Yesterday evening just after a powerful prayer and meditation time with the Sisters in the prayer room, Sister Tsehay was informed of an unexpected death in the community. A 39 year-old woman whose daughter is a kindergarten teacher and a close friend of the girls in the hostel here was rushed to the hospital after a fall. Asking Abba Tesfaye to look after her children, she completed her life. That evening sadness shrouded the compound, and especially Sister Tsehay, who works most closely with the community as the director of women’s affairs, and harbors a soft, compassionate heart. Maria, one of my favorite of the hostel girls, with a ceaseless smile and a straight-backed, bright composure, was on our side of the compound cooking last night. Her face was bunched up in sadness and Tsehay told me she had been crying. When I asked if she was sad, she bravely smiled and shook her head no, but after wrapping my arms around her, she told me that her head hurt. All I could do was give her Advil and tell her to drink water.
Life is out of our hands, always, but the illusion of control is less rigid, more penetrable here. One can only hope to pass through fate’s pitiless and random fingers undeterred. I believe that is why Ethiopians are so open-ended and adaptable. Between today’s rain, the grief, and the burial that will be held today, my class this morning was intuitively cancelled; no one needed to be told. Our plans to leave for Ado today shifted as the sky let loose with water all morning, granting the community an appropriate gesture of recognition to the peoples’ tears.
The morning sky’s principle of weeping for another’s tears is shared among the Ethiopians of the community here. At the burial—set on a green hill against an overcast sky—the dead woman’s daughter stumbled away from the hole, supported by friends with puffy pink faces. A sea of female heads covered in thin white scarves watched. Corners of white scarves wiped the eyes that witnessed the girl as she wailed to the sky, begging her mother not to leave.
Because of the rain, our plans had changed, but we pressed along with our work painting the Biblical story of Ruth—a woman who rebuilds her life after the loss of a loved one—in the Danka Women’s Center. I had already begun to outline the text in the room that would read “Marta’s Happy Room,” a dedication to Marta Teal, our friend in Riverside. Having witnessed the great sadness that flooded the community, and how the fierce whims of death antagonize the poor here, the dedication took on a new meaning. Marta is also the name of the kindergarten teacher, a daughter of the woman who was laid to rest today, on a bright green hill, among bright wet eyes, a mournful sky, and a resilient community.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Dembidolo
In Dembidolo, I feel closer to the third-world scare stories, which were always just abstractions to me before. “Oh, isn’t it sad that somewhere without a name, someone without a face, lives like that.” Those stories are still abstractions to me, but on the bones of our nameless protagonists just a bit of flesh is beginning to appear.
On the first day of class (jewelry production), each woman tells me her story. Bule is a widow with 6 children. She is able-bodied and educated (until tenth grade), but cannot find work. Baretu cannot work at all, she is a small person who suffers greatly from hernias. She cannot even afford to buy soap to wash her clothes in. If it weren’t for the sisters, who found her and paid for her operation in Addis, she would be dead. Sister Tsehay gives her a few dollars a month, and she survives. She wipes her eyes as she speaks, and I reach across the table to take her hand and meet her gaze. Mitike also has medical problems, with her kidneys. She’s ok when she drinks water, but when her kidneys improve, she forgets and they flare up again. The expressiveness of her face and hands as she speaks lends to her endearing and breathtaking beauty. Each woman ends her introduction by thanking me profusely for coming all this way to provide them with an opportunity to improve their lives. They have many, many children to feed and are very, very grateful.
Tareke lives here with 16 other girls. She is a 13 year here who, because of a learning disability or very low IQ, has not been able to pass the 1st grade. An infection from Polio left her unable to walk, but the sisters helped her obtain an operation and now she walks with a leg brace. She had a difficult time with the pattern--getting each safety pin on in the right direction. But after I sat with her, (and reduced the pins she was working with to one color, to simplify), she picked up on it quickly and was so happy whenever I encouraged her.
There are four Sisters who live in this compound. Sister Tsehay, or Sister Sunshine, is in charge of the Women’s programs, including microfinance, soap-making, knitting, agriculture, a local shop, and now, the jewelry program. I am training her and Samuel, the accountant, to continue after I leave. The women’s center is a small building next door to the compound, with a patio, a small shop front, and a room for gathering, in which we are painting the story of Ruth. Sister Sunshine’s personality fits her name. She is large and full of compassion, love, and excitement. Her Meyers-Briggs type is ESFP.
