by Tom Michell
While he was working on my second shoe, I had started to wonder how I could prevent a deposit of guano on the hydrofoil on which Juan Salvador and I would be traveling for more than three hours. Sitting in that plaza in the winter sunshine, I was smitten with guilt about the mess Juan Salvador had left on the bus. I imagined every policeman in Montevideo would be out looking for the phantom penguin porter and had been issued with a description: fair-haired European wearing a red skiing jacket and blue jeans, carrying a penguin in a string bag. I did feel ever so slightly conspicuous.
The boy tapped my foot again to indicate that he had finished his task, and after inspecting my shoes, I dropped a few pesos into his hand.
Shoeshine boys didn’t hang about, as a rule. They would spend a minute or two at most on each customer, whose shoes rarely needed more because of the frequent cleaning they got. They didn’t argue about the money, either. They’d just flit to the next most likely person they could see. But this boy broke that tradition.
“Señor,” he said.
I looked down in some surprise, much the way the beadle might have regarded Oliver Twist.
“Is that a penguin under your bag?” From his perspective he had spotted Juan Salvador’s feet. “Can I see it?”
Satisfied that no one else had noticed us, I lifted the paper bag a little for him to peek underneath. They looked at each other, face-to-face, for several moments in silence, and as I watched, it appeared as though there was an exchange between these two that transcended words: boy and bird, with a language of their own.
Eventually, with the spell broken, almost the same question I’d asked myself only a few minutes before tumbled from the boy’s lips: “Why do you have a penguin with you?”
How much did he know? What had the penguin told him? I tried to answer. “Because…er…Well, because…” Each time I started, the words just dried up. Why did I have a penguin in a string bag in the middle of Montevideo? Again I tried. “Because…”
“Because you are English,” he prompted me gently, nodding in a knowing and even schoolmasterly sort of way. It was a statement, not a question.
“Look,” I said, wresting the initiative back, “never mind that. What I need right now is a strong plastic bag that I can put him in. If you can find me one, I’ll give you fifty pesos.”
He looked me straight in the eye. I could see he was weighing how much money he might make from the increasing number of people who were now on their way to work against the time it would take him to get a plastic bag and earn the fee. True to tradition, he haggled.
“Make it a hundred?” he said. His cheeky smile was shining through the dirt on his impish face. It was against all the rules of haggling for me to give in too easily.
“Of course—on the condition that you bring it here, to me, before I finish my coffee!” I said. I’d show him who was boss! Without another word, and pausing only to glance into my cup, he was gone.
I finished my leisurely breakfast and was delighted when I saw him running back across the plaza with a suitable bag. I gave him two hundred pesos, and he skipped off, beaming from ear to ear.
—
The aliscafo—hydrofoil—that plies between Montevideo and Buenos Aires provides the traveler, who has unexpectedly and at short notice found himself with a penguin as a traveling companion, with plenty of time to anticipate the possible reaction of the receiving customs officers on the other side of the border. Indeed, because the hydrofoil was extremely noisy, the ride bumpy, and the small portholes dirty with exhaust grime, there was little else that passengers could do during their journey but occupy themselves with their thoughts. Conversation was all but impossible (for which I was thankful on this occasion), as was reading. Assured of the sensory deprivation of my fellow passengers, afforded by the roar of the engines and the blast of cold air, during the three hours it took to cross the river Plate, I contemplated the next potential obstacle. I reflected on the nature of penguins, and slowly a stratagem that had initially formed in my mind the night before, as I remembered Euan McCree, developed more fully. I would walk through customs saying that I had nothing to declare, while keeping Juan Salvador hidden. If by some miscalculation he was discovered, I would explain that penguins are migratory birds and that I was simply repatriating this Argentine penguin, which, due to unfortunate happenstance, had become injured and was only traveling with me while it recuperated. It would then be released back into the wild. After all, that really was my plan, which would be preferable to leaving him at the zoo in Buenos Aires. “Surely such humane conduct,” I would say, “couldn’t contravene any regulations, could it?”
By emphasizing the Argentine origin of the bird, I hoped to appeal to the customs officer’s nationalistic sentiment, which I had learned so recently from the bar brawl was central to the local psyche. I hoped I could demonstrate that I wasn’t guilty of any charge of bioterrorism, or open to the accusation of the unlicensed importation of exotic species. Thus prepared, I relaxed, ready to allow a beneficent providence to play out its hand—though not without some misgivings, I must admit.
The Argentine customs and immigration control at that time was not very different from those the world over. Nowadays individuals are given more space and are treated with greater respect. In those days, however, it was not a jolly place.
I was no stranger to the dismal immigration offices down at the docks in Buenos Aires. On my arrival in Argentina I had only been given a visitor’s visa. In order to obtain a work permit and permission to reside in the country, it was necessary to get the agreement of the immigration department. Naturally, workers from abroad had to demonstrate that their knowledge and skills were superior to those of local labor and of significant benefit to the nation. With all the arrogance of youth, I was of course flabbergasted to discover that the granting of a work permit wasn’t simply to be automatic in my case.
