Photo right: al my old stuff is administrated by Mr. Lazy (left) item by item. Bags of unwashed Vietnam rice in the background

As the Monkey-in-Chief, Mr. Lazy employs some underchimps for the breaking job. Sometimes he makes a symbolic quasi shrewd policelike gesture himself: for instance, he tries carefully where the keys of my electric piano cannot be lifted instead of pushed.
"I would take another piano teacher".
The crown around the rice store has by now grown to considerable numbers and has, it seems, some sense of humor, but not so Mr. Lazy.
Suddenly, Mr. Lazy gets really excited. A box with video tapes. He orders the opening of the box, and then, for the first time, he personally checks. All individual tapes go through his own fingers. My fucking tapes have no factory labels and are dryly numbered F1, F2, F3,...etc., so I say: down there between those rice bags we could put my video recorder, if you bring a monitor you can check all tapes.
Is there power here? I ask the crowd. There is some enthusiastic nodding and pointing to one of the corners.
Disappointed Mr. Lazy forced himself laboriously back in upright position.
Now he sees a traditional Ugandan hunting bow.
What are you going to shoot with that?
Customs officers, I say, looking him deep into the eyes.
That is illegal, says Mr. Lazy. What is in that box?
Books.
Open please.
Mr. Lazy looks: Dostoevsky, the Diesel Engine Repair Book, Warfare in the Late Middle Ages, Xenophon's Anabasis. "OK". Solemnly he writes something on his paper.
And this one.
Also books.
This box contains Penguin Classics. The have color pictures on the cover. Again Mr. Lazy gets excited. There his fingers go again! Pictures, pictures, pictures.
Are you looking for something special? Can I help you?
It is my task to check that no heuh...material comes into Uganda that should not be there.
Mr. Lazy did not encounter even one lady, not even dressed, on any of the covers, but I yet clearly see a slight swelling in his pants.
And this box?
Also books.
Leave it, says Mr. Lazy to his underchimps with a deep sigh.
Another five boxes with books follow. They can stay sealed.
Seeing some cheap 12 V spotlights Mr. Lazy makes a small attempt to catch me: where are they on the packing list?
Illumination articles.
Disappointed, Mr. Lazy closes his papers.
Inspection finished.
No, he would not be able to write my clearing papers today, Mr. Lazy says. I can call Maersk tomorrow.

The next day I call Maersk. No, they did not have news from the Customs, they would call me.
But they did not.
The Customs also waited for a  week, as I was explained later, to see whether I would come down to offer some money. In vain. After that week they demanded a "complete itemized specification" of the value of my crates.
Leave that to me! Quickly I import the packing list in Excel. My transporter Combitainer had advised to specify 1900 euro as the total value. The Customs get their percentage from that figure. Combitainer estimated that the 1900 valuation would get my crates cleared smoothly. Since that now clearly was not the case, my Excel sheet in no time adds up to 600 euro value on the Ugandan market, and zero on the European market, where used things like the ones in my crate will not find customers. I add that 600 euro is actually a bit large as a figure, the Customs can keep the crates if it is willing to pay me that money.

Two weeks later - as people told me later, the customs probably tried again to let me come for a bribe - MAERSK CALLED!! The crates were cleared by the Uganda Customs Authority.

In sum, the Uganda Customs Authority tried for more than a month to get some money out of the Muzungu immigrant. Maersk is the biggest clearing agent of Kampala. It has contacts everywhere in the Customs Authority, the government and the influential embassies. How can it be explained that Maersk lets this happen? Was I used as a small coin in exchange of business thought more profitable by Maersk?

The answer to another interesting question requires a longer story. This question is: what is clearing? Here goes the story:
On September 6 I go to Kampala to collect the crates. Maersk shows me a bill, which in euros runs as follows:

After my offer to share the storage cost was rejected I withdrew it. We agreed that I would consult transporter Combitainer Rotterdam whom I paid for the transport and of whom Maersk acts as a subcontractor.

