This became the repeated mantra of the end of our week last week.
Thursday morning, we received three yellow cards from the postal service in my mailbox. They each said that we had received a package, and that we needed to go to the post office to collect it. Ominously, at the bottom of each of them had been handwritten, "Please come in person." The fact that we were told to as at the counter for Mr/Miss/Mrs "Fwd Cage B" didn't make us feel any better.
The Kenyan postal service (Posta, it's called) works differently than in the States, mainly in that there's no residential mail delivery. Everybody who receives mail does so with a post office box at a specific post office. All mail to Rosslyn's box goes to the Westlands post office. Every day, one of Rosslyn's drivers heads over to check the box for the school's mail and any mail addressed to the staff. If we get a letter or a card, they'll just put it in my box. If we receive a package, the driver pays any customs duty that is due, brings the receipt back with the package, and we pay the school back when we pick it up.When we got the yellow cards, I assumed that's how it would work, despite the scrawled message on the bottom. However, the driver leaves for the post office at 9, and we got the cards a bit after 10, so we'd have to wait another day to get the packages. No problem, I thought; we'll just drive down to the post office ourselves and pick them up. After all, I'm feeling a lot better about driving here.
This idea is what caused our friend's furrowed brow. Apparently going to the post office isn't something that you should do if you're a mzungu.
Now Audrey and I, being who we are, chafed at this a bit. After all, we didn't move to Kenya to be cloistered on the school grounds or the diplomatic district that surrounds Rosslyn. We want to be part of the larger community and life in Nairobi in general. So we asked some people who have been here much longer that we have: some Kenyan co-workers.
I mentioned going to the post office to several people who work in the main office at Rosslyn and their reactions were all the same: "You don't want to go to the post office." When asked why, one of them said, "Some people there are not all...straight. Some of them don't follow the rules. They will see you and try to take advantage of you."
"Because I'm a mzungu?"
"Yes. But you shouldn't have to go yourself. I'll have our driver take the cards tomorrow and pick them up for you."
And with that, understanding that it wasn't that we were being coddled, I said okay, handed over the cards and a copy of my passport, and went home.
* * *
The next morning, my phone buzzed at about 9:30. "Hello Kirk? I spoke with the driver who goes to the post office, and he said that unfortunately since it says "Please come in person," he can't pick it up. Also, it's not the Westlands post office where he normally goes; it's downtown. Are you free to go today?"
"Well, since I'll be at work during the week starting on Monday, I'll have to go today."
"Okay; I'll arrange transport for you, and I'll call you when it's ready."
"Okay, thanks."
So I was going downtown.
About 20 minutes later, she called back telling me Matthew, one of the Rosslyn drivers, was waiting to take me downtown.
I headed up to the admin building and met Matthew; we jumped into a van and were off.
As we drove, we talked and got to know each other. Matthew has a booming laugh that punctuates his sentences almost as often as the periods. He drives with the confidence of one who has grown up in Nairobi, all while pointing out landmarks and answering my endless questions about neighborhoods and buildings.
We drove through Muthaiga, where many of the foreign ambassadors have their residences, and merged onto Thika Road, also called the Thika Superhighway. Heading into town, the exhaust fumes built with the traffic, and matatus grew in numbers.
Matatus are privately-owned minivans or busses that drive set routes. In Nairobi, they are one of the main ways that people get around. The drivers are famously reckless; one guidebook says that when matatus are on the road, all bets are off. They are often decorated in bright colors and have pop-culture and scriptural references on them. One that we've seen around Gigiri, the area we live in, has "Hitler" emblazoned across the top of the windshield, and a Bible verse on the rear window. As we drove, I saw what is so far my favorite matatu. It was a bright neon purple and had at least 12 small Wu-Tang Clan stickers all over the side. The best part was the name: "Drop It Like It's Hot." A close second was bright red, had a giant decal of Rick Ross's face on the back (though it was missing both of the Rs, so it was really "_ick _oss"), and claimed, in the words of Jay-Z, "Before me there were many, but after me there will be none."
As we exited the superhighway, we hit the roundabouts of the city streets and traffic got denser. At one roundabout there were three or four police officers standing in traffic. One came close, started at our windshield, and moved on. "Checking registration?" I asked Matthew. "Yeah," he said.
As we neared the post office, Matthew pointed out a market and said, "That's a good place for vegetables, but there are many thieves." He laughed, and added, "People who go there, they might have their wallet in their back pocket and then poof, it's gone!" Another laugh.
When we reached the post office, we waited in line to park (because you really only need about 20 parking spots at the main post office for a city of 3,000,000), squeezed the van into a place, and headed inside.
After going through the obligatory security check, we headed into the main hall on the ground floor, stopping by the information booth and asking about where I needed to go while showing the cards that I had received.
The woman behind the desk glanced at the card I showed her and said, "You need to go to window 52."