Sister Genet, the other young sister, is in charge of all the children’s programs and the 17 girls—rescued from the bondages of their previous lives—who live in the “hostel” at the compound. She also directs the Kindergarten program and Feeding Center at Sameroo, a nearby community outside of the town, where we are painting a happy room full of bright colors and happy animals. She is quiet and responsible, but she giggles incessantly with Sister Tsehay whenever something funny comes up, and declares at times that she is too excited to eat. Her type is the ISFJ.
Sister Tsigue is a nurse in charge of the clinic. Looking at her, you might not know it, but like the other two sisters, her native tongue is Amharic. Since the local language is Oromifa, she uses a translator. To me, she looks Filipina. I found out recently that her father was a part of the Italian military in Ethiopia. When he left Ethiopia, the people of her community refused to let him take her and her brother along to Italy, throwing stones until he relented. But because of her skin, she was rejected by her people as she grew up. She hates to be called farangi, white person. She is Ethiopian through and through. Sister Tsigue will tell you all about how the clinic works, how they combat elephantiasis, goiter, HIV, and other common problems in the region, and how they help the poor no matter how much they can or cannot pay. She is a caretaker, and will make sure that you are fed and have all your needs met. Her type is ISTJ or ISFJ.
Sister Evelyn actually is Filipina. Since she is really a foreigner, she leaves the handling of the programs that help the people directly to the other sisters. She oversees everything, and keeps in touch with all the former volunteers and donors from abroad. She is full of joy, sings spontaneously, and loves animals and natural remedies. She is incredibly bright and seems to know about everything, and I enjoy asking her questions about what things are like here. Her type is the ISFP.
Highlights of Dembidolo:
-The Banyan tree behind the compound, which is HUGE, bigger than my house, and FULL OF MONKEYS. Stephanie and I climbed it, getting a full 40 feet off the ground (she got even higher). I was terrified, in a good way. The curious monkeys slowly got closer and closer, one coming within just a few feet of me.
-Painting the Story of Ruth in the Women’s Center, the Sisters’ courtyard (garden theme), and a jungle-full of animals at the feeding center for malnourished children in Sameroo.
-Beading with Abba (Father) Tesfaye and the Sisters on our patio in the courtyard.
-Being hugged by the girls who live at the hostel here, who cling to us and say “Thank you,” “I love you,” and “I appreciate you,” with such sincerity that you melt.
-Taking brightly-colored sweaters, handmade by women from the community in Sister Tsehay’s knitting group, to a kindergarten class in a very poor community (Dule), where the children could not afford uniforms. They did the hokey-pokey for us. Iris Landa put in an order for 110 sweaters ($4 per sweater for another uniform-less kindergarten class, which also helps the women who make the sweaters earn a livelihood.
-Seeing the seeds I bought (9 packets for a dollar at the 99 cent store!) distributed among the sisters and Abba Tesfaye, and sprouting already in Abba’s field, at the Women’s Center, and, best of all, in little used paint buckets planted by the Sameroo children, who are taught agricultural skills in conjunction with the feeding program, so that they are not reliant on handouts forever. It’s an edible schoolyard.
On the first day of class (jewelry production), each woman tells me her story. Bule is a widow with 6 children. She is able-bodied and educated (until tenth grade), but cannot find work. Baretu cannot work at all, she is a small person who suffers greatly from hernias. She cannot even afford to buy soap to wash her clothes in. If it weren’t for the sisters, who found her and paid for her operation in Addis, she would be dead. Sister Tsehay gives her a few dollars a month, and she survives. She wipes her eyes as she speaks, and I reach across the table to take her hand and meet her gaze. Mitike also has medical problems, with her kidneys. She’s ok when she drinks water, but when her kidneys improve, she forgets and they flare up again. The expressiveness of her face and hands as she speaks lends to her endearing and breathtaking beauty. Each woman ends her introduction by thanking me profusely for coming all this way to provide them with an opportunity to improve their lives. They have many, many children to feed and are very, very grateful.
Tareke lives here with 16 other girls. She is a 13 year here who, because of a learning disability or very low IQ, has not been able to pass the 1st grade. An infection from Polio left her unable to walk, but the sisters helped her obtain an operation and now she walks with a leg brace. She had a difficult time with the pattern--getting each safety pin on in the right direction. But after I sat with her, (and reduced the pins she was working with to one color, to simplify), she picked up on it quickly and was so happy whenever I encouraged her.
