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.