We headed over to window 52, repeated the process, and were told to go to the 2nd floor, so up we went.
On the 2nd floor, cards were presented and examined, colleagues were consulted, and we were told that we needed to go to the 5th floor. And up we went.
When we arrived on the 5th floor, there was a man sitting behind a desk at the beginning of an official-looking hallway. Surely this was it. He told us that we needed to go down a different winding hallway and through a wooden door. When we found the door, it was closed and a sign on it read, "NO UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS." We looked at the door, at each other, and went on through.
We found a large room that was divided into at least six different cages that each had parcels in them. Again, we presented the yellow cards to a woman behind a desk; she motioned us to a couple of beat up chairs and disappeared deeper into without a word.
And so we waited. For about 15 minutes. During a lull in our conversation, I looked around at the room again, and noticed at least four different signs that talked about how it was illegal to solicit or offer a bribe and that you should report it if somebody asks you to pay a bribe. Another proclaimed loudly that Posta was a corruption free zone. In the Bard's words, "The lady doth protest too much, methinks."
Soon, a young man came out of the back, motioned us through another door that shouted about unauthorized access, and led us to a table with three packages on it. Two of them I immediately recognized as the boxes of art supplies that we had mailed to ourselves. The other, I had never seen before. I looked at the address on the package, and it read "Numerical Machining Complex" at a different PO Box and a different post office (but still in Nairobi, so cheers for that!). I explained to the woman (now returned) that the third package wasn't mine. I pointed out the discrepancies in the address to her.
"So it's not yours?" she asked.
"No. I've never seen it, and it's not even addressed to me."
"So it's not yours." (This wasn't a question, just a confirmation.)
"No."
She motioned to the young man who grabbed the package and disappeared back into the labyrinthine cages. She, however, came over, opened each of the packages that were mine, and inspected the contents.
She asked questions about several items, and I explained as well as I could. She was confused for a second by the Play-Doh in its little containers, but the best moment was when she pulled out the two tiny rolling pins for the Play-Doh and said, "For chapati?" I don't think she expected me to be familiar with chapati (which is flatbread somewhat similar to tortillas). But chapati and I had become recent acquaintances at Jubba, an excellent East African restaurant in San Jose.
"Yes," I answered with a smile, "They're for chapati."
She was surprised. I had told her earlier that we had just arrived in Kenya, and I don't think she thought this mzungu had any clue about the local food. "You like chapati?" she asked, her eyebrows going up.
"Oh yes. I love chapati."
She smiled, put the pins down, and resumed her inspecting.
And then it happened; it was what I had been waiting for, but it didn't happen in the way that I had thought it would. I had suspected that the value of some of the items would be overstated in an attempt to raise the customs duty. I had told the woman that the combined value for both boxes was about $70. She picked up one of the Ziplock bags and said, "But these cost much more than that." What? What had I forgotten was in there? I looked, and choked back a chuckle.
"No, those were very cheap," I told her as I looked at the children's paintbrushes that we had bought at Dollar Tree. "Almost everything in these boxes is used."
She looked at me as if debating with herself, nodded a bit, and motioned to the now returned young man to tape the boxes back up, which he did with great gusto (and not a small amount of tape).
When he finished, he told us to follow him as he grabbed the boxes. We walked over to a chute heading back into the bowels of the building, and he sent my two boxes down it. We followed him back down to the second floor, where we were told to wait while the duty was calculated. As we waited, I noticed that there were at least 7 employees behind various counters, but only two total customers (us). There were also at least 15 rows of 12 lights each overhead, but no more that two lights were on in any given row, and most had one or none. There were also several of the ubiquitous "No Corruption at Posta!" posters, which made us feel better. Behind the counter, we also saw what resembled a giant playground-style twisty slide which we realized was the end of the chute from the fifth floor.
After 10 more minutes of waiting, the woman (I'm still not sure how she got down to the second floor; maybe another chute?) came by and presented me with my bill. I had seen a big window with bars over it and a big sign that said "CUSTOMS CASHIER," so I asked the woman if that's where I should pay. She said no, and directed me to one of the workers behind the counter.
I went over, paid her, and was presented with two receipts. She told me to go back behind the counter to a small office where the young man had taken my packages. Matthew and I walked back there, showed the receipts to another worker who wrote down the details in a spiral-bound notebook, collected the packages, and headed down the stairs thinking we were done.
At the bottom of the stairs, though, there was the final hurdle to clear. An older gentleman sat at a desk and asked to see my receipt. I gave him both, and he wrote down the information from them before asking to see my passport so that he could write down the number. I showed him the front page for the number, but he asked me to read him the number. "My eyes, they are not too good." I read him the number and watched as it was recorded alongside the other info in another spiral-bound notebook.
We emerged from the post office, gave the guard some shillings for watching the van ("If you don't pay the guard," Matthew said, "you come back out and your car is gone!"), and spent the next hour fighting traffic on the seven mile drive back to Rosslyn.