There are four Sisters who live in this compound. Sister Tsehay, or Sister Sunshine, is in charge of the Women’s programs, including microfinance, soap-making, knitting, agriculture, a local shop, and now, the jewelry program. I am training her and Samuel, the accountant, to continue after I leave. The women’s center is a small building next door to the compound, with a patio, a small shop front, and a room for gathering, in which we are painting the story of Ruth. Sister Sunshine’s personality fits her name. She is large and full of compassion, love, and excitement. Her Meyers-Briggs type is ESFP.
Sister Genet, the other young sister, is in charge of all the children’s programs and the 17 girls—rescued from the bondages of their previous lives—who live in the “hostel” at the compound. She also directs the Kindergarten program and Feeding Center at Sameroo, a nearby community outside of the town, where we are painting a happy room full of bright colors and happy animals. She is quiet and responsible, but she giggles incessantly with Sister Tsehay whenever something funny comes up, and declares at times that she is too excited to eat. Her type is the ISFJ.
Sister Tsigue is a nurse in charge of the clinic. Looking at her, you might not know it, but like the other two sisters, her native tongue is Amharic. Since the local language is Oromifa, she uses a translator. To me, she looks Filipina. I found out recently that her father was a part of the Italian military in Ethiopia. When he left Ethiopia, the people of her community refused to let him take her and her brother along to Italy, throwing stones until he relented. But because of her skin, she was rejected by her people as she grew up. She hates to be called farangi, white person. She is Ethiopian through and through. Sister Tsigue will tell you all about how the clinic works, how they combat elephantiasis, goiter, HIV, and other common problems in the region, and how they help the poor no matter how much they can or cannot pay. She is a caretaker, and will make sure that you are fed and have all your needs met. Her type is ISTJ or ISFJ.
Sister Evelyn actually is Filipina. Since she is really a foreigner, she leaves the handling of the programs that help the people directly to the other sisters. She oversees everything, and keeps in touch with all the former volunteers and donors from abroad. She is full of joy, sings spontaneously, and loves animals and natural remedies. She is incredibly bright and seems to know about everything, and I enjoy asking her questions about what things are like here. Her type is the ISFP.
Highlights of Dembidolo:
-The Banyan tree behind the compound, which is HUGE, bigger than my house, and FULL OF MONKEYS. Stephanie and I climbed it, getting a full 40 feet off the ground (she got even higher). I was terrified, in a good way. The curious monkeys slowly got closer and closer, one coming within just a few feet of me.
-Painting the Story of Ruth in the Women’s Center, the Sisters’ courtyard (garden theme), and a jungle-full of animals at the feeding center for malnourished children in Sameroo.
-Beading with Abba (Father) Tesfaye and the Sisters on our patio in the courtyard.
-Being hugged by the girls who live at the hostel here, who cling to us and say “Thank you,” “I love you,” and “I appreciate you,” with such sincerity that you melt.
-Taking brightly-colored sweaters, handmade by women from the community in Sister Tsehay’s knitting group, to a kindergarten class in a very poor community (Dule), where the children could not afford uniforms. They did the hokey-pokey for us. Iris Landa put in an order for 110 sweaters ($4 per sweater for another uniform-less kindergarten class, which also helps the women who make the sweaters earn a livelihood.
-Seeing the seeds I bought (9 packets for a dollar at the 99 cent store!) distributed among the sisters and Abba Tesfaye, and sprouting already in Abba’s field, at the Women’s Center, and, best of all, in little used paint buckets planted by the Sameroo children, who are taught agricultural skills in conjunction with the feeding program, so that they are not reliant on handouts forever. It’s an edible schoolyard.
Getting to Dembidolo
You haven’t really flown until you’ve taken a domestic flight on an African airline. We leave on Wednesday morning to catch our flight to Gambela, after spending a little over 24 hours in Addis. The electricity is out at “Momma” Hareg’s when we leave her home.
We show our ticket information and ID to get into the airport. I have packed mine away. Iris is, as always, two steps ahead of me and quickly produces my itinerary with her own.
