The lull before the container storm

We spent yesterday at the docks in Kingston again, this time trying to clear our container for delivery. Again, we got up early (3am) and drove through the early morning to arrive in time for a breakfast at the container depot (calaloo and yam with sweet coffee). Hours passed as the process of bringing the container into the customs shed dragged on. Then our inspector appeared. She was new, someone our man Dave from the Jamaican shipping agents had not encountered before. She was clearly determined to make her mark and ordered that the entire contents be removed and each of the 131 packages opened for her perusal. Lunch, taken promptly at 1pm, interrupted the process and it was not until 3.45 that Merrise emerged from the ordeal with a bill of JA$20,000 (£1= JA$145) to pay for the ineligible items (which included her brother Oliver’s hydraulic slab-making machine). Merrise has asked me to make it quite clear that my role was to stay outside in case sight of my white (and therefore rich) face pushed up the amount of duty we would be asked to pay. It was she who did all the work. By the time the officious new customs officer (who, incidentally specialised in the Kingston ‘look’, a super sized version of the one commonly available in Jamaican circles elsewhere) had satisfied her desire to peer into every corner of our life, our hopes of getting the container delivered that day had gone. So I’m writing this as I wait for it to arrive today. It seems incredible that when we calculated the time it would take for the container to get to us, we took the shipping company’s estimate, added a further three weeks, than added another week, and that was supposed to coincide with our arrival on the island nearly three weeks ago. I was supposed to be returning to the UK tomorrow, but that’s impossible now so I’ve had to re-book for a flight on Saturday.
While I was dozing in the unforgiving heat at the docks as Merrise and Dave supervised the removal of the packages, our phone rang. It was UPS. “Hello Mr Bish-TON” (Jamaicans always accentuate the last part of my surname). “I can confirm that your consignment (from Uncle Eneil) is now in Miami.” Even by the convoluted standards that this shipment has already involved, this seems faintly unreal. “But last week it was in Kingston,” I stammered. “Yes, I know Mr Bish-TON, but I’m assured by Miami that it will be sent to Montego Bay late on Friday.” I’m speechless. I thank her for calling.
As I write, I’m interrupted by the sound of a huge American truck pulling into the drive, and swiping a bit off the gate column. Can this really be the container?