Local Tax
There was a rope across the road. It was actually a few black ropes tied together, with small paper tags hanging from it in random places. There were people clustered around the sides of the rope, and two or three police officers in tan-colored uniforms.
“Hm. Local tax,” I observed, as Katie and I walked towards the rope. It was across the intersection of the Kainkordu and Post Office roads, the main intersection in Koidu Town.
Local tax is relatively new in Sierra Leone. It’s a flat tax of 5000 Le (~1.50 USD) that all residents of Sierra Leone must pay. When you pay, you get a receipt that looks about as official as a receipt from a garage sale, and in order to pass the checkpoints that are (as best I can tell) randomly scattered in time and space throughout Sierra Leone, you need to present your receipt.
It wasn’t our first encounter with the local tax. We’d passed through this same checkpoint the day before, and been allowed to pass without too much trouble.
“Tax, taxtaxtaxtax!” A bunch of men gathered around the edge of the rope looked at us with interest and each started calling out the word tax repeatedly in fast succession. None of them were in a uniform of any kind. However, as we approached and ignored them, the crowd thinned down to one man, who apparently was the man in charge of this rope.
“Hello sir. Local tax!” He said. He was not wearing a uniform either.
“We no faut pay. We no local.” Katie explained.
“No, everyone pay. Local tax, taxtax!”
“No, we no faut pay, we no de reside na Sierra Leone,” Katie continued.
“No, pay, pay local tax. Everyone must pay.” He shook his head definitively. I decided to use a Krio-style debate tactic – raise the volume.
“We no de pay becos we no local. A de reside na Canada, e’ de reside na America, we no de pay. We no de live ya.” Ya means here.
“But you are here right now!”
“Yes, but we nota from ya.”
“But you are not leaving today,”
“That doesn’t matter. We are not residents of Sierra Leone.” I switched to English, because he was using English, and because it’s more intimidating.
“Everyone must pay.”
After our first run-in with local tax the day before, we had talked to Bailor. He had said, “Those guys! They make us look stupid. They don’t know the rules, they don’t know that you pay visas for enter the country, they look like they have no idea what they are doing. I wish I could have talked to them.” We wished that too. It’s really fun to watch Bailor yell at someone who is being ignorant or corrupt.
I remembered something Amhidu told me about officials in Sierra Leone.
“I want to talk to your boss. Take me to your boss.”
“No, I am my own boss, you talk to me.”
“No, let me talk to your boss.” He shook his head. “Do you want to talk to my boss?”
“Yes! Phone him!”
Well, I didn’t actually want to wait for Bailor. We were walking to the clinic.
“Let me talk to your boss or we will leave.”
“Then I will arrest you.” Katie jumped in with an interesting fact from Allan.
“It’s illegal to arrest Americans in Sierra Leone!” It’s nice to be invincible. Unfortunately the man didn’t respond. He also stopped looking at us, so we decided to go. We stepped over the ratty rope and into the intersection, Katie leading the way.
“Arrest them!” The man yelled. I looked back at him, curious. There was a female police officer beside him. She immediately dropped her gaze to the ground, tiptoed around me, and tugged on Katie’s shirt with two fingers. The most feeble arrest attempt ever.
Another male police officer came striding over, and he seemed more in charge. By now we were in the middle of the intersection. He looked at me, and I started explaining.
“We do not need to pay local tax because we are not local. We do not reside in Sierra Leone.”
The police officer didn’t say much, but he also didn’t have the chance, because suddenly we were in the middle of a huge crowd of people, all shouting in Krio. The police officer started listening to another man, and nobody seemed to be paying us any attention. Katie and I exchanged an amused and puzzled glance. An official had commanded our arrest, and instead we were standing in the middle of a huge crowd of people yelling in Krio, none of whom were actually talking to us.