We wait in line to check in. We are told, a half hour later, that everyone flying to Gambela needs to be in a separate line. We switch, and the line stagnates. We are told, after a half hour of standing in the same place, that the system is down. It will be back up in ten minutes.
An hour later, our line begins to move. We make it to the front. The airline worker is a short young man with obtrusive ears named Daniel. By hand, he writes our boarding passes and fills out a paper documenting who has been checked in. I spell my name to him,
“Like your name plus “L-E.”
He smiles.
He weighs our massive bags.
“These bags are overweight,” he says, concerned.
“That’s OK, that’s OK.” Iris says brusquely, waving him along. She already knows she’ll need to go to a separate window to pay a fee for each kilogram of extra weight, and is afraid we’ll miss our flight.
“I’ll pay for all four of the bags,” Iris explains.
Daniel hesitates. “This bag is 22 kilograms overweight, this one is 17 kilograms overweight, this one is 10 kilograms over, and this one is 24 kilograms over.”
“That’s OK, that’s OK.” Iris does not know what he is waiting for. Finally,
“Shall I give you a discount?” Daniel offers.
“Yes.” Says Iris.
And Daniel scrawls “42 kg” on a little piece of paper for Iris to take to the other counter.
I wait a full twenty minutes at Daniel’s counter before Iris brings the receipt and we receive our baggage claim tickets. We hurry up to the gate and breath easy. I learn that the woman at the other counter had initially quoted to Iris an absurd fee for the overweight bags, and it took some time before the woman realized we were traveling on a domestic flight and the fee was just 8 birr per kilo.
Our flight was meant to leave a half hour ago, but because of the system failure, it has been delayed. We settle in to wait. A few minutes later, Daniel comes up to the gate and hands me my itinerary, which I had forgotten at his counter. I smile sheepishly at Iris, who is beginning to realize what an airhead I am. I resolve to guard our baggage claim tickets with my life.
An airline worker informs everyone that the flight will not be leaving for another four hours. They feed us lunch, on the house.
When we finally line up to board the plane, everyone rushes to be among the first to board. The handful of 4 or 5 of us Farangis all end up at the back. The plane is a rickety old thing. We are surprised to find the first two seats empty, and take them. I realize during take-off that we have chosen the loudest seats on the plane. The engine roars.
I am excited to be flying over a breathtaking green landscape. When the plane lands in Gambela, my heart races and I realize that this is completely new territory for me, nothing like I’ve ever done before, coming down among the acacia trees. The “airport” is totally rudimentary. It’s just a landing strip and a tower.
Athough every Ethiopian to whom I mentioned Gambela said it was extremely hot, nothing could have prepared me for the wave of hot, sticky air that hit my face as soon as I stepped out of the plane and into the overcast climate. There was a total disconnect between how the air looked from inside the plane and how it felt.
We saw Stephanie and the sisters waving at us, and Iris nearly leapt for joy.
The bags were unloaded from a plane onto the back of a truck and as a throng of passengers grabbed their bags directly off the vehicle,
I realized the absurdity of the little baggage claim tickets I had held onto so tightly.
We show our ticket information and ID to get into the airport. I have packed mine away. Iris is, as always, two steps ahead of me and quickly produces my itinerary with her own.
We wait in line to check in. We are told, a half hour later, that everyone flying to Gambela needs to be in a separate line. We switch, and the line stagnates. We are told, after a half hour of standing in the same place, that the system is down. It will be back up in ten minutes.
An hour later, our line begins to move. We make it to the front. The airline worker is a short young man with obtrusive ears named Daniel. By hand, he writes our boarding passes and fills out a paper documenting who has been checked in. I spell my name to him,
“Like your name plus “L-E.”
He smiles.
He weighs our massive bags.
“These bags are overweight,” he says, concerned.
“That’s OK, that’s OK.” Iris says brusquely, waving him along. She already knows she’ll need to go to a separate window to pay a fee for each kilogram of extra weight, and is afraid we’ll miss our flight.
“I’ll pay for all four of the bags,” Iris explains.
Daniel hesitates. “This bag is 22 kilograms overweight, this one is 17 kilograms overweight, this one is 10 kilograms over, and this one is 24 kilograms over.”
“That’s OK, that’s OK.” Iris does not know what he is waiting for. Finally,
“Shall I give you a discount?” Daniel offers.
“Yes.” Says Iris.
And Daniel scrawls “42 kg” on a little piece of paper for Iris to take to the other counter.
