Connected (?)

There is a chain of events that unfurls every time I arrive in a new country by water.

It usually goes in this order:

-Marvel at the luscious greens and browns of terra firma.

-Drowsily navigate through the clearance procedures on shore: immigration, customs, health, and so on.

- Devise a method to acquire some local currency:

Money exchange? Or an operational ATM, benevolent enough to spit out some colourful notes without gobbling up my plastic cards or charging a small ransom for the priviledge?

Sometimes the cash has to be sorted out before doing the arrival formalities, in case there are fees associated with such procedures that can’t be paid by card.

After overcoming the bureaucratic hurdles, which can sometimes take many hours,

- take a deep breath,

and prepare for one of my least favourite rituals of this sailing lifestyle:

-Decoding the complexity of local telecommunication decorum-

Sadly, none of my crew members is qualified or competent enough to perform such a task,

or even help in doing so.

Captn doesn’t know the difference between SIM and SD cards.

He can’t attach a file to an email and isn’t exactly famous for his patience when drifting amidst these types of procedures.

And I would rather keep my kids away from these technicalities for as long as possible.

So, yet again, I kindly dismiss my counterproductive crew in order to take a deep dive into the guts of local mobile networks, on my own.

Unfortunately, a working phone is rather indispensable aboard.

Primarily for weather forecasts, as well as to keep in contact with fellow bipeds, friends, and family scattered across oceans and time zones.

So the plunge is unavoidable.

The thing is this, and I have confirmed and re-confirmed it on enough continents to judge the next statement as an unquestionable ultimate truth:

What could be an effortless, smooth, 2-minute affair- like buy SIM card, shove it in its slot, resume life-

always turns out to be a convoluted labyrinth where I find myself jumping through hoops I didn’t even know could exist.

And every country (I’ve done this exercise more than 15 times to date) presents its own nuances.

First, there is the locating of a suitable shop (or human on the side of the road) who can sell the elusive chip that will hopefully make the phone work.

Then begins the business of figuring out which option (if there are any) is more favourable in terms of coverage, price, commitment, etc.

So when I finally find myself winding up a concrete ladder under construction into the upper balcony of a hairdresser,

feeling like I’m stuck inside a Harry Belafonte track on repeat,

I sit in front of a hilarious lady with a velvet wig decorated with pinned rollers and ask her:

“Is the coverage in Trinidad and Tobago 3G, 4G, or 5G?

Will the SIM card you’re selling me be compatible with all three, or just 4G?

Is there 4G in rural areas?

Does this work in the whole country?

Will I be able to monitor how much data I’ve consumed?

Can you prove that the credit I’m buying will, in fact, last the full 30 days and not expire in a few hours?

Will I have to register the IMEI of my device to prevent the SIM from being blocked by your charming telecom overlords?

Can we please keep it prepaid?

I don’t want to sign any contracts or give you any credit card details.

Will this service work in my next destination?

No? Then what are the roaming charges?”

She looks at me, wondering from which planet I’ve just landed.

And I wonder too,

then I remember: I have fallen into every trap in the book before, in various countries, and I’ve had to backtrack, re-purchase, re-activate, and re-live the disparaging process again and again.

I refuse. Not today.

So I’m very sorry, my dear hairdresser friend, but we’re going to have to go through this together.