The moral of the storyThis past Wednesday I picked up a package from the airport that my parents had sent me. It was full of fabulous goodies, plus a bottle of the moisturizer I’d run out of. Goodies included:
- Three precious precious magazines (a product category that retails in Uganda for about 4 to 6 times its’ Canadian cover price, and which prompts, in women expats, expressions of delight of the type normally uttered by young men about Playstations or very large televisions..)
- Six packages of Crystal Light (Because I try not to drink juice or ‘regular’ soda, I get very very tired of drinking plain water all the time, since the Ugandan procurement of diet beverages is both haphazard and pricey. I know – chemicals shmemicals. Tell it to somebody else.)
- Four sets of DVDs – a season or two each of Seinfeld, The Sopranos, Six Feet Under, and Arrested Development (a show I’d only seen one episode of when I was visiting home last fall, and which I’ve decided will be my ‘comedy category’ favourite show, along with Six Feet Under in the ‘drama’ category.) I’m trying to pace myself with watching them, to pretend I’m watching an actual television that only shows episodes once a week, rather than acknowledging the reality that I’m watching discs on my laptop. I haven’t been very successful in this endeavour yet.
Picking up the package was a bit of a hassle. DHL, the courier company that handles Purolator business in Uganda, screwed up and notified my employer’s procurement guy about the package’s arrival in Uganda, instead of phoning me directly. As a result, the procurement guy just handed me a fax saying I owed $150 in duties, and then walked away without providing me with any further instruction. So, after an afternoon at the cargo wing of the airport, getting special security clearances for three different areas of the airport, meeting with about a bazillion different people, and implying that I might pay ‘commissions’ (a.k.a. ‘bribes’) but without actually doing so, I was finally given my package about five minutes before the cargo section of the airport closed at five p.m.
And what is the big lesson to be learned from all of this (aside, of course, from the lesson that ‘my parents send good gifts’)? The lesson is this: I am always the right age (age 12) to have a crush on Jason Bateman (age 28).