I wait a full twenty minutes at Daniel’s counter before Iris brings the receipt and we receive our baggage claim tickets. We hurry up to the gate and breath easy. I learn that the woman at the other counter had initially quoted to Iris an absurd fee for the overweight bags, and it took some time before the woman realized we were traveling on a domestic flight and the fee was just 8 birr per kilo.
Our flight was meant to leave a half hour ago, but because of the system failure, it has been delayed. We settle in to wait. A few minutes later, Daniel comes up to the gate and hands me my itinerary, which I had forgotten at his counter. I smile sheepishly at Iris, who is beginning to realize what an airhead I am. I resolve to guard our baggage claim tickets with my life.
An airline worker informs everyone that the flight will not be leaving for another four hours. They feed us lunch, on the house.
When we finally line up to board the plane, everyone rushes to be among the first to board. The handful of 4 or 5 of us Farangis all end up at the back. The plane is a rickety old thing. We are surprised to find the first two seats empty, and take them. I realize during take-off that we have chosen the loudest seats on the plane. The engine roars.
I am excited to be flying over a breathtaking green landscape. When the plane lands in Gambela, my heart races and I realize that this is completely new territory for me, nothing like I’ve ever done before, coming down among the acacia trees. The “airport” is totally rudimentary. It’s just a landing strip and a tower.
Athough every Ethiopian to whom I mentioned Gambela said it was extremely hot, nothing could have prepared me for the wave of hot, sticky air that hit my face as soon as I stepped out of the plane and into the overcast climate. There was a total disconnect between how the air looked from inside the plane and how it felt.
We saw Stephanie and the sisters waving at us, and Iris nearly leapt for joy.
The bags were unloaded from a plane onto the back of a truck and as a throng of passengers grabbed their bags directly off the vehicle,
I realized the absurdity of the little baggage claim tickets I had held onto so tightly.
MR YUSSUF, Or: How to Play 3rd-world Bureaucracy
Written Wednesday, April 29, 2009 at 6:30a
Here is a story about Mr. Yussuf, an Ethiopian bureaucrat who wears a black suit and works at the Addis airport. Mr. Yussuf is a tax collector. The story is about the two hours we spent at the airport early Tuesday morning, and the other hour and a half we spent there later in the morning. It is about the some twenty-something airport security officials, luggage bearers, and admin. workers whose kindness, humility, and friendliness helped save us yesterday. Our theme is Western-tourist-meets-3rd-world-bureaucracy, and the negotiation game will be familiar to many who have lived or traveled outside the neat borders of the so-called Western world.
Iris Landa and I landed in Ethiopia at 2:30 early Tuesday morning. Although the airport was empty, it took us some time to purchase our Visas, exchange money, and have our passports stamped. By the time I had made it through these procedures, Iris had already garnered our 7 large, heavy, bags of luggage, which were on their way through the outgoing x-ray machines.
I had brought in a huge suitcase full of jewelry-making supplies, plus supplies scattered throughout my other bags. The supplies had been donated by Dr. Larry Thomas for classes led by the Sisters of Charity in Dembidolo and with the jewelry micro-enterprise at the Learning Village. My big case was laid wide open on the x-ray conveyer belt, and I was told I would need to pay taxes on these materials. We were the last passengers in the airport, Iris and I, and about 10 airport workers gathered around, chattering to each other in Amharic, musing about the open case of supplies. I pleaded,
“These are teaching materials; they’re not for business.”
“We are volunteers who are trying to help,”
Iris produced a touching speech about the service we were doing with the Daughters of Charity, for “the poorest of the poor,” in a remote part of the country with great needs.
No one looked us in the eyes or seemed to hear what we were saying.
I was asked to produce an invoice; I did so reluctantly (a suitcase-full of inexpensive beads, tools and supplies produce a very different impact than a $1600+ figure highlighted on paper). Iris stood by my side, praying.
I remembered Erich’s story about the Malian policeman who had arrested his friend, with whom Erich pleaded with for hours before declaring that he “knew people” in America and that the policeman would be sorry. Erich’s friend was promptly released. I was afraid I would need to draw a hard line, but such firmness is scarcely possible for me. I’m soft-spoken and non-threatening, and often it works out for me in situations like this—people seem to want to help when I look them in the eyes, and send non-verbal clues that emphasize my naïveté. Sounds self-consciously manipulative? Maybe. But my bag of tricks is small, and pretty much consistent with my natural temperament. Anyway, I was trying to summon some courage, in case assertiveness was necessary:
“This is ridiculous,” I murmered to whomever would hear,
“These rules just make it difficult for people to help.”