Applicants had to present themselves, at the appointed time and with all the necessary documents, to the work permits department at immigration control at the docks. Those not seen by the end of the day had to present themselves again the following morning and join the queue afresh, day after day after day.
Although living standards in Argentina at the time might have appeared low to people from more developed nations, they were very desirable for the poor in Argentina’s neighbors to the north. Accordingly, there were always great numbers of applicants queuing at the docks. However, Argentina didn’t want unskilled foreign workers and tried to deter them by making the process of applying for a work permit convoluted, slow, and uncomfortable.
There were ways to mitigate the horrors of immigration control. Professionals who could show they had been offered jobs by Argentine companies were given preferential treatment. Their employers could send another employee in their stead, with the necessary papers, to make the application for an appointment; however, there was no alternative (other than bribery) to someone having to join the queue at the docks.
St. George’s College employed a retired Englishman who had been born in Argentina to try to smooth the appointment procedure for its employees. For a small sum, Geoff was quite content to pass a few days queuing in the immigration control office with my passport to arrange my appointment. Success required nothing more than perseverance. The valiant Geoff did most of the queuing for me, although when he couldn’t be there I had to go. Between us we queued for a total of about ten tiresome days, spread over as many months, before I finally had a work permit stamped in my passport.
This time, on reaching the port of Buenos Aires, I entered the vast hall and nervously joined the “Entrada” line. I showed my passport and visa to the first free immigration officer, who then directed me to the scores of queues of people waiting to see one of the customs officers. Hundreds of passengers were shuffling along in their lines before placing their belongings for all to see on a table in front of the officials, who questioned them while reviewing their property. All the while, armed troops circulated, obse
rving and supervising the work of the customs officers—all part of the iron fist imposed under the martial law that extended throughout Argentina following the recent military coup.
Although I had a dry throat, I was confident of my practiced argument, and by this time I had shuffling with Juan Salvador at my feet down to a fine art. I moved, parent-penguin-like, and he simply slid along in front of me. It was all so easy!
When my turn came I placed my rucksack on the waist-high table in front of the officer that providence had allocated to me. A smart, genial young man in uniform greeted me with a courteous “Buenos días,” but before I had the opportunity to reply, a second officer approached, tapping his watch. “Gracias,” said my officer to his replacement, and he departed. How horrifying was this change of fortune? Thank you so much, Fate. The new officer was overweight and had floppy jowls, while his lower jaw was much too big for his head. His dun-colored uniform was ill cared for. The top button of his shirt was undone, because he was too big for it to be done up, and his tie was loose. A hand-rolled cigarette, which had gone out, was stuck to his lower lip. His mustache was graying and stained with nicotine, and by the look of his stubbly gray chin he hadn’t shaved for two or three days. He wore mirrored dark glasses with heavy frames, so I couldn’t see his eyes. No other officer in the place would have filled me with more foreboding.
“Anything to declare?” he demanded.
“No,” I replied to my own reflection in his glasses.
“Where have you been?” he asked, with no attempt to sound pleasant or welcoming.
“I have been staying in Uruguay.”
I was obviously just a European traveler and of no interest to him, so he jerked his head sideways, indicating I should move on. I gathered up the rucksack and shuffled. I was through! Oh, bliss! Oh, joy! Nothing could have been easier. Why had all those doubts been clouding my afternoon? The officer suddenly looked normal, if not angelic, to my eyes.
But I celebrated my victory too soon. To this day I do not know if my elation had communicated itself to Juan Salvador somehow, or whether I had simply stepped on his toe. Whatever the reason, at the very same moment I let out a sigh of relief, Juan Salvador uttered the first sound that I had ever heard him make. A loud and piercing squawk of three distinct syllables emanated from the paper bag.
In an instant, the rumble of a hundred conversations subsided into total silence and everybody in the whole building turned to see what had made the extraordinary noise. As the silence grew more menacing, I could feel the increasing warmth of their gaze: hundreds of pairs of eyes settled upon my blushing face. Suddenly everybody was taking an interest in my personal affairs, delighted by the diversion and hoping that their own dark secrets would remain hidden now that the officers were distracted by my discomfort. I imagined all the armed guards loosening their guns behind me and taking out their handcuffs.
“What the devil was that?” my own officer barked, now alert and scenting blood. He leaned over the counter and looked down at the bag on the floor that I had been trying to conceal.
“What was what?” I said, playing for time.
“In that bag you are trying to hide!”
“Oh, that?” I said, “It’s just a penguin, and I’m not trying to hide anything!” I was doing my best to sound both nonchalant and confident, though I was feeling far from either. The incident on the bus might have been embarrassing, but trouble here was a far more serious matter.
“You can’t bring animals into Argentina! It is a serious criminal offense to smuggle livestock into this country!”
I had rehearsed my argument and politely set about explaining to the customs guard that penguins weren’t livestock at all, but wild migratory birds that move up and down the coast of Argentina and Uruguay and even as far as Brazil without anyone’s permission. The reason this particular penguin was using this particular port as a point of return to the Argentine was an unfortunate injury it had sustained, which required that it travel in company with me temporarily. On its recovery, I explained, it would be free to continue migrating at will.
