The Great Gringo Giveaway

CHAPTER 40

Leaving Ushuaia we were faced with a hard decision.  All the way down through Argentina we had been receiving compliments on our truck.  Fellow hostel guests, gas station managers, and even random people off the street would come over and take a look at the Golden Gringo.  Apparently our 95 Tacoma, with its gasoline engine, was a rare and sought after vehicle in Argentina, where the vast majority of trucks, even the local Toyota equivalent called the Hilux, are all diesel.  I didn’t think much about all this attention until one day a man told me he would buy our truck from me for $8000USD.  Wow!  That was the same amount I paid for it 5 years and 120k miles ago, not to mention we had just subjected it to thousands of miles of the worst roads and conditions you could think of for a vehicle.  As time went on, I started thinking about how much it would cost to get the truck back to Colorado at the end of our trip vs. how much a comparable replacement truck at home would put us back, and I came to the somewhat unexpected conclusion that if we truly could sell it for that much, we would be stupid not to.

I have to type quietly, because I happen to be sitting in the truck right now.  I always get a slightly foreboding sense that the Golden Gringo was never very happy with the fact that we had considered selling him, and every time the subject comes up, there seems to be some unexplainable mechanical mishap soon to follow.  Its ok, I’ll take him for a car wash to make him feel better tonight.

Well, as you can tell, we didn’t end up selling the truck- not that we didn’t try.  It turns out that Tacomas are so rare in Argentina because the government, in an effort to aid the domestic vehicle manufacturing industry, tacks on a 100% luxury tax to all foreign auto imports.  That right there would make it rather impractical for anyone to buy a 15 year old truck from America.  Since Argentina was out, we looked west towards Chile.  They assured us that the truck would likewise be just as valuable there, but unfortunately they too have these same draconian import regulations- except for two prominent exceptions:  in the very northern and the very southern districts of the country, they have implemented free trade zones to boost economic growth in these remote regions of the republic.  It just so happened that we were only a stone’s throw from one of these, so we waved adios to Ushuaia, and made for Punta Arenas, the capital of Region XII, Chile.

Keep in mind that at this point we were only going to “look into” selling the truck.  We had no idea if it was even legally possible, let alone practical to think that we could find a buyer.  At the same time, every decision we were making was shadowed by a nagging sense of urgency- our ship through the Chilean fjords was sailing soon, and as they say “time and tide waits for no man.”  This combination of ignorance, indecision, and haste would ultimately lead to a less than favorable outcome…

We rolled into Punta Arenas on a sunny Friday morning, and quickly found the duty free trade zone.  We had no idea how to go about importing/selling a used vehicle, so we decided to try our luck at one of the many car dealers there on the main road.  Never mind that these were all new-car dealers, but the first sales man we approached seemed supremely confident in the legal possibility of selling the truck.  We gave him our information and he said he would check with some people who might be interested.  We drove to the next dealer, and were in the middle of explaining our situation, when a man came in and told us that the first dealer was hoping to talk to us again.  He met us outside when we pulled up at his store, and started asking us some vague mechanical questions about the truck and finally what we would want for it.  I had worked out a few numbers in my head and with the idea of ensuring a quick sale, I said $25 pesos ($5000usd).  He said, “ok, I’ll take it. Can you get your stuff out of the back in half an hour, because the customs office closes for the day at noon.”  Wait, what!?  You’re buying it??  We couldn’t believe it, this was way easier than we had thought it would be.  I started mentally kicking myself for not asking for more money, but hey, if it sold it sold, right?  We did have to tell him that this had totally taken us by surprise, and that it would take awhile to get our stuff packed, so how about we come back on Monday morning to finish the deal?  He agreed, and off we went- not 45min after having arrived we had done what we thought would be impossible.  Or had we…

Now we were faced with the daunting reality that we would not be leaving Punta Arenas in our truck.  We had two and a half days to sort through ten months of road-jumbled stuff, pick out everything we wanted or needed to keep, somehow pack it all into a manageable number of bags and backpacks, and then get rid of everything that was left.  We drove out of town and found a camping spot with plenty of room to spread everything out as we unpacked the truck.  Wow.  We had no idea that we had so much stuff- and we were even more confused at how it possibly all fit into the truck.  We soon had three piles: things we were keeping, things we were getting rid of, and the ambiguous “maybe” pile.  Since we would mainly be walking, and traveling on buses, from here on out, we had to be able to transport all of our luggage between the two of us in one trip- if you leave a bag unattended in public in Chile or Argentina, it will be gone quicker than you can say ‘que pasa?’- indeed, even if you think a bag is in your possession, say over your arm, or on your back, there is a good chance that it will be missing before you realize it (this video pretty much sums up the prowess of a Chilean thief).

It was starting to look blatantly obvious that we were going to be extremely overburdened.  Even not including the “maybe” pile, we were looking at a pair of packs each (on our front and back), a large camera bag, a computer bag, a number of purses, a huge duffle bag, two XL rollie suitcases and a double surfboard bag to boot.  The idea of lugging all this junk around for the next couple of weeks didn’t sound at all appealing.  Conversely, looking at the huge pile of gear we would be getting rid of made me feel a bit depressed as well- this was good stuff- books and maps, kitchen utensils and mechanic tools- equipment that had gotten us through the whole trip.  We just had to remind ourselves that even if we weren’t selling the truck now, all this stuff would have to go once we got to Buenos Aires anyways- our original plan of shipping the truck home via a role-on-role-off (RORO) ferry would leave it vulnerable to the kleptomaniacal whims of sticky fingered stevedores at the dozen or so ports the ship would stop at on its way from here to the US.   It was getting dark, so we tossed all of our luggage back in the truck and crammed in the remaining stuff where it would fit.  The next day we would try our hand at becoming street vendors.