“Don’t worry ma’am, don’t worry.” The young lady next to me said softly, providing no concrete help but surprising me with the compassion in her voice.
All hope seemed lost. The girls told us our suitcase would be confiscated and we would need to return in the morning to speak with their boss, who would make the final decision. There was nothing they could do to help us, they said.
I followed them to a desk where two of the women filled out the paperwork. Finally, one woman looked me in the eye and communicated with me. She returned the invoice to me and told me to speak with Mr. Yussuf later in the morning, after 8:30a when he would arrive. She assured me that she didn’t think we would need to pay taxes, because these materials were inexpensive, as long as I did not show the invoice. She gave me a lock and key for my piece of luggage and a receipt to show Mr. Yussuf. For the first time that wee morning, I felt like I was talking to someone.
The woman also helped me by giving me a glimpse into Mr. Yussuf’s mind—it had not occurred to me that the fact that these items were not worth much individually (and that he had no idea how much they were worth collectively) might be more important than the fact that we weren’t trying to sell them, or that we were “doing good.”
We returned to the airport after a short night of sleep. We purchased tickets for 30 birr (approx. $3) each to enter the arrivals end of the airport and returned to the desk to find another ten or so Ethiopian workers idling around. One pointed out Mr. Yussuf.
“The man in the black suit,” he said, indicating a mob of Ethiopian,
Arab, and Asian businessmen waving receipts and negotiating with Yussuf. Like the hubbub of the New York Stock Exchange condensed in a 5 foot radius. I timidly approached and waited for a lull. It took half an hour. During that time, I went over in my head what to tell Mr. Yussuf, thought it would be best if I approached him alone (so that he would have no witnesses to his grace, and possible loss of pride), and if I talked to him alone (being a young lady, he would naturally assume I did not have deep pockets, like the international businessmen whom he was accustomed to dealing with). I have also been told that Ethiopians for some reason trust Farangis (foreigners) more than they do other Ethiopians in matters like this, so Hareg (Dr. Fekede Gemechu’s sister) helped us by staying outside in the car and praying fervently.
So this was sort of practice for me. It’s a challenge, really, a game.
That’s why people like haggling. They want to see that they can play the game, and win. That’s why you have to make it easy for the other person to give in. You have to be nice, so that the other person doesn’t really feel like he’s losing anything. When bargaining for a purchase, you can have a win-win, but in a situation like this where the other person really has nothing to gain by helping you, you just have to make it easier for him to let you go than not.
Here’s how to play: Look the person right in the eyes when you
speak. Beyond stating what you want, and why you deserve it, there might not be a whole lot to say. The important thing is that you don’t try to wrap up the deal too early. If necessary, repeat yourself. Don’t be surprised if the other person repeats himself too.
“We are working with a Catholic Organization…these are teaching materials…”
“The Catholic church?! An NGO??” (He said NGO with such disdain.
For reasons I don’t fully understand, the Ethiopian government loathes NGO’s and makes their lives as hard as possible. I realized I had fumbled, mentioning that.)
Of course, he asked for an invoice, and when I said I didn’t have it,
because the supplies had all been donated, he asked for a donation slip. Donation slip? I said that I didn’t understand. He thumbed through the little boxes of beads in my suitcase, tossing them aside with a little thud, feigning total disgust. I smiled at the theatrics of it and resisted the urge to straighten them.
What you say doesn’t necessarily have to make sense. Don’t get too
literal, just frame the situation to your advantage. He’ll expect this, and won’t call you on it. What he says probably won’t make much sense either. That’s because the “rules” of the bureaucracy are not hard and fast.
After the necessary dance of repetitions, Mr. Yussuf declared
emphatically,
“OK! Since you have no invoice and NO donation slip, you will pay
DOUBLE the taxes!!” He spinned around as he said this, flocking to a flurry of paperwork.
