The Rescue, or....

My Wraps are Rescued from the Ferocious, Slobbering Jaws of the Post Office

Often it is something small and almost inconsequential that can drive us past the edge of feeling able to cope, and that's how I felt about my package being held up by Uganda buerocracy.  Yes, we are dealing with some genuine tragedies, and I see more of them around me every day; and yes, we can survive and remain healthy without new wraps.  But I know that abuse and poverty are complicated problems; buying new baby gear shouldn't be that hard!  I think the main element which made me feel so unsettled is that wrapping is my own personal escape from all the chaos around me, and I couldn't bear my wraps getting involved in another mess.  The other part is that most of the wraps I have are really not well-suited to the climate and the way I am currently wearing, and this particular package contained some very practical replacements for the heavy-weight wraps that make Buttercup sweat and cry, so although not life-saving, it would have real value to us.

Well, I have them in my hands now.  Unlike some other things, like a stupid judge to give us a stupid court date so we can actually LEAVE!!  But, like everything else in Uganda (grumble grumble) it had to turn into a long story!

Well, first of all, it would have been nice if Miss B had called me to tell me that a package had arrived but she wasn't able to pick it up, instead of waiting for me to ask over and over.  She told me that they had assessed 360,000 shillings as tax, because they thought that because there were three wraps that I was in business selling them.  That's a very large number, and even in Ugandan shillings it's a lot of money, over $150.  Also, I have received a number of packages in Uganda, including wraps (only two at a time), and a medical machine for Emerson that surely was worth more than the wraps.  No one has ever discussed taxes before!

I needed to get the picking-up paper from her and go to the main post office myself, but I was kind of sick and so was Buttercup, so I wasn't up to making the trip.  The main post office is downtown and I pass it all the time, so it wouldn't be that difficult to technically do, but going downtown ends up being a long day.  So I had days of just being annoyed about the post office, but not being able to do anything about it.  By the end of last week, I decided this was bugging me so much I would prioritize the errand, so I got ready to go on Friday.  But when I called Miss B, she was out of town and there was no way for me to get the silly little paper.  She said she would leave it for me and I could go the next day, but I was not up for a difficult errand downtown with three kids!

I hired a car on Tuesday, hoping to get to the post office, the internet office to argue about my data pirate, pick up supplies for my parents' upcoming visit, and go to the big grocery store and buy a bunch of heavy staples that I didn't want to carry on my back.

First of all, we stopped so I could get out some cash.  I think I could appreciate living in a cash economy if there were a bank or an ATM within walking distance!

Then we drove out of the gas station with the ATM.  Now then, in Uganda, there are some seat belts, but of course there are no car seats, and half of a seat belt in the back seat is not enough to contain a toddler, so Buttercup was wriggling around on my lap in the front as I tried to juggle things in and out of the backpack and keep her from diving out the window.  The driver pulled over at a police stop, which are incredibly common, and they usually ask for the paperwork and are obnoxious in varying degrees -- for instance, when we were driving with our friend the priest, he got politely waved through the traffic stop wearing his collar, but the next day in a regular shirt he got a thorough questioning!

This traffic police started off very snippy and condescending, and she immediately informed me that I was going to get a ticket for not wearing my ticket, me personally, and insulted me a little bit.  Luckily I've been in Uganda long enough to know to apologize but not pull out my wallet!  Remember the part about the cars occasionally having seat belts?  I felt like getting a ticket for not wearing one was a little bit beyond reasonable.  After ten minutes or so of questioning me and talking with the driver and pulling out the book and making me read the rule in question out loud to her (!!!), she decided to let us go.  I felt irritated and flustered, and was trying really hard to not cry or let this put me out for the whole day.  I had a feeling I needed to walk into the post office with my patience intact!

So, finally, the Post Office: the singular is a misnomer, because actually there seem to about fourteen different businesses operating inside the building, and half of the actual postal part is in adjoining buildings.  So I tried several sets of locked doors, was examined by security ("is dat your baby?")  in order to enter at the proper door, and was confronted with desks for sending money, buying different airtime, recieving money, a bank, advice for getting visas for Great Britain, options for passport photos, other booth with advice about getting visas for the US, more airtime, other money options, and even a gift shop where you could conveniently buy EARRINGS, for heavens sake!

I asked a nearby person where I might start.  I went upstairs to a help desk.  (Why put the introduction desk on a different story than the rest of the building, I don't know....)   She sent me to another desk.  She looked at my paper, looked at her computer, and after a while, told me the package was still in transit.  I said it wasn't.  She told me to go to the next building, where they deal with packages.  Outside, around the large building, up some stairs, turn, up more stairs, to the package office.  Went to the desk and asked what to do.  Was sent to a different area across the room, where eventually someone wandered out to talk with me, and then someone else wandered out who seemed to know something different.  