Thus after this day, my crates still stood in the bond between the dirty rice bags in Kampala. To have a chance of avoiding to have to do another detailed inspection to assess theft, missed items and damage, I had put a lot of tape around the crates and had marked it on many places where it met the wood of the crates. But that was against knowing better: the crowd curiously watching the "full detailed inspection" had been big and their had been no care for security at all. Moreover, the customs officers themselves clearly where the primary danger.

I mail Combitainer and claim that my financial clearing with Maersk should strictly be corrected as follows:

That means Maersk should pay me euro 158.15 plus possible theft, missing items and damage, all still to be assessed. Plus 10 euro for every day after September 15 the crates have not been handed over to me.
Combitainer reacts: our general manager has written to Maersk Kampala that they should be more lenient with the bill and we contribute $ 90.
Maersk adduces a new bill without storage cost. These costs were $94.10. Since they get $90 from Combitainer, Maersk wants to contribute $4 and 10 dollar cents to the damage. Cleaning cost are for me because they had resulted from bad packing.

I give up. At eight o'clock in the morning on September 24 in the year of the Lord 2004 I take my motorbike, drive to Kampala to find myself a truck driver and get those crates. Meanwhile I had met Hadj, who was willing to take them on his truck to Jinja for 100 euro.
But I was careful enough not to call Hadj too soon and first to see what would happen at Maersk and Interfreight.
At Maersk, Musingusi disappears in an office with my money and papers. He will be right back. But he isn't. Used to it now and without the slightest irritation I go to the receptionist and say: please call Mr. Musingusi and tell him to come with my change, I have no time left for him.
Enter Musingusi with his fists full of papers and my change.
Well, that was it, I say. We shared a year of our lives. I am going to miss you.
Musingusi thinks I am serious and is moved. He shakes my hand.

I call Hadj and haste myself to Interfreight.
Though I am quite fast with my motorcycle, Hadj is already there when I arrive. He had been near.
I enter the Interfreight premises and I am referred to a gentleman whom I will call three hours later, when we are still there, for myself Mr. Absolutely-The-Last-One.
He asks whether I have this or that paper.
I throw the whole bunch before him, which is too much for his desk. Left and right some papers gently sail to the floor.
Mr. Absolutely-The-Last-One finds what he needs and disappears. He will be right back.
But he isn't.
He turns out to sit and the financial manger's desk.
They are writing a bill for me.
Thank God I printed Maersk's email where they claim their bill cannot be reduced because the have paid the entire bill of Interfreight.
Disappointment.
To my satisfaction Maersk is invoiced for the remaining days in which the Uganda Customs Authority managed to keep my crates hostage.
Then I get the clearance document.
Clearance document? I thought I had it already.
No, this is the clearance document.
Hadj is piloted to the Vietnam rice bond storage.
The custom officer in charge, Mr. Lazy, is in another storage, says Mr. Absolutely-The-Last-One. Formally, I should come back tomorrow. But Mr. Lazy will sacrifice himself and come at three o'clock.
It is twelve.
I exchange glances of understanding with Hadj and his helpers. The rest of that day Hadj and I will keep ourselves going with jokes.
THREE O'CLOCK??? SACRIFICE HIMSELF???
Yes,  Mr. Absolutely-The-Last-One says. You should have announced you were coming.
With your kind there is little to predict Absolutely-The-Last-One, you know that.
And the Customs cleared that stuff one week ago, why was it not removed from the bond as they should?
We had no such orders.
Three o'clock. Three o'clock. That is not four o'clock?
Absolutely not.
Not half past three?
No, really.
Mr. Absolutely-The-Last-One decides to go.
They are not serious, Hadj says, as a result of which I took him for a moment to be a McEnroe fan.
I am going to do some shopping and have a lunch.

A three o'clock at Interfreight nothing has changed.
Mr. Lazy, I was told, would be there in twenty minutes.
I drive 40 in first gear through the dust to the office of Mr. Absolutely-The-Last-One.
He is not there, I say.
He is coming, Mr. Absolutely-The-Last-One says friendly.
After a quarter past three something is going to happen here, I say menacingly.
At a quarter past three I put myself in the middle of the Interfreight premises and shout: if Mr. Lazy is not here within thirty seconds I beat him into the hospital!!
Mr. Lazy is wise enough not to appear but lets himself be represented within thirty seconds by a carrier with a key.