I went on, too scared to stop talking for fear of what might happen next. Under normal circumstances the penguin would not dream of troubling the republic’s customs officers. Besides, I couldn’t possibly be guilty of smuggling because it was an Argentine penguin and so I was doing nothing other than repatriating the bird. I was very pleased with that line and was sure it would play particularly well. It didn’t, of course.
The officer listened to my argument poker-faced, obviously failing to understand the impeccable rigor of my logic. His sour expression didn’t change. I had a chilling thought, too, that the military government that had recently seized power might not grasp the finer points of habeas corpus for penguins, and at that precise moment I didn’t feel too confident about its application to people, either.
“Come with me,” he said, crossing to a private room and beckoning ominously with his podgy forefinger. Picking up the rucksack and Juan Salvador’s bag, I followed him with a sense of impending doom. He closed the door heavily behind me. There was a bad smell in the little interview room, and no outside sound penetrated its solid walls.
“Show me,” he said. I placed Juan Salvador on the table and removed the paper bag. Juan Salvador looked at me and then at him.
“Oh! It really is a penguin!” he said in astonishment. He seemed surprised.
“I told you it was a penguin. They are migratory birds and do not usually go through customs as a rule, I imagine. This Argentine penguin is staying with me only while it recovers from an accident.”
There was an uncomfortable silence while he thought for a moment or two, eyeing both Juan Salvador and me.
“Are you sure it’s an Argentine penguin?” he asked dubiously, stooping to look directly at Juan Salvador. “That makes a difference, of course.”
“Oh, yes!” I said emphatically. “There isn’t the slightest doubt about that. He was hatched near Río Gallegos.” This is in the extreme south of mainland Argentina. “Look at his markings. You see, I’m an expert on penguins,” I said, bluffing with the supreme confidence born of knowing that Juan Salvador wasn’t about to denounce this outrageous falsehood.
The customs officer looked at the penguin for several more seconds, stroking his chin. “Mmmm,” he said. Juan Salvador returned his look, not with the curious cocking of his head from side to side but antagonistically, face-to-face. The officer blinked first. Finally he appeared to reach a conclusion.
“Yes…I see now…of course,” he said.
After a quick check to make sure the door was firmly closed, he leaned across the table so that his face came close to mine.
“You have dollars?” he hissed quietly between his teeth as he grinned hideously and looked furtively over his shoulder, all the while rubbing his thumb against his index finger in a gesture familiar the world over.
That was when the penny dropped. Of course I hadn’t contravened any laws or regulations, and he didn’t care about the bird at all. He simply wanted a bribe and thought I could be frightened out of a few bucks. Although I did have some greenbacks, I wasn’t going to pay him for the privilege of looking after a penguin that had caused me so much trouble. Besides, he had just weakened his case considerably and to my advantage. Checkmate! It was my turn to win for a change. I took a pace or two backward as though in disgust.
“How dare you ask for a bribe?” I said with all the pomposity a twenty-three-year-old could muster. “I shall complain to the authorities! Where is your commanding officer?” I knew that the threat of complaint to the military so soon after the coup would get a reaction. I turned and started for the door.
“Keep the bird and look after it yourself!” I said, looking over my shoulder. “He likes sprats. Lots of them. Oh, yes, and I wouldn’t put your fingers anywhere near his beak if I were you!”
But before I had reached the door there was a guttural, threatening command.
“Stop! Don’t t
ake another step, señor!”
Had he pulled his gun? Had I made a terrible mistake and pushed my luck too far this time? I froze immediately and slowly started to turn round. He had moved well away from the penguin on the table and his hands were now clasped behind his back.
“Take the bird! You can’t leave it here!” he said, before adding with an ingratiating smile, “There’s no need for you to tell anyone about this, is there?”
So I collected Juan Salvador and disappeared into the crowd before the customs officer could change his mind or mention the guano that had been left on the interview room table.
—
The next leg of my journey—from the port to the underground, to the rail terminal at Constitución station, and then on to Quilmes on the FCNGR railway line—took us less than an hour and passed without incident. Then we had a mere fifteen-minute bus ride and we were home.
With a cheerful “¡Hola!” I greeted the guards at the college gates, trying to sound as normal as possible. After promising to tell them about my adventures once I had taken a bath, I hurried on toward my flat, hoping I wouldn’t bump into anyone on the way.
How great was the sigh of relief I heaved when I kicked my front door shut behind me and put Juan Salvador into the bath. He looked well, considering he had been in a string bag all day.
“Well, here we are, home!” I said as he took in his new surroundings. But he wouldn’t look at me. “What’s the matter with you?” I asked.
Río Gallegos indeed! I’ll have you know I was hatched in the Falkland Islands! was the unmistakable reply.
“That’s quite enough from you!” I said. “You have caused far more trouble than you’re worth for one day. ¡Basta! And besides, why did you squawk at the customs office? You embarrassed the life out of me on the bus, and then you nearly get me arrested!”