But you have to remember that each of these people must be addressed properly.  In Uganda, you cannot go up to someone and say "good morning, can you tell me where to collect a package?"  No, you must stand there for a moment until both parties feel like it is appropriate to make eye contact.  Then one may say "good morning," and the other person will return the favor.  Next is "how are you?" and "I am fine, thank you, how are you?" But -- especially if the party in question is a woman -- it is more polite to look down at one's lapels and murmer "hmm, mmm" in between questions and answers, in order to ensure that the whole greeting process does not move too fast.  After establishing that everyone is well today, and standing a few moments in companionable silence, it is appropriate to ask a question or for some help.  So asking six people whom to ask for a package is quite a project!

And now it was time to actually make friends with the two women who were helping me.  How was my baby, what is her name, is she my baby, why are her arms wrapped up, isn't she uncomfortable?  They listened and nodded when I said she was my foster daughter, and that she preferred to have one arm in because she felt shy, but she was perfectly capable of putting it out if she felt like it.  We needed to confirm that point at length.  The women pursed their lips and clucked about parents abandoning their children.  One of them also had a two-year old.  We arrived at my also having older children, who were in school right now, and whom they were biologically related to, and our apartment in Ggaba.

Three is a good number of children to have around here, especially when the only one present is the baby, and she is appropriately wrapped on my back.  I have had a number of people compliment me on my "nice big family," which at first surprised me, given that the average birth rate in this country is seven!  But I begin to understand it: many modern women, especially those with professions, are embracing the western two-child family.  Every professional woman I know, and almost all the families at the children's school, has one or two children.  Simply by having more than two -- and they are young enough that more might still follow -- I proclaim myself as part of the traditional, child-embracing mentality.  Even the modern Ugandans admire that choice.  

Also, by having a biological son, I am considered fully a mother, so also adopting children I am a generous mother, instead of merely kind-hearted but slightly pathetic, as I would be if I hadn't given birth.  (Sorry, that's painful to even write!)  And with all my children at school or wrapped up, so they can't act like children, everyone is even more appreciative!

At some point the package was produced and opened.  Yes, there were my three beautiful wraps!  But ah, the reason why it was held up was that there were taxes assessed.  The package was worth more than 50 US dollars, and that meant that there were taxes.  They had to assess the taxes.  How much did I pay for the wraps?  What were they worth?  I honestly couldn't remember exactly.  I bought them well over a month ago, in a currency I've never personally used, and I've looked at a lot of other wraps in the meantime.  Also, since the package was direct from a store, the actual value was written on the box, and I didn't want to get the number wrong in case they called me out on it.  Eventually I said I thought it was about $85.  I thought one of them had been somewhat more and one had been somewhat less, so that seemed like a nice random number.  

Eighty-five dollars?  Each, or for all of them?  Fro each one, was I sure?  That much, for some cloth?  We examined the cloth together, and they agreed that actually it was much nicer cloth than you can buy in the marketplace.  But eighty-five dollars?  I explained that most clothing and similar things in America or Europe cost $85, and I just preferred to buy things from home, it was my one indulgence, getting this beautiful cloth to carry my baby, sometimes a mother needs one special thing.  We nodded and thought about a mother wanting something beautiful for herself, and someone looked at Buttercup and commented that I was so good to take on these children.  But $85 each, was I really sure?

I was not sure if this argument was because they were actually incredulous, or if they were inviting me to change the value I listed in order to lower the taxes.  Again, since the value was listed right on the package, and because I do try to be an honest person, I didn't want to count on the latter.

So they got out a calculator, added 85 three times, put in some taxes, multiplied by the exchange rate, and showed me the numbers that taxes would be 160,000 shillings.  That's still a lot to pay for a box of stuff that was already mine, but it was manageable for a mistake.  (NOT having things sent from a store to Uganda again!!)  We discussed whether this was a business tax, and they said it wasn't, everything that comes into the country that is valued over $50 has to have taxes assessed.  Anything that the package says more than $50.  If it is written on the package that it is above $50.  If the number on the customs sheet is more than $50.  

That much was clear... send over all my diamond necklaces, honey, just make sure to write the number $49!

Then they left me with my box and went into their back offices to write out the assessment, and left us there for at least 20 minutes.  I was starting to wonder if I was supposed to take the package and just walk out, thus saving everyone some work, but I didn't want to get Miss B in trouble in case I was wrong.  Meanwhile, Buttercup and I admired the wraps.  One had butterflies and flowers, which got her excited, and another one had peacocks, which look a lot like chickens, and Buttercup loves to talk about chickens.  So we talked about chickens.