Let him say what he will. Don’t challenge the legitimacy of it, just
assume it to be what it seems, one of Mr. Yussuf’s villainous acts of perverse whimsy. Maybe for a split second, Mr. Yussuf believed his threat to be real, or maybe he just wanted to scare me a little. Maybe Mr. Yussuf turned around and realized that he simply had no idea what amount to tax. Anyway, nothing is every finalized. After some minutes of scribbling, he came back. I was ready for round 2. I started in again, but he interrupted me.
“You don’t have to pay the taxes. You just have to pay the warehouse
fee.”
It took me a few seconds to realize that the “warehouse fee” was a fee
for storing the piece of luggage at the airport. A fee thought up so that Mr. Yussuf would never have to say, “Nevermind. You can go now.”
Well, let him frame it as a compromise. But you won. Our prayers
were answered. The warehouse fee was 60 Ethiopian cents. Less than $0.06, plus another dime for the photocopy of the receipt. For another half hour, we waited while a young man retrieved our bag and another idling worker asked if I was married while the young female workers giggled shyly and smiled at us. We stood in front of the desk chatting with our new friends while four of the workers consecutively filled out each piece of absolutely necessary paperwork on our six cent payment.
Here is a story about Mr. Yussuf, an Ethiopian bureaucrat who wears a black suit and works at the Addis airport. Mr. Yussuf is a tax collector. The story is about the two hours we spent at the airport early Tuesday morning, and the other hour and a half we spent there later in the morning. It is about the some twenty-something airport security officials, luggage bearers, and admin. workers whose kindness, humility, and friendliness helped save us yesterday. Our theme is Western-tourist-meets-3rd-world-bureaucracy, and the negotiation game will be familiar to many who have lived or traveled outside the neat borders of the so-called Western world.
Iris Landa and I landed in Ethiopia at 2:30 early Tuesday morning. Although the airport was empty, it took us some time to purchase our Visas, exchange money, and have our passports stamped. By the time I had made it through these procedures, Iris had already garnered our 7 large, heavy, bags of luggage, which were on their way through the outgoing x-ray machines.
I had brought in a huge suitcase full of jewelry-making supplies, plus supplies scattered throughout my other bags. The supplies had been donated by Dr. Larry Thomas for classes led by the Sisters of Charity in Dembidolo and with the jewelry micro-enterprise at the Learning Village. My big case was laid wide open on the x-ray conveyer belt, and I was told I would need to pay taxes on these materials. We were the last passengers in the airport, Iris and I, and about 10 airport workers gathered around, chattering to each other in Amharic, musing about the open case of supplies. I pleaded,
“These are teaching materials; they’re not for business.”
“We are volunteers who are trying to help,”
Iris produced a touching speech about the service we were doing with the Daughters of Charity, for “the poorest of the poor,” in a remote part of the country with great needs.
No one looked us in the eyes or seemed to hear what we were saying.
I was asked to produce an invoice; I did so reluctantly (a suitcase-full of inexpensive beads, tools and supplies produce a very different impact than a $1600+ figure highlighted on paper). Iris stood by my side, praying.
I remembered Erich’s story about the Malian policeman who had arrested his friend, with whom Erich pleaded with for hours before declaring that he “knew people” in America and that the policeman would be sorry. Erich’s friend was promptly released. I was afraid I would need to draw a hard line, but such firmness is scarcely possible for me. I’m soft-spoken and non-threatening, and often it works out for me in situations like this—people seem to want to help when I look them in the eyes, and send non-verbal clues that emphasize my naïveté. Sounds self-consciously manipulative? Maybe. But my bag of tricks is small, and pretty much consistent with my natural temperament. Anyway, I was trying to summon some courage, in case assertiveness was necessary:
“This is ridiculous,” I murmered to whomever would hear,
“These rules just make it difficult for people to help.”
“Don’t worry ma’am, don’t worry.” The young lady next to me said softly, providing no concrete help but surprising me with the compassion in her voice.
All hope seemed lost. The girls told us our suitcase would be confiscated and we would need to return in the morning to speak with their boss, who would make the final decision. There was nothing they could do to help us, they said.
I followed them to a desk where two of the women filled out the paperwork. Finally, one woman looked me in the eye and communicated with me. She returned the invoice to me and told me to speak with Mr. Yussuf later in the morning, after 8:30a when he would arrive. She assured me that she didn’t think we would need to pay taxes, because these materials were inexpensive, as long as I did not show the invoice. She gave me a lock and key for my piece of luggage and a receipt to show Mr. Yussuf. For the first time that wee morning, I felt like I was talking to someone.
