Red tape and miscommunications

Here’s a story of how I have tried (and so far failed) to get a box of my belongings through the Freetown customs.

(Next week I promise I’m going to experiment with ‘micro-blogging’. I’m aware that this is another ridiculously long blog entry.)

June 16 - London

It’s the last Wednesday before I leave the UK for Freetown. My Mum and I have just spent a strange hour in a railway-arched Bermondsey industrial estate, at the offices of Robert Clare. A shipping company that we have been reliably informed is the best with regular routes between London and Freetown.

Just as we are leaving the office, Clare (presumably the Clare, of Robert Clare) hands me her business card. On the front are her details and the office addresses for both Freetown and London. On the back she has written in Biro the name ‘Mabel’ and a mobile number.
“When you get to Freetown just pop into the office and ask for Mabel. Tell her that Clare sent you.”
“Thank you!” I say, gratefully receiving my first concrete contact in Sierra Leone.
“Freetown’s amazing.” Claire beams. “You’ll have a great time.” And then slightly ominously she adds. “If you have any problems, any problems at all, and not just with the shipping, find the office and we’ll help you.”
“Great – thank you” I repeat, unsure whether I’m feeling comforted or just slightly more alarmed.

June 28 - Freetown

And so, on my second week in Freetown, I reported as instructed to the Robert Clare office in the comfortingly familiar Wellington Street. Walking up a dark flight of steep stairs I emerged into a bright and airy room which was officially the main administration office for the shipping company. I say officially, because at that moment in time it seemed to have been turned into a clothes shop. A crowd of people were gathered around a street seller who had decided to bring his wears off the street and try his luck in the rich looking offices. (This turns out to not be all that unusual. Sierra Leoneans do not have the same attitude to private space and office security as we have in the UK. This means that in most buildings it is hard to distinguish between those who work there, those who just sort of hang out there, and those who are trying to sell things to the people who work and/or just hang out. Indeed rather surprisingly we have found that one of the best places to buy chicken is inside the Ministry of Health and Sanitation!)

Walking further into the room I spot someone sitting behind a desk and guess that she is the most likely person to actually work here.
“Hello” I say rather too cheerily. “Is it possible to talk to Mabel?”
“She’s very busy.”
“Oh – no problem. Is there someone else I could talk to? I’ve got a box of stuff coming over on a ship. Clare in London told me to come to this office when I arrived in Freetown.” I say holding up the business card just in case proof is needed.
“You need to talk to Mabel – I’ll go and see if she’s busy.” This is slightly confusing – but none the less seems like encouraging progress.

Mabel is a large woman who seems to fit well behind an imposing desk. She looks annoyed to have been disturbed.
“Clare told me to come and see you.” I repeat. “Clare from the Bermondsey Office.” I offer dumbly after an uncomfortable pause, just in case Mabel has forgotten her business partner.
“The ship doesn’t dock until July 16. But you need to get a TIN number before that, so we can clear it through customs.”
“Oh – Ok…” That makes sense, except. “What’s a TIN number?”
“Tax Identification Number. Go to the NRA office and ask for a TIN number then bring the number to us.”
“Ok" they didn’t say anything about needing a TIN number in London but apparently it’s a new rule. Mabel wrote an address and some instructions on a piece of paper and then handed it to me.

Back on the street I noticed that the NRA office wasn’t that far away – but then it started to rain. – July 16 was ages away, deciding there’s plenty of time I head back to my office in the opposite direction to the NRA building. This, predictably, was a mistake.

July 13

I entered the NRA office cursing myself for leaving it so late.
I waited for a counter to become free and then explained what I was after.
“You need to fill out this form and give me a photocopy of your passport.” The lady behind the counter explained. This wasn’t going to be a problem – I had a photocopy with me, and I could fill out a form. Correction – I could fill out most forms – this one? Not so much. The form in question had been written for a country that was far more organised then Sierra Leone. In most countries being asked to write down your address would not be such a stumbling block – but in Sierra Leone it was a real poser. We have never been told our address, and bizarley before this form, it had never occurred to me to ask for one. Our house has no number, and is on a road with no name.

I glanced nervously at the NRA lady and then wrote. ‘VSO House, Cockle Bay area, Freetown.’ Several impossible questions and insufficient answers later, I pushed the form back over the counter.
“That’s all I can fill in.” I said apologetically. The NRA lady scanned the form, politely ignoring all the empty spaces.
“It’ll do.” She said to my great relief. “Come back in two days and you can get your number.” Two days! The ship is docking in four, as long as nothing goes wrong, two days should be fine.

July 15

I walk back into the NRA office, wait for an empty counter and step up. It’s the same lady again.
“I’ll go and see if your number is ready. Do you have your Resident’s Visa?”
“Um…no.”
“Well you can’t get a TIN number without a Resident’s Visa”
“Well you didn’t say that on Tuesday.”
“I thought you knew.” – Brilliant.
“I didn’t know.”
“Do you have a Resident’s Visa yet?”
I go outside and phone VSO to ask if I have a Resident’s Visa yet. The answer is no – not yet – it’s with the Immigration Office. Brilliant. I go back inside and explain this.
“You can’t get a TIN number without a Resident’s Visa.” The NRA lady repeats unhelpfully.
“You should have told me that on Tuesday.” I repeat even more unhelpfully.
“I thought you knew.” This conversation is going nowhere. I’m late for a meeting. I leave the NRA office empty handed.
A few hours later VSO ring. I can get my Resident’s Visa tomorrow.

July 16

I walk into the NRA office clutching my shiny new Resident’s Visa. I wait for a counter to become free and step up. Once again, it’s the same lady. There are lots of people in the office, but she seems to be the only one who actually works here.
“I’ve got my Visa.” I say, and triumphantly hand it over. She takes it, turns it over, opens it up, and hands it back.
“You need a photocopy of it.”
“You didn’t say that yesterday.” She looks like she’s just about to say that she thought I knew, so I quickly cut her off. “Can you take a photocopy here?”
“No. We don’t have a photocopier.” I glance to the corner of the office where there is a stack on aging office equipment still in boxes, waiting to be unpacked, and collecting dust. Amongst the boxed computers and printers, there’s definitely a large box with a picture of a photocopier on the side. They do have a photocopier – they just haven’t opened it yet. I look back at the NRA lady. She shrugs.
“Up the street, turn right, second shop on the left. There’s a photocopier there.” Brilliant.

Five minutes later I return with the photocopies. (I took two sets of both sides to cover all eventualities). I hand them back across the counter and the NRA lady walks into the back office. A few minutes later she returns carrying a torn-off-corner of scrap paper. Written on the paper is the word “Burley” alongside a series of numbers and dashes. She hands me the scrap of paper.
“That’s it?” I ask incredulously.
“That’s it.” She confirms.
“Thank you for all your help”. I say, trying not to sound too sarcastic but failing miserably.

I take the scrap of paper up the steep stairs of the Robert Clare office, praying I’m not too late. I hand it to the lady behind the Robert Clare desk, praying that it really is a TIN number. She copies it down in a ledger and hands it back.
“Am I in time? It’s not too late?” I ask.
“No” she smiles kindly. “The ship’s not due to dock until next Tuesday.”