Eventually the women came back, and one apologetically showed me the calculator.  She had put in the numbers wrong, the tax is actually 54%.  And that means the tax is over 300,000.  See, this number.

Remember what I said about the traffic officer, and not pulling out my wallet?  I let us all stand there in silence for a minute, and then I said "that's too much.  I can't pay that much," and we all stood there for another minute.  We were all friends now, mothers with little children, and they were glad I was taking care of the abandoned African babies.  They didn't want to charge me that much either.

"I can't change the tax," the slip-writer explained, "it's written in the computer.  All we can change is this number.  How much can we say the wraps are worth?"  I paused for a minute, not sure how much I could reduce the value all of a sudden, especially given the little detail about the value being written on the box!  "How about we say the whole box is this much?" she suggested, typing "$100" on the calculator.  We all agreed that that was exactly how much the box was worth, obviously.  She went to write up a new slip.

At that point Buttercup was doing this wiggling dance on my back that I know meant she had to go potty, and when I asked her she wailed "potty!"  I always put her in a diaper when we do errands, because we can't always find a potty (and she gets distracted and doesn't tell me she needs to go), but every parent of a potty-training toddler knows that if the child is bothering to hold it and beg for a potty, you want to get them there!  I was told that the only toilets available were too dirty to take a baby into.  There was an upscale/western style restaurant across the street, so I took us over there.  There were several signs noting that toilets were for customers only, but I went straight to a waitress, and, trying to remember the correct British-African term for "bathroom" I just slipped into the vernacular and said "my baby has to sou-sou!" while Buttercup did her urgent dance. I was forgiven the missing greeting ritual and quickly directed to the right place!

After that, to Buttercup's noisy disappointment, we had to continue our post office vigil.  Also, now she was not feeling so shy, and wanted to be wrapped arms-out, which any wrapper knows is more tiring and also allows the child in question to get into a lot more trouble!  Now we had to go back to the main building and pay the charge on our slip.  But where to pay?  Again, I asked a customer, and then went upstairs to the help desk, and was told to go next door the other way.  But after standing in line and talking with a couple of people, that was not the right place either.  I needed to go back to the bank in the main building.  So I returned to the tiny bank kiosk, where at least in all my meandering the line had faded.  That did not actually help me, though, because no sooner had I ascertained that I was in the right place and handed over my money, someone else came over my shoulder, and on the pretense of asking a simple question, managed to argue about his bank fees for quite some time, while the teller calmly looked up statement after statement for him.  After all this, the teller glanced at my page and told me they hadn't put the PRN number (or something like that, I have no idea!) on it, and he couldn't help me without a PRN number, I had to go back and get that number and then come back.

This is where the block and the three sets of stairs between the two buildings started to get noticeable.  Back up.  Asked for the number, and woman apologized for forgetting it, commiserating that I must be tired now and my baby probably wants to eat.  For my whole trip back down to the bank and back up for the package, Buttercup helpfully wailed "lunch, lunch!" alternating with "food-oo, foooood--oooo!!!!" while grabbing everything within reach.  Since the bank kiosk had approximately four square feet in which the customers could stand in, there was quite a bit within reach.

My charge was 137,780.  I handed the man 140,000, and he stamped my sheet (in triplicate; somehow my one small package needed three entire sheets with the taxes fully explained, and both stamps on all three sheets!), and then ignored me.  I stood there, afraid that if I had to ask for my balance I might not be able to keep the irritation out of my voice, but not in the mood to give the post office even the paltry dollar that was left!  After a while, he gave me a look and very slowly got out a change purse and handed me a 200 shilling coin.  The bank had the window with the little slit underneath to hand things back and forth, but apparently they haven't yet invented the mesh window in the middle to talk through, because you couldn't understand each other back and forth.  So it took three tries for him to inform me, haughtily as though I should have already known, that there was a bank fee of 2,000 shillings for the privilege of the transaction.  Good grief!

Back around the block and up the stairs.  I got my package.  And it turned out that there was someone else standing in the corner to thoughtfully and thoroughly examine my paperwork before I was allowed to depart, despite having been ten feet away and fully capable of watching the entire preceding interaction and all the paperwork involved.  I did not have that exact paper which she was looking for, so my new friends had to go back into their office and find the slip that Miss B had given me to begin with, which wasn't the right thing exactly but they agreed that it would suffice!

Needless to say, I did not get all my errands done that day.  But I have three beautiful and practical wraps, and I am never letting the Ugandan government get their hands on them again!