. Pay this, pay that and go here.
The next day, 10 k’s away from the port we arrived via foot to the address our Shipping agent had supplied. Payed a bill and we were in business. Scoring a lift back to the port, we were driven to an office block we hadn’t found on our first attempt.
Casually dressed men went about their business. Flicking through paper work while making phone calls. Cigarette smoke filled the air. I knew their type... Customs agents.
$300 USD was demanded plus any port fees on top. Feeling as though I had some experience now with agents, I offered $200 USD total nothing on top. Happy with my tough negotiation skills I was disappointed my offer was accepted so quickly. We shook hands and rub cheeks.
The paper work started. We marched into a cramped communal office with computers from last decade. Details including my father’s name were recorded. Two rooms later we had collected scribbles, numbers and signatures. Our man received a phone call, the volume steadily increased. My bike was still on the ship. Disappointed we arranged an hour-long time bracket in which to return tomorrow.
Back at the port the next day our man shows up, 2 hours late. He gets to work, on casually drinking tea with an associate, chatting in Turkish. We patiently wait.
The next four hours we drive in circles around the port. We collect various documents at each stop, take it to the next office, get a stamp, get a receipt, get a signature. Repeat the process.
At some point we entered a large warehouse. The Sherpa sat amongst a pile of crates. We rushed back out to another office. It’s now 6 pm, our man wants to go home and start again tomorrow. We are so close. I insist that we get the bike today.
Back at another office with blokes in important looking uniforms, I lose my shit. They ask, “Where’s my insurance, Where’s my Carnet”? It’s right here, I furiously point at paper work with stamps and signatures all over it. They look at me, my shit all everywhere, and the final stamp falls.
Our man kept his word, I paid the agreed sum. The various charges along the way weren't mentioned. We shook hands and rub cheeks. The Sherpa had been de-created. I put her back together, push started her, and rode out into the sunset.
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