The din subsided for a moment, and an older man stepped towards us. “Please, I know these people,” he said to the police officer. We didn’t know the man. “They work in the clinic in Dorma, they are very good people, here to help, this is all a misunderstanding.” His tone was placating and sycophantic, and kind of annoyed me. It sounded like he wanted to smooth things over because we were special, not because the rules said we were right. He turned to us, “So, you must have some identification, some papers...?”
Well, we had only our National Organization for Welbody ID cards, and I didn’t think Katie had that. Furthermore, that was not how I wanted to work this out, nor did it seem that Katie wanted to settle for ‘special treatment.’
“Thank you sir, I appreciate your help, but we don’t pay local tax because we are not local, not because we are special. Tenki.”
The crowd dissolved back into a cacophony of Krio.
I pulled on the policeman’s shoulder, and Katie said, “Don’t do that!” which was good advice. But I wanted to tell him that we pay about fifty times the local tax for our visas to enter the country.
In a moment, it didn’t matter. The roar of Krio didn’t recede one bit, but the policeman turned to us and nodded that we could go. So we left. The crowd stayed put, yelling and arguing in Krio. Katie and I were bouncing with adrenaline.
“One man said ‘White or black, all must pay!’” Katie told me. That’s frustrating on a couple of levels. On the other hand, it’s nice to be invincible.
Two minutes later we passed Christopher, a Sierra Leonean friend from conducting the surveys. He called out to us “Hey! Christopher, Katie! I hear you have some trouble with the tax collectors,”
We stopped and smiled. “Wow, news travels fast,” said Katie. In the distance we could still hear the dull roar of the crowd yelling in Krio.
Friday, August 7, 2009
Pharmacy
“This, three times per day. You de take’em 8 o’clock, 2 o’clock, 8 o’clock, okay?”
Bailor waved his arms, bounced his head, and generally spoke with his entire body. The gaunt old man in front of him nodded. Bailor looked around and grabbed another small plastic bag full of white and yellow pills.
“Okay. This one, this white one and yellow one. You de take’em two-two, two tem per day. You de take ‘em 8 o’clock, 8 o’clock, okay? One white, and one yellow, four tablet per day.”
“Yessir,” The old man was wearing a white brimless hat, like many Muslims in the area do.
I was counting pills with a spoon. Bailor had asked me to count out thirty pills of ferrous sulphate, multivitamin, folic acid, and something else that I’ve forgotten. The way we do it is by emptying out a bunch of pills onto a piece of paper or cardboard. Then we separate out thirty pills into easily countable piles, say, six piles of five, then we sweep the rest back into the bag. The paper gets scooped up carefully and then gently creased to guide the pills into the small plastic bag.
Bailor held up a packet of oral rehydration salts for the same man.
“Okay, now this one, you faut us clean water. You de get satchet water, you de use’em, and wey you no de get satchet water, you boil water, boil insigh pot and den you drink ‘e.”
I was sitting in the lone chair in the pharmacy, pulled up to a small counter. The walls are covered in shelves, and the counter is just an extension of these shelves. All around the counter were small containers of the most commonly prescribed medications – praziquantel for schistosomiasis, doxycycline for malaria and other infections, various analgesics, generic Tylenol, anti-hypertension drugs like nifodipine, multivitamins, and many other small unmarked pill bottles. A bit higher on the shelf, in front and back to the left, were the packages and boxes of medication. I could see the box of quinine that Bori had broken open to help Samba (earlier post).
“Okay Pa, so how many tem per day you de take dis one?” Bailor held up the yellow and white pills.
The old man narrowed his eyes, opened his mouth, shut his mouth, widened his eyes, and shook his head.
“Two-two, two tem per day. One white, one yellow. Okay?” Bailor looked at the younger man accompanying the patient, “You de understand? You de help ‘em?” The younger man nodded. He was also wearing an elegant brimless hat above a matching colorful shirt and pants.
