Red Tape

A local friend, we will call him Lucas, offered to come with me on my latest round of visits in my quest for a work permit. He is a successful businessman judging by his big new car and he thought he might have a few useful contacts in the various government offices. On the appointed day, as I climbed into the car, he said something had cropped up in one of his properties and would I mind if we called in there first. The place was only a few streets away from the Immigration Office. It was a small rice-milling plant and it was clear there was "trouble up at t'mill"; a confused crowd of workers outside supervised by two policemen, as usual a fat old one and a slimmer young one. The problem turned out to be a surprise visit from the Health and Safety people who had made an inspection and closed the place down on the spot. Lucas spoke briefly to the policemen and we got back in the car. We drove round the corner to one of the covered market buildings where the H and S offices were upstairs. Some of the local government offices here are positively palatial but this one wasn't. It was a small room tucked in under the roof, with bare dirty walls, not even the usual framed photo of President Kikwete. There were two wooden tables Nos DMC/SKM/OD-T3/0033 and DMC/SKM/OD-T3/0034 and two tall metal lockers Nos DMC/SKM/IR-CU-7/0029 and DMC/SKM/IR-CU-7/0030. Every chair, table, cupboard, everything, is numbered in Tanzania, the figures neatly painted in white. I've just stood up and checked the chair I'm sitting on; it's No. N/N/CH/0053. Anyway, the only other things in that room were two large bowls of mangoes (not numbered) on the floor. A smartly dressed woman sat behind table 33 and the two policemen and a tough-looking guy in jeans and T-shirt sat behind 34. Lucas and I were told to sit on a low bench (?.....B1/01?)
"Linguistically challenged" Elaine could only pick out a couple of words of the prodeedings - one of them "choo" which is toilet. Lucas told me later that was apparently blocked, plus the workers weren't wearing masks or protective clothes. He says they find them unbearably hot and I can believe it. The lady produced a letter and she, the tough guy and the fat policeman kept pointing at various details so it was obvious that the shortcomings from a previous visit had not been addressed. There were stern words and a lot of finger stabbing on tables 33 and 34. Lucas, who is usually quite assertive, sat quietly, giving a few meek answers. Except when his phone went off in which case he ignored them while he answered the call. As did everyone else present. The thinner policemen was occupied with his mobile throughout, sometimes interrupting to borrow his colleague's phone as well. Various people came and went, newcomers blythely greeting everyone individually with requests for news of children, home etc. They just raised their voices above the admonishments of the current speaker then sat down and took their turn to have a go at Lucas. But every so often, in the middle of all the tough talk, everyone, including Lucas, burst out laughing for a while, then got back down to the telling off. After about an hour the fat policeman got out a big ledger and entered some details. Then Lucas and I were free to go, but accompagnied by the tough guy.We drove to the Immigration Office, spoke to an official with our minder hovering behind us. Then we were sent to the Regional Administration Office - ditto. There they palmed us off with the usual promise to ring tomorrow. I jumped into a dalla-dalla to go to school. Lucas drove off in the car with tough guy and I haven't seen him since.
No pictures this week. Photography is not allowed in and around government buildings. And I was even warned not to take pictures in the market without a permit. The local people themselves are also not keen to be photographed. You have to be discreet or negociate a deal, which is really not my thing; that's why I'm not a business woman, and will probably never get my work permit.