Waking up somewhat rested, in one piece, felt pretty wonderful. Before we fell asleep last night, Andrew was nervous that my headache was a concussion. I assured him it was just a result of an empty stomach and the stress from the bus crash. Fortunately he forgot about it and I woke up just fine (aside from the bruised arms and legs) in the morning. His leg looked like it was already on the mend, and we decided we may as well head to the post office to mail our Masai shukas home before we continued over the border and down into Mozambique.
We caught a dala dala into Mtwara and walked to the post office. They gave us a box and after we had packed it, they instructed us to go to customs. Sweet.
“Where is customs?” we asked the clerks. They pointed towards the back door. We walked outside and asked the guard where customs was. He pointed towards the next door.
If only it was going to be that easy.
We walked into what appeared to be some kind of customer service office for a phone company. With our box of Masai shukas in hand, we asked for customs. Fortunately, one man seemed to figure out what we were looking for. He walked us back out of the office, back through the post office and out the front door, then he pointed down the road and gave us instructions to drive down the street.
“No car.” We told him. He looked confused, but carried on with instructions to turn right and customs would be on our left. We started walking, with our (slightly bigger than a computer paper) box down the dirt road. We dodged semi-trailers that were stuck in mud in the middle of the road. We maneuvered through the drivers that were trying to figure out a way to dig their loads out.
Finally, around 4:30, we walked into the customs office. The clerk asked us to unpack our box while he checked the list of what we had written down on the customs form. He told us to pack it back up while he grabbed a stamp and then asked where our tape was.
“Tape? What tape?” Andrew asked, befuddled.
“May we use your tape?” I asked. It was an office. A customs office. Surely, one equipped with tape.
“Tape? I don’t have tape. Where is YOUR tape?” He asked. Andrew and I gaped at each other. We had just walked over a mile on a dirt road in the middle of this tiny town in Tanzania with only fifteen minutes to get back to the post office to mail our shukas home.
“You don’t have ANY tape?” Andrew asked.
“It’s ok. Andrew, your emergency kit. The duct tape. We have tape.” I said, while Andrew pulled out the emergency roll with about a foot of duct tape left on it. I slapped it on the box and the customs officer stamped every corner of the box. The box was practically falling apart, but we got our stamps and then ran out the door hoping to flag a tuk-tuk down to drive us back to the post office.
Fortunately, it was still open, and it sold rolls of packing tape. Unfortunately, Tanzania does not offer surface mail and it’s airmail is EXPENSIVE. More than $100.00 expensive. We shook our heads “No” and took our box of shukas down to the EMS counter and got a better deal. Although still expensive, we figured it was better than lugging it across the border and through Mozambique with us.
“You know what, chances are, we get home and give these shukas out to our friends or family or whoever, and they’re going to be like… Great… a tablecloth from Tanzania… and we’re going to feel like idiots for going to so much trouble to get them, mail them home, and give them to our loved ones who are going to care less about them.” I ranted, supremely jealous of others we’ve met traveling who made the executive decision at the beginning of their trip not to get any gifts for friends and family back home.
“From now on, it has to fit in our pocket… if we get anything for anyone else.” Andrew declared. I agreed, after all, he did say “if we get anything for anyone else,” that excludes me, right? Right.
