Stephen Vasciannie
LAST WEEK I went to Norman Manley Airport to collect a book that had been "air speeded" to me. The book could have been mailed to my door.
I went to the wrong place initially. None of the three documents informing me that the book had arrived contained the correct address for collection.
At Norman Manley, there is no clear indication that I am in the right place. Security guard number one roughly directs me to a window (let's call it Window A). The man at Window A takes my documents, searches his files, mumbles something about my lateness, searches some more, then tells me I need to pay $700 plus "for storage and handling".
Thinking I am now about to be handed the package, I pay. "Now you must go to the security guard, and then to the other side", he notes. He adds another document to the three that I already have.
THE OTHER SIDE
I find security guard number two, who points me to a storeroom. I take off, only to realize from her sarcasm, that I am going to the wrong place. She has simply directed me to security guard number three, beside her. I hand all documents to security guard number three. She takes one of them, and sends me to "the other side", to fill out some forms.
Let's call the other side "Window B". I am handed two forms, a "C78" and an application form which has mumbo jumbo about "the declarant", the consignment", and other customs babble. Other declarants and co signees are busily filling out these two forms, "manifesting" and looking perplexed.
A kind security guard, number four, lends me her pen, and occasionally examines my fitful efforts to complete the two forms. She "boofs" me every now and then for not knowing my way around the six documents, but she helps, so I am grateful.
Forms completed. Security guard number four then sends me to a queue heading in the direction of customs officer number one. Customs officer number one is working, but is also in social conversation with her friend. And a man, a regular, whose documents for a big company have been mislaid, keeps breaking the line to insist that customs officer number one must find them.
NO REGGAE BOY
This inspires little confidence. Customs officer number one takes my documents, and asks me for the waybill or some other document. I hand her everything to spare myself the embarrassment of guessing incorrectly. She snaps that she just wants one; then she demands another, and demonstrates my technical incompetence.
Customs officer number one uses the word "please" in handing an additional document to me. She sends me back to security guard number two, who, in the meantime, has collected my box from the storeroom.
Security guard number two is no Reggae Boy, but she kicks my small box to me, and while doing so, sends me to customs officer number two, "over dehso". To ease my exasperation, I dribble with the box to customs officer number two.
Customs officer number two quizzes me about whether the book is for me, or for the university. It is for both, but this is perceived as a comic response. If it's for the university, I will need to see the supervisor, she says. I conclude it's for me. She adopts an authoritarian tone, "Read the airbill number on the box to me". There is no such number on the box. I tell her, but she thinks I am being facetious.
She refuses to look at the box. I show her colleague next to her. He sees that the number is not there. Customs officer number two then directs me to her supervisor. I walk out, but think the better of it.
CUSTOMS ETIQUETTE
To cut a long story short, the supervisor (customs officer number three) has to make a phone call to the air express company manager, and has to interrupt her soup-drinking. Eventually, I am allowed to open the package. Customs officer number four, who is polite and discreet, asks me a few questions, consults with customs officer number three, and concludes that I really shouldn't pay any duty on the book.
I go to Window C for a release form. Then, I have to stop at security guard number four for her to sign out the book.
Three windows, four security guards, four customs officers, one manager, three examinations of my driver's licence, two of my TRN, eight documents, two hours' of travel and mild aggravation, unnecessary roughness, and unnecessarily abstruse language all to collect one book that could have been delivered by post! Globilisation.
Stephen Vasciannie is a professor at the University of the West Indies and a consultant in the Attorney-General's chambers.
