We were notified by text message that the package had arrived. We decided to go the next morning. I awoke with a worried look and B said “Tranquila. It will be fine” “But aren’t they going to open it and charge us something ridiculous?” “NA-DA. They don’t have a right to---it is used, not a new import.” “Okay. If you say so.”
When we arrive we let the postal worker know that we have received a package and show her the text message. “Who is that? We don’t know if that is from one of our employees?” Ummm, ok. So we had to call the number to prove to her that it was an actual employee of the postal office. At this point B is starting to get irritated “Why would one of your workers send us a text message without giving us the package number or code or without giving his name in the text message? What kind of operation are you running here?” (Aishia lays her hand gently on his forearm to signal that I want the laptop not a fight.) An employee brings out our package but instead of giving it to us he carries it to customs. My right eye starts to jump---sure sign of impending irritation headache.
The customs official opens the package and starts to go through its contents. And then looks at the U.S. postal form pasted on the box that states clothes, toys and household items. “Toys? Where?” I ignore him and start admiring the Jiffy Pop instant popcorn my friend threw in for me. “What is this?” pointing to the laptop covered in tissue paper, “It’s a used laptop.” He immediately whips out a piece of paper and a calculator. “How much did you pay for it?” “Why?” I ask. “It is an import.” “How so? It is my laptop for personal use that broke here and I took with me to the US to be fixed.” “You are bringing in a new laptop.” B’s brows burrow way deep into his forehead and he says “It is not an import. It is her laptop that she brought with her. It is old. “ He is now using his outside voice at volume level 10. “How much did you buy it for?” the custom official asks me in a skeptical tone of voice “I bought it in 2002 or 2003. The value of the computer has diminished. You cannot charge me for the value of something bought almost 10 years ago!” I say to him “How much?” he asks again. Ok, he wants to play it like this. FINE. “$100 or $150.” (In Mozambique they cannot charge you for items under $100 in value) “You paid $100 or $150 for a laptop?” “YES. I bought it in 2002 or 2003 and I only bought the hardware. The software is what raises the price. My cousin gave me the software.” Ugly, old custom official with a scowl permanently on his face begins to poke at his 1983 calculator and starts chicken scribbling on a piece of paper. Not a piece of paper with official logos, or stamps or formulas to show how he will arrive at the fee, just some random piece of paper that he probably found on the floor.
At this point, B is repeating over and over how the computer arrived and how it left the country: "She worked in Malawi, she moved to Mozambique, when the computer broke we took it with us to the US where we attended her brother’s wedding. Her cousin (dat be you Mustafa) did not fix it before we left so he sent it by mail.” Ugly, old customs official’s scowl is even more scowly-like and he calls over a tall, youngish man with a big ol’ beer belly---he is evidently living well off his bribes. Young customs official is belligerent and tries to bully us. The fee that the old ugly customs man came up with was $50 and both B and I argued simultaneously to a now crowd of four customs officials: how can you charge us a tax for an item that is second hand AND at the original price it was purchased at almost 10 years ago? Their argument: you did not declare it upon departure (which is bulldoody as no such rule exists) and you do not have the receipt (from 10 years ago?!?!). Big Belly Bully then says “Ok, wrap it up, send it back and when they are ready they will pay the fee.”So the postal worker starts to tape the box and I grab the tape from him and say “Fine” with the words squeezing my gritted teeth. I start taping the box up with layers and layers of tape so one of the officials says “Senhora, you are finishing our tape.” I notice B step out and at the time I thought he was looking for another postal worker but he said he had to step out and laugh. I was so irritated—I wish I had used up all their bloody tape. I answer the customs official with “Well I want to make sure this box is secure and the laptop doesn’t ‘disappear.” B leaves again.
I collect my nerves and notice another customs official wrapping things up with another customer and who has not been part of the fracas. I explain to him in a cool and calm voice the situation we are in and that all I ask is that they give me an official form that states how they are arriving at the fee they arrived at (OF course they were not going to do that because then they would have to actually hand the money over instead of line their pockets with it). He gives me a deer in headlights stare, but is listening and that is good. Another official comes over, again one that was not part of the original fracas. B is back and is now calmer and he explains the situation. Things are looking better as these two officials are seeing our point of view and are also nervous that we are asking for an official form. Big Belly Bully rushes back at us with our package slip and a stamp and says “Just go. GO.” The official speaking with B says, “No, no, we have to explain the procedure so we don’t have to have this conversation with them again in the future.” What flippin procedure? Ok, we continue the charade. Big Belly Bully goes back to his desk and yells out to B “Are you Changana?” and B answers yes and they converse a bit. B later tells me that Big Belly Bully says “Of course you are, that is why you are so hard headed.” Translation: their scare tactics didn’t force us into paying his beer money for the night. We left paying only the official $5 postal fee for packages. Dear Jeezus. I welcome packages anytime. But send it to B instead of me---because a package from the U.S. to an American recipient is just too much for the customs officials to handle. Their eyes light up like a Christmas tree shaped in dollar signs.
Living on the African continent never ceases to amaze me at how I am honing my survivor skills: bullsh#$ing my way out of a situation and getting what I want to boot. Cheers until the next Africa Survivor Lesson!
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