AND THEN THE BOND STORE DOORS WERE OPENED!

My crates stand two meters from the door. on these two meters pallets highly piled up with broken bags of rice are now put. I climb over them. My seals seem intact, but rat droppings all over and the triplex is chewed of by the rats.
We have a discussion about how to clear the way for loading my crates. There is a fork lifter but in an unfortunate act of a crane driver it got stuck between two high piles of containers.
So the bags are removed one by one, on the shoulders of carriers. The rat holes up as much as possible, otherwise the rice grains stream out. Bags with rat holes at both sides are carried with additional men left and right, holding their hands on the lower holes to stop the flow of rice on the ground. Those rats eat fair amounts of raw rice. In Japan that is a recognized method to commit suicide. Once eaten, the grain extends by absorbing water, your stomach bursts and your blood vessels empty themselves in a few seconds in your belly. The carpet remains clean. But those rats will know how to keep measure. Though rat corpses abound.
Inconspicuously, Mr. Lazy approaches.
That speed! I shout. Uganda should send you to the Olympic games next time. It would finally earn a medal! But you can go, we don't need you anymore.
No, Mr. Absolutely-The-Last-One says, he has to make your clearance document.
Clearance document? I thought I had it already.
No, Mr. Absolutely-The-Last-One says, he is making the clearance document.
Absolutely the last one?
Absolutely the last one, says Mr. Absolutely-The-Last-One.
Has he this or that form, Mr. Lazy asks about me to Mr. Absolutely-The-Last-One.
I give Mr. Absolutely-The-Last-One the whole bunch of papers again.
Mr. Lazy signs the clearance document and Mr. Absolutely-The-Last-One takes this to his office. He will be right back.
But he isn't.
I go and find him.
Mr. Absolutely-The-Last-One sits with his boss.
The boss signs something.
What is that?
The clearance document.
Absolutely the last one?
Absolutely the last one, says Mr. Absolutely-The-Last-One.

In the meantime my dear Hadj had found elsewhere I guy with a fork lifter and had taken him to the bond.
The crates go on Hadj's truck, with my motorcycle. I enter the truck cabin with Hadj and the driver. Another helper stays on the truck. I give him my wind jack. Happiness is in a small corner with a 70 km trip ahead.
Hadj and I do the high five, I contribute a bottle of mineral water to the party and we drive to the exit.

STOP! do you have this or that paper?
Yes, sure! I even knew what the exit guards needed and produce it.
The guard disappears in his office. He'll be right back.
But he isn't.
I go inside.
The counter document is lacking.
In rage I turn around to sprint to Mr. Absolutely-The-Last-One's office. But he is coming out before I reach him.
Make it for him, he says to a girl. The girl strolls to an office.
We are waiting.
We are waiting.
Then, she comes with a paper.
What is this?
The clearance document.
O, yes, we did not have that yet.
Hadj en I shake hands.
We drive!
But just before the main road is a small office.
Whether I have this or that paper.
With some effort, I manage to push the entire bunch out of the window.
The man disappears in his office and stays there.
I enter.
Now I have to register the number plate of the car, the name and date of birth of the driver, and some other things of that nature.
The man signs en puts some stamps.
He returns my paper bunch with a new rose colored paper on top.
The clearance document?
Yes Sir.
Thank you.

Photo right to left: Hadj, author, porter

In Jinja I break open the crates. A rat flies to Kiira Road. Dried and half dried dead rats stick to the pallets everywhere. We unload at sunset. I absolutely want on a picture with Hadj, the man who helped me through. You were my only friends today, I say. The rest are thugs. I give Hadj out of my crates a walking stick with a long knife inside. He can also take the wood of the crates.

The Uganda Customs Authorities turned out to have stolen, apparently even before I saw my opened crates for the first time, but I realized it only at home, one quite elegant European suit. That is, given the circumstances, a very good result.

In my room, I make a picture impression of the documents before I throw them away.

 
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