Customs, culture, and charity...

Living overseas—away from friends and family—one becomes childlike at the prospect of letters from home.  I'd race to the mailbox each day hoping for at least one.  However real excitement took over when a customs slip appeared in my mailbox—that meant a package awaited at the post office!   The procedure to obtain the parcel was to give the customs slip and 23 shillings to the university driver who picked up the item in town the next day.   On one such occasion, the customs slip said I owed 1,427 shillings.  I knew the parcel was from my brother when I read the zip code which also meant that, though the contents would be fun to receive, they did not warrant such a large customs charge.

            Two days later, I drove into Eldoret to confront the post office.    Behind the counter were two women and a man—each in dark brown uniforms.  I walked up to the counter and stood...and stood...and stood—a good 10 minutes, while the uniformed man read a newspaper.  No clearing my throat or tapping on the counter roused his attention.   The area held one desk at which the man sat and a small table where two young women wrote on forms making carbon copies—by its appearance, carbon paper in its third year of use.  Looking around at the filthy forms covering the counter I wondered if I should stop off at the health department for shots after leaving the premises...  another attitude adjustment in the offing.  Finally the man put the paper down, folded it, and got up to face me.  “Madam, may I help you?”

            “I have a customs slip and need to pick up a package.”   He looked at the slip of paper I handed him.

            “You owe 1,427 shillings.” Did I detect a gleam in his eye?  “You can pay me and I’ll get your package.”

            “Well, you see,” I began, “there’s been some mistake.  That charge is too much, but I will pay the usual fee to get my package.”  The man told me to wait.

            Fifteen minutes later he returned and asked me to follow him.  I entered a dingy office where another man sat behind another desk.  This gentleman had brass on his shoulders—obviously more rank!  Across the room a woman sat at a small table.  Apparently women aren't allowed desks....  

            The customs agent asked with a big smile, “What can I do for you?”   Obviously he’d seen the amount owed on the customs slip—another attitude adjustment  alert....   I explained that the box, which now lay on his desk, was from my brother and I wanted to pick it up.  “Yes, you may have it when you pay 1,427 shillings,” he said, another smile illuminating his perfect white teeth. 

            Surely this was a reasonable man.  “No, you don’t understand.  This charge is too much.  That’s more than the package is worth.  I can’t pay that but I want my package.”

            “I’m sorry, Madam, but you must pay before you can have the package.  If you do not pay, I will have to keep the box.”

            OK, power play alert!  “No sir, I am not going to pay it.  You and I both know that if I don’t get my package that you’ll take it home tonight.  But I’ll tell you what—I will open the box and you can have anything you want out of it.  And I’ll give your secretary whatever she likes as well.”  At this the secretary smiled.  The man stood up—hmmm, he was a big guy….  

            The customs agent left the room while I began opening the package.  When he returned about 10 minutes later, he again sat at his desk and said with a smile, “Let us begin this once again.”

            I smiled and said, “Yes, Sir!  Habari aku,” as I stretched my hand out in a greeting.

            Again his beautiful white teeth gleamed as he responded, “Mazuri sanna.”  He then produced a new customs slip.  This one had no charges on it.

            By this time, the entire contents of the package were on display—toothpaste, peanut butter, hand lotion, gum, note pads, stomach acids—all treasures because they were from my brother in the States.  I turned to the secretary and told her to select what she would like.  She smiled shyly but was reluctant to step forward.  I looked over my loot and handed her a bottle of hand lotion.  Then I turned back to the customs agent.  “Now you choose something you would like,” I said holding my arm out to show the items.   He said he didn’t want to take anything.  I placed the jar of peanut butter in his hand and told him it was a gift for his wife.  He smiled and accepted it graciously.

            It was so easy for me to stand there and judge—old carbon paper, women working at small tables, men doing little but sitting at large desks, offices that hadn’t seen a good cleaning in years, and, yes, I do believe they were trying to take advantage of me.  But peeking behind and underneath, and seeing a bigger picture, I had so much to learn.... 
             There is the story of a man who visited an African village.  He was offered a hut to stay in.  The next day when he returned from visiting the village school, he saw a man wearing a shirt that had obviously been taken from his suitcase.  He walked up to the man and asked why he was wearing his shirt.  The old man said, "Because you had two, and I had none."
              Another lesson in customs, culture and charity.

You never understand a person until you consider

things from his point of view.

 --- Harper Lee