The woman also helped me by giving me a glimpse into Mr. Yussuf’s mind—it had not occurred to me that the fact that these items were not worth much individually (and that he had no idea how much they were worth collectively) might be more important than the fact that we weren’t trying to sell them, or that we were “doing good.”
We returned to the airport after a short night of sleep. We purchased tickets for 30 birr (approx. $3) each to enter the arrivals end of the airport and returned to the desk to find another ten or so Ethiopian workers idling around. One pointed out Mr. Yussuf.
“The man in the black suit,” he said, indicating a mob of Ethiopian,
Arab, and Asian businessmen waving receipts and negotiating with Yussuf. Like the hubbub of the New York Stock Exchange condensed in a 5 foot radius. I timidly approached and waited for a lull. It took half an hour. During that time, I went over in my head what to tell Mr. Yussuf, thought it would be best if I approached him alone (so that he would have no witnesses to his grace, and possible loss of pride), and if I talked to him alone (being a young lady, he would naturally assume I did not have deep pockets, like the international businessmen whom he was accustomed to dealing with). I have also been told that Ethiopians for some reason trust Farangis (foreigners) more than they do other Ethiopians in matters like this, so Hareg (Dr. Fekede Gemechu’s sister) helped us by staying outside in the car and praying fervently.
So this was sort of practice for me. It’s a challenge, really, a game.
That’s why people like haggling. They want to see that they can play the game, and win. That’s why you have to make it easy for the other person to give in. You have to be nice, so that the other person doesn’t really feel like he’s losing anything. When bargaining for a purchase, you can have a win-win, but in a situation like this where the other person really has nothing to gain by helping you, you just have to make it easier for him to let you go than not.
Here’s how to play: Look the person right in the eyes when you
speak. Beyond stating what you want, and why you deserve it, there might not be a whole lot to say. The important thing is that you don’t try to wrap up the deal too early. If necessary, repeat yourself. Don’t be surprised if the other person repeats himself too.
“We are working with a Catholic Organization…these are teaching materials…”
“The Catholic church?! An NGO??” (He said NGO with such disdain.
For reasons I don’t fully understand, the Ethiopian government loathes NGO’s and makes their lives as hard as possible. I realized I had fumbled, mentioning that.)
Of course, he asked for an invoice, and when I said I didn’t have it,
because the supplies had all been donated, he asked for a donation slip. Donation slip? I said that I didn’t understand. He thumbed through the little boxes of beads in my suitcase, tossing them aside with a little thud, feigning total disgust. I smiled at the theatrics of it and resisted the urge to straighten them.
What you say doesn’t necessarily have to make sense. Don’t get too
literal, just frame the situation to your advantage. He’ll expect this, and won’t call you on it. What he says probably won’t make much sense either. That’s because the “rules” of the bureaucracy are not hard and fast.
After the necessary dance of repetitions, Mr. Yussuf declared
emphatically,
“OK! Since you have no invoice and NO donation slip, you will pay
DOUBLE the taxes!!” He spinned around as he said this, flocking to a flurry of paperwork.
Let him say what he will. Don’t challenge the legitimacy of it, just
assume it to be what it seems, one of Mr. Yussuf’s villainous acts of perverse whimsy. Maybe for a split second, Mr. Yussuf believed his threat to be real, or maybe he just wanted to scare me a little. Maybe Mr. Yussuf turned around and realized that he simply had no idea what amount to tax. Anyway, nothing is every finalized. After some minutes of scribbling, he came back. I was ready for round 2. I started in again, but he interrupted me.
“You don’t have to pay the taxes. You just have to pay the warehouse
fee.”
It took me a few seconds to realize that the “warehouse fee” was a fee
for storing the piece of luggage at the airport. A fee thought up so that Mr. Yussuf would never have to say, “Nevermind. You can go now.”
Well, let him frame it as a compromise. But you won. Our prayers
were answered. The warehouse fee was 60 Ethiopian cents. Less than $0.06, plus another dime for the photocopy of the receipt. For another half hour, we waited while a young man retrieved our bag and another idling worker asked if I was married while the young female workers giggled shyly and smiled at us. We stood in front of the desk chatting with our new friends while four of the workers consecutively filled out each piece of absolutely necessary paperwork on our six cent payment.
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