The back of the pharmacy had a small window, but it was tinted so that the whole room was slightly shadowed, even at 2 in the afternoon. The shadows didn’t hide the boxes in which the medicines came, however. They were apple boxes – ‘Mountain grown from Virgina,’ ‘Golden Delicious’ with an unmistakably cracked Liberty Bell just below. There were also tomato boxes – ‘Sunripe Bell Roma Tomatoes.’
Above the stacked fruit and tomato boxes were the plastic bottles of glucose maintenance and saline solution. They looked like water bottles, maybe water bottles from a trendy new company called ‘D5.’
Bailor bent over pulled the next file from the pile of folders. “Okay, now we need,” he paused and grabbed a rectangle of individually wrapped pills, “we need fifteen of these, cut in half.” He handed me nail scissors, then scribbled on a small plastic bag and pushed it towards me.
I counted out fifteen pills and started cutting them in half, wondering whether it was worth trying to save the dust that fell to the paper after every cut.
Bailor waved his arms, bounced his head, and generally spoke with his entire body. The gaunt old man in front of him nodded. Bailor looked around and grabbed another small plastic bag full of white and yellow pills.
“Okay. This one, this white one and yellow one. You de take’em two-two, two tem per day. You de take ‘em 8 o’clock, 8 o’clock, okay? One white, and one yellow, four tablet per day.”
“Yessir,” The old man was wearing a white brimless hat, like many Muslims in the area do.
I was counting pills with a spoon. Bailor had asked me to count out thirty pills of ferrous sulphate, multivitamin, folic acid, and something else that I’ve forgotten. The way we do it is by emptying out a bunch of pills onto a piece of paper or cardboard. Then we separate out thirty pills into easily countable piles, say, six piles of five, then we sweep the rest back into the bag. The paper gets scooped up carefully and then gently creased to guide the pills into the small plastic bag.
Bailor held up a packet of oral rehydration salts for the same man.
“Okay, now this one, you faut us clean water. You de get satchet water, you de use’em, and wey you no de get satchet water, you boil water, boil insigh pot and den you drink ‘e.”
I was sitting in the lone chair in the pharmacy, pulled up to a small counter. The walls are covered in shelves, and the counter is just an extension of these shelves. All around the counter were small containers of the most commonly prescribed medications – praziquantel for schistosomiasis, doxycycline for malaria and other infections, various analgesics, generic Tylenol, anti-hypertension drugs like nifodipine, multivitamins, and many other small unmarked pill bottles. A bit higher on the shelf, in front and back to the left, were the packages and boxes of medication. I could see the box of quinine that Bori had broken open to help Samba (earlier post).
“Okay Pa, so how many tem per day you de take dis one?” Bailor held up the yellow and white pills.
The old man narrowed his eyes, opened his mouth, shut his mouth, widened his eyes, and shook his head.
“Two-two, two tem per day. One white, one yellow. Okay?” Bailor looked at the younger man accompanying the patient, “You de understand? You de help ‘em?” The younger man nodded. He was also wearing an elegant brimless hat above a matching colorful shirt and pants.
The back of the pharmacy had a small window, but it was tinted so that the whole room was slightly shadowed, even at 2 in the afternoon. The shadows didn’t hide the boxes in which the medicines came, however. They were apple boxes – ‘Mountain grown from Virgina,’ ‘Golden Delicious’ with an unmistakably cracked Liberty Bell just below. There were also tomato boxes – ‘Sunripe Bell Roma Tomatoes.’
Above the stacked fruit and tomato boxes were the plastic bottles of glucose maintenance and saline solution. They looked like water bottles, maybe water bottles from a trendy new company called ‘D5.’
Bailor bent over pulled the next file from the pile of folders. “Okay, now we need,” he paused and grabbed a rectangle of individually wrapped pills, “we need fifteen of these, cut in half.” He handed me nail scissors, then scribbled on a small plastic bag and pushed it towards me.
I counted out fifteen pills and started cutting them in half, wondering whether it was worth trying to save the dust that fell to the paper after every cut.
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