"Ug," another teacher said, when I returned and was telling the story. "You don't want to go to the post office."And so we waited. For about 15 minutes. During a lull in our conversation, I looked around at the room again, and noticed at least four different signs that talked about how it was illegal to solicit or offer a bribe and that you should report it if somebody asks you to pay a bribe. Another proclaimed loudly that Posta was a corruption free zone. In the Bard's words, "The lady doth protest too much, methinks."
Soon, a young man came out of the back, motioned us through another door that shouted about unauthorized access, and led us to a table with three packages on it. Two of them I immediately recognized as the boxes of art supplies that we had mailed to ourselves. The other, I had never seen before. I looked at the address on the package, and it read "Numerical Machining Complex" at a different PO Box and a different post office (but still in Nairobi, so cheers for that!). I explained to the woman (now returned) that the third package wasn't mine. I pointed out the discrepancies in the address to her.
"So it's not yours?" she asked.
"No. I've never seen it, and it's not even addressed to me."
"So it's not yours." (This wasn't a question, just a confirmation.)
"No."
She motioned to the young man who grabbed the package and disappeared back into the labyrinthine cages. She, however, came over, opened each of the packages that were mine, and inspected the contents.
She asked questions about several items, and I explained as well as I could. She was confused for a second by the Play-Doh in its little containers, but the best moment was when she pulled out the two tiny rolling pins for the Play-Doh and said, "For chapati?" I don't think she expected me to be familiar with chapati (which is flatbread somewhat similar to tortillas). But chapati and I had become recent acquaintances at Jubba, an excellent East African restaurant in San Jose.
"Yes," I answered with a smile, "They're for chapati."
She was surprised. I had told her earlier that we had just arrived in Kenya, and I don't think she thought this mzungu had any clue about the local food. "You like chapati?" she asked, her eyebrows going up.
"Oh yes. I love chapati."
She smiled, put the pins down, and resumed her inspecting.
And then it happened; it was what I had been waiting for, but it didn't happen in the way that I had thought it would. I had suspected that the value of some of the items would be overstated in an attempt to raise the customs duty. I had told the woman that the combined value for both boxes was about $70. She picked up one of the Ziplock bags and said, "But these cost much more than that." What? What had I forgotten was in there? I looked, and choked back a chuckle.
"No, those were very cheap," I told her as I looked at the children's paintbrushes that we had bought at Dollar Tree. "Almost everything in these boxes is used."
She looked at me as if debating with herself, nodded a bit, and motioned to the now returned young man to tape the boxes back up, which he did with great gusto (and not a small amount of tape).
When he finished, he told us to follow him as he grabbed the boxes. We walked over to a chute heading back into the bowels of the building, and he sent my two boxes down it. We followed him back down to the second floor, where we were told to wait while the duty was calculated. As we waited, I noticed that there were at least 7 employees behind various counters, but only two total customers (us). There were also at least 15 rows of 12 lights each overhead, but no more that two lights were on in any given row, and most had one or none. There were also several of the ubiquitous "No Corruption at Posta!" posters, which made us feel better. Behind the counter, we also saw what resembled a giant playground-style twisty slide which we realized was the end of the chute from the fifth floor.
After 10 more minutes of waiting, the woman (I'm still not sure how she got down to the second floor; maybe another chute?) came by and presented me with my bill. I had seen a big window with bars over it and a big sign that said "CUSTOMS CASHIER," so I asked the woman if that's where I should pay. She said no, and directed me to one of the workers behind the counter.
I went over, paid her, and was presented with two receipts. She told me to go back behind the counter to a small office where the young man had taken my packages. Matthew and I walked back there, showed the receipts to another worker who wrote down the details in a spiral-bound notebook, collected the packages, and headed down the stairs thinking we were done.
At the bottom of the stairs, though, there was the final hurdle to clear. An older gentleman sat at a desk and asked to see my receipt. I gave him both, and he wrote down the information from them before asking to see my passport so that he could write down the number. I showed him the front page for the number, but he asked me to read him the number. "My eyes, they are not too good." I read him the number and watched as it was recorded alongside the other info in another spiral-bound notebook.
We emerged from the post office, gave the guard some shillings for watching the van ("If you don't pay the guard," Matthew said, "you come back out and your car is gone!"), and spent the next hour fighting traffic on the seven mile drive back to Rosslyn.
* * *
"But it was an interesting experience," I said.
"Yes, and now that you've had it, you never should go to the post office again," her husband reminded me.
* * *
Lessons learned:
- To avoid duties, send international packages marked as "Gift" on the customs form.
- If possible, avoid going to the post office. Not because there's anything particularly bad about it, but because it takes so much time.
One more part of your grand adventure......thanks for sharing another of your local experiences!
ReplyDeleteWow, and I thought the post offices here in the U.S. were bad!
ReplyDelete