The Steampunk World
I received a notice in the mail at Konongo- I had a package waiting for me in Kumasi. Origin OH meant it was my parents. The next day I walked to the place where the trotros stop and rode one back to Konongo, where I could listen for the guy yelling, "Kumasikumasikumasiiiii!!!!". I followed the sound to find the barker- not the driver- for my ride: An old diesel Mercedes that had been chopped into a ratty-ass limo. How strange that a limo's passenger capacity makes it too valuable to reserve for the rich! I took a picture for my friend Foamy, who surely has some old friends who are into the DIY limosuine.
Then from Kumasi station I took another cab to the post office. The parcel department was a 100-foot counter backed by a series of chain-link-walled storage room packed with packages. I saw a guy struggling to lift a sloppy package from aburochile, wrapped in paper then cardboard, bulging from the corners, fastened with tape and string with a scrawled address and a pox of teeny stamps all over. He hugged it and leaned back but it slipped through his arms like a sleeping cat.
The uniformed clerks were all busy writing in ledgers. I'd swear I was in Gilliam's Brazil. I stood at the counter until one looked my way so I handed him my notice and he said to sign it here and put my passport number here. Then I sat down again, and waited. Eventually a guy without a uniform came out and went to Clerk 1 and then called my name, so I hopped up and he asked my why my notice was so tattered. I said that I'd put it in my pocket and Ghana is very hot and I'm sorry and he grumbled his way back into one of the chain-rooms and came back with my package while I sat. Then Clerk 3 comes out of nowhere and asks me to put my passport number in another place on my notice. I did so and sat. After a while Clerk 4 called me up and started filling out my Landing Ledger, one of those flimsy notebooks that you write essay exams in. He copied the info from my notice book and wrote a bunch of other lines. He asked me to open the package.
Sitting on the counter was a huge Rambo survival knife. Packing tape was wrapped around its camo handle, affixing it to the string that attached it to the counter like a pen at the bank. It was for customers to open packages. I almost laughed out loud, given the sore spot the USPS has when it comes to weapons in the workplace. I performed a bit of cardboard disembowling and opened the box to find a pair of socks and a bag of Skittles. There could have been heroin, gold, American currency, white babies, depleted uranium, and bootleg CDs under those socks but they screamed 'care package from mom' and he didn't look any further. Then we engaged in one of those conversations where what you are talking about is not really what you are talking about:
"What brings you to Ghana?"
"I have brought bicycles to sell" (token brushoff response)
"Oh, so you are very rich!"
"No, no, it is like a mission" (key word) "a charity, to help the farmers."
"We will say it is sweets, and you will pay a little bit, is this fine?"
I said yes and he weighed the box and wrote 'sweets 3 kg' in the Landing Ledger. He told me to take it to The Boss at the end of the counter.
The Boss was an old burley guy who looked like James Earl Jones and was fortressed by a ledger bigger than St. Peter's. I noticed that it said "17 Column Ledger" where mine said "Landing Ledger". He was writing in it furiously with a red pen. I set my Landing Ledger in front of him and he reached out and tagged it and kept writing so fast and fluid, it could have been between an i and the dot. Like a frog eats a fly. I turned my book around and beside "Sweets 3kg" was written, in red pen, "$1/kg". I took it back to Clerk 4 and he wrote in my Ledger some more. He said, "Your fee is 18,500 cedis, you will pay me" but I almost didn't hear him because while he was writing I'd started to admire the cashier's old-timey cash register at the opposite end of the counter from The Boss. I gave Clerk 4 four fives and he said to take my ledger back to The Boss.
When I arrived The Boss was writing in a woman's ledger- a different kind, a bigger one than mine but not the kind you could survive a shipwreck on, like his- with a black pen. When he was done he looked at my ledger and went to write in the big one but oh- had to switch back to the red pen. He wrote Johnny Payphone and some other information and I snickered at the thought of Johnny Payphone burning in hell while I, the real me, crash heaven like some pole-vaulting Pharisee. Then I sat with my parcel.
While I was waiting I dug through my goodies. I love what my mom had written on the U.S. customs declaration: "Candy - Toys - Socks". That's mostly what it was, but my heart leapt when I discovered swimming among the Altoids some fast-food condiment packets. Now, my wish list hadn't arrived when this package was sent. My mother claims to be psychic and as a rule I don't believe in the supernatural but there before me were plastic-clad droplets of flavoring-and-nitrite ambrosia. Sweet, precious American condiments! Oh glory of glories, life could not possibly get any better- what's this? A glimmer of orange and black hiding under moist towelettes? Could it be- it is- Taco Bell Hot Sauce! If ever I knew in my heart that my dear sweet mother loves me, if ever she has given me something as precious life from her very womb, if ever I wanted to get a MOM tattoo, it was that moment sweating in an African post office when I received from her a packet of Taco Bell Hot Sauce.
In Ghana, I am a very rich man. I will give to you gold and bauxite. I will bring you rainforest hardwood. I will give you ivory. All this and more I can buy for you if you will give me a packet of Fancy Ketchup from Hardee's.
