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i came across an excerpt in a great book (thank you to ann barry!) that sums up everything about a subject to which i don’t feel like i’ve given proper justice. although the scene is somewhat different – blown tire in the african bush versus the uganda revenue authority in kampala – the gist is the same. rather than reinvent the wheel and attempt to be as eloquent, i thought it’d be easier just to excerpt it here. so, this is the story when interacting with any kind of service provider in Uganda…

driving out of the lodge through thorn bushes, i get my third puncture of the week. this is always a misery. first you go to the guy who repairs punctures. instead of being on the job at the lodge’s gas station, he is back in the staff quarters somewhere, sleeping. head back there, go through the same interchange with the twenty different people you run into, namely first exchanging news with each about the health of their parents and my then reiterating that, no, actually i can’t give you my hiking shoes, as i need them. tire repair guy is located, and after ninety minutes of easily distracted labor, he has fixed the puncture. he gives me a stub, which i take to the cashier at the other end of the lodge, who fills out a note saying “1 puncture, 40 shillings,” which the other man signs, which allows me to pay the cashier - all a procedure to keep the mechanic from repairing things under the table and pocketing the money. the cashier goes on a search for scrap paper to calculate that i get 10 shillings back from my 50 shilling note, and i’m ready for the next step: taking the tire to the other end of camp, to find the man who operates the air hose. he, naturally, is drunk in the bar at 11:00am and, with some effort, explains that he would be happy to fill the tire, but his brother has the key to the shed in which the hose is kept, and he is on leave this week. bad luck. i express profound regret at the apparent need for me to now live in the lodge’s gas station for the next week, and the man, seeing his cue, says maybe, just maybe, he could find another key, buy why don’t i sell him my watch at the good american price? we settle for his receiving a button that says “Hollywood Bowl,” and, satisfied, he turns his prodigious energies toward filling my tire, completing the task in a mere half hour. the man with the pressure gauge to determine whether the tire is filled properly is found easily, and quickly does the job, making me feel as if there might be some hope. the tire is underfilled, however. fed up, i decide to go with that, rather than track down Bwana Airhose again, he no doubt back at the bar trying to flog his Hollywood Bowl button for a drink.

-in A Primate’s Memoir by Robert M. Sapolsky 101paige 101africa