On the way up to our camping spot the day before, we had passed a large feria, or what we would call a flea market.  Even though it was overcast and a bit rainy, we knew there would be plenty of people there because it was a Saturday morning.  Neither of us had ever tried to sell anything at a market before, but we needed to jettison our stuff quickly because we wouldn’t have a vehicle in 2 short days, so it was worth a shot.  Our idea was to layout our tarp, neatly arrange the choicest objects in an appealing “please buy me” sort of way, and then enthusiastically try to convince anyone walking by that they should stop for a minute and take a look.  Having walked through dozens of these ferias over the last couple months, incessantly having to brush off the annoying sales pitches for unwanted junk and trinkets, I was all too familiar with the difficulty faced by a street vendor.  Except now the shoe was on the other foot.  How was I going to persuade a poor Chilean house wife with three grimy kids in tow that she needed a beach umbrella and a map of Peru?  We were expecting a long boring day, with the occasional sale, and eventual donation of anything left over to whoever would take it.

We couldn’t have been more wrong.  We pulled up across from the market and started to unload a few containers out of the truck.  Kacey walked over with one big tupperware box, found an empty space at the edge of the feria, and began setting things up.  I was balancing another large box in my arms while trying to lock the tailgate, when I looked over and there were already 10 or 15 people milling around attempting to see in Kacey’s box.  By the time I got over there, they were eagerly digging through her tupperware like a bunch of kids in a toy chest.  They hadn’t even given her the chance to pull things out yet, let alone unfold the tarp.  A few customers started asking how much we wanted for this or that and by the unsure looks on our faces in response, they knew they had us.  I’m not a very good haggler even at the best of times, but in this case, I would say “taken advantage of” would fall very short of describing our situation.   From here my memory gets a little blurry, things started happening so fast.  Apparently the news got out that there were two gringos giving all their stuff away, and half the town’s population was soon pressing in on us.  It was madness.  Utter chaos.  Our naive plan for a calm day at the market had devolved into a riot of shoppers, fighting for anything they could get their hands on, holding things up above their heads and beseeching us for attention, while Kacey and I blindly yelled out prices.  They were buying everything: half empty boxes of pasta, stacks of books written in English, a pair of old shoes, used sponges and a bottle of dish soap, along with all the “good” stuff that we had expected to sell.  During the frenzy they practically begged us to find more things to place on the auction block, and before we knew it, the “maybe” box was out in the open being ravaged by the pack of wild shoppers.   Unfortunately, during the mayhem, a lot of our stuff left the market without actually being sold.  And it was so senseless.  Somebody stole our Scrabble board but didn’t take the game pieces.  Another guy walked off with a cordless drill, but without the battery charger.  Good luck buddy finding a Harbor Freight drill charger in the BFE of Chile!  I would have sold it all to him for just a few pesos.  The whole thing left a sour taste in our mouths, and after only netting maybe $200usd, we both kind of wished we had just given it all away and saved ourselves the malevolent feelings.  When the action died down I finally had a chance to take a photo, but it certainly doesn’t do the scene justice.  After the Great Gringo Giveaway of 2010 (the locals will be talking about it for years, I’m sure), we found a hostel to store our luggage and went about cleaning out the truck and getting it ready to sell.

The sun rose on Monday morning with a melancholy glare.  The Golden Gringo seemed oddly reluctant to pull out of the driveway, almost as if he knew what was coming. We met the buyer and drove to the bank where the legal documents would be signed.  I felt like I had a hole in stomach.  I felt like throwing up.  I felt like my child was about to be sold down the river.  Were we ready to do this?  Say goodbye to this trusted friend?  Who had seen us through thousands of miles of tests and tribulations, and brought us safely to the end?  And for what?  So we could make a couple thousand dollars?  So our final leg home would be slightly more convenient?  I wasn’t sure.  But the buyer was impatiently waiting for me on the sidewalk.  I got out and we went into the bank.

Then the buyer tells me this: “Ok, I’ll pay you the price in dollars, but I’ll give it to you in pesos.”  I say “Wait.  The price was in pesos.  $2,500,000 pesos.”  ($2,500,000 pesos was equal to $5000usd)  He looks at me in disbelief.  “No, no, no. We agreed on $2500 dollars.”  I glare back at him in more disbelief.  “No way man!?  We said pesos.  The price was in pesos!  Why would we sell you something in dollars?? We are in Chile, where you use PESOS!”  I was shocked.  I was speechless.  I looked at Kacey and she couldn’t believe it either.  After a long silence, he said “Well, I can’t afford $5K dollars.”  I said, “Well, I can’t sell it to you for $2500, so guess the deal is off.”

We walked back to the truck in utter disbelief.  Unbelievable.  How could this have happened?  Well, I don’t know what the other guy thinks, but I am ready to admit that it wasn’t all his fault.  I don’t know why he would think we would quote him a price in US dollars, or why we would sell our truck for so cheap, but the truth is, during our initial conversation neither of us ever actually said the words “pesos” or “dollars”, and being that we were selling a car, and the amount was pretty large, we unwisely negotiated with truncated numbers- like when you say: “I’ll give you eight thousand”, “no, how about nine?”, “let’s make it eighty five?”, “ok, deal.” and you would assume you sold your car for $8500 dollars.

Getting back into the driver’s seat, I had a slight grin on my face.  I wasn’t mad.  Somehow I knew this was how it was supposed to be.  I felt the cold leather of the gearshift in my hand, the reassuring pressure of the pedal on my foot.  “Let’s get out of here” Kacey said.  I popped the clutch and the Golden Gringo left a 20 yard streak of black rubber down the road out of Punta Arenas.