Clerk 4 called me up again and gave me a receipt. I didn't get any change.
---
Don't send me any packages! They are taking about a month and a half to arrive and they now run the risk of missing me entirely. Plus, the cost of shipping is too high. Letters come pretty fast, send those.
Then from Kumasi station I took another cab to the post office. The parcel department was a 100-foot counter backed by a series of chain-link-walled storage room packed with packages. I saw a guy struggling to lift a sloppy package from aburochile, wrapped in paper then cardboard, bulging from the corners, fastened with tape and string with a scrawled address and a pox of teeny stamps all over. He hugged it and leaned back but it slipped through his arms like a sleeping cat.
The uniformed clerks were all busy writing in ledgers. I'd swear I was in Gilliam's Brazil. I stood at the counter until one looked my way so I handed him my notice and he said to sign it here and put my passport number here. Then I sat down again, and waited. Eventually a guy without a uniform came out and went to Clerk 1 and then called my name, so I hopped up and he asked my why my notice was so tattered. I said that I'd put it in my pocket and Ghana is very hot and I'm sorry and he grumbled his way back into one of the chain-rooms and came back with my package while I sat. Then Clerk 3 comes out of nowhere and asks me to put my passport number in another place on my notice. I did so and sat. After a while Clerk 4 called me up and started filling out my Landing Ledger, one of those flimsy notebooks that you write essay exams in. He copied the info from my notice book and wrote a bunch of other lines. He asked me to open the package.
Sitting on the counter was a huge Rambo survival knife. Packing tape was wrapped around its camo handle, affixing it to the string that attached it to the counter like a pen at the bank. It was for customers to open packages. I almost laughed out loud, given the sore spot the USPS has when it comes to weapons in the workplace. I performed a bit of cardboard disembowling and opened the box to find a pair of socks and a bag of Skittles. There could have been heroin, gold, American currency, white babies, depleted uranium, and bootleg CDs under those socks but they screamed 'care package from mom' and he didn't look any further. Then we engaged in one of those conversations where what you are talking about is not really what you are talking about:
"What brings you to Ghana?"
"I have brought bicycles to sell" (token brushoff response)
"Oh, so you are very rich!"
"No, no, it is like a mission" (key word) "a charity, to help the farmers."
"We will say it is sweets, and you will pay a little bit, is this fine?"
I said yes and he weighed the box and wrote 'sweets 3 kg' in the Landing Ledger. He told me to take it to The Boss at the end of the counter.
The Boss was an old burley guy who looked like James Earl Jones and was fortressed by a ledger bigger than St. Peter's. I noticed that it said "17 Column Ledger" where mine said "Landing Ledger". He was writing in it furiously with a red pen. I set my Landing Ledger in front of him and he reached out and tagged it and kept writing so fast and fluid, it could have been between an i and the dot. Like a frog eats a fly. I turned my book around and beside "Sweets 3kg" was written, in red pen, "$1/kg". I took it back to Clerk 4 and he wrote in my Ledger some more. He said, "Your fee is 18,500 cedis, you will pay me" but I almost didn't hear him because while he was writing I'd started to admire the cashier's old-timey cash register at the opposite end of the counter from The Boss. I gave Clerk 4 four fives and he said to take my ledger back to The Boss.
When I arrived The Boss was writing in a woman's ledger- a different kind, a bigger one than mine but not the kind you could survive a shipwreck on, like his- with a black pen. When he was done he looked at my ledger and went to write in the big one but oh- had to switch back to the red pen. He wrote Johnny Payphone and some other information and I snickered at the thought of Johnny Payphone burning in hell while I, the real me, crash heaven like some pole-vaulting Pharisee. Then I sat with my parcel.
While I was waiting I dug through my goodies. I love what my mom had written on the U.S. customs declaration: "Candy - Toys - Socks". That's mostly what it was, but my heart leapt when I discovered swimming among the Altoids some fast-food condiment packets. Now, my wish list hadn't arrived when this package was sent. My mother claims to be psychic and as a rule I don't believe in the supernatural but there before me were plastic-clad droplets of flavoring-and-nitrite ambrosia. Sweet, precious American condiments! Oh glory of glories, life could not possibly get any better- what's this? A glimmer of orange and black hiding under moist towelettes? Could it be- it is- Taco Bell Hot Sauce! If ever I knew in my heart that my dear sweet mother loves me, if ever she has given me something as precious life from her very womb, if ever I wanted to get a MOM tattoo, it was that moment sweating in an African post office when I received from her a packet of Taco Bell Hot Sauce.
In Ghana, I am a very rich man. I will give to you gold and bauxite. I will bring you rainforest hardwood. I will give you ivory. All this and more I can buy for you if you will give me a packet of Fancy Ketchup from Hardee's.
Clerk 4 called me up again and gave me a receipt. I didn't get any change.
---
Don't send me any packages! They are taking about a month and a half to arrive and they now run the risk of missing me entirely. Plus, the cost of shipping is too high. Letters come pretty fast, send those.
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