Day 230: Trouser Rouser (15/09/2011)

The hotel laundary lost my trousers.

Truck Departure Time (TDT) was in thirty minutes.

I went to reception, explained the problem and got a Bolivian shrug.

Pressing it further, they mustered a call to the laundry woman -  who denied all knowledge.

At 22 minutes to TDT I put it directly to the sweet lady at reception that I gave my trousers to her and paid for the service so she should reimburse me for my $60 trousers. I held her gaze until 20 minutes to TDT at which point the back locker was being opened and the first bags were being loaded.

She broke first and the moral victory was secure. All I needed now was some cash from her.

At 16 minutes to TDT, she put down the phone from the laundry lady and made her first offer - $10 for the trousers? I fixed her with a steely eye and reminded her that my deal was with her and not some anonymous washer woman on the end of the telephone. I wanted to buy new ones so $60 was my first and last offer.

She made another call and countered with $20.

I cast an eye to Cindy. The locker was filling fast and people were climbing on board. It was 12 minutes to TDT and Izzy was turning over the cold engine.

I held my ground but Bolivian time was against me. She could see me nervously inspecting the progress of the truck preparations and, emboldened she stalled at $20 and would move no further.

I cried like a girl.

She remained unmoved with a face like stone. She had me and she knew it. The truck was leaving in 8 minutes and all she had to do was hold out and she would watch me leave empty handed; timed out by the convergence of TDT and the ponderous nature of Bolivian urgency.

There was nothing more I could do but get tough.

I pushed up my sleeves, put on my sunglasses and deployed the nuclear option. I was not leaving until I had the price of a new pair of trousers. Cindy could go without me – I would catch up but this was serious. I banked on the presence of a long term complainant in the lobby as a significant leverage in the negotiations.

She paused, clearly startled by the sudden escalation and offered $25. We ping-ponged back and forth but the gambit had failed.

T.J. was standing behind me when the idea dawned.

Dragoman put 6 trucks a month through La Paz and I was pretty confident that they all went through this hotel. Grabbing his elbow, I pulled him to the desk and issued a direct threat. Either I had $50 for the pants or Dragoman pulled all future business from the hotel.

It was a rash move but in an instant I could see that the problem had risen above her pay grade. T.J. said nothing but stared impassively at the women from behind his aviators.

She fingered the phone and looked back and forth at T.J. and I, searching for some hint as to whether we would go through with this crazy plan, all for the sake of a pair of tatty trousers.

She broke.

Her final offer was drowned out by Cindy's engine roaring into life. She pulled $40 from her till and thrust it into my hand. T.J. hauled me bodily out of the door and up the truck steps.


I would have pocketed the cash.

If I had any trousers.