A Little Red Tape

March 10

On Friday morning, I handed our Safety & Security officer a manila
envelope stamped with four official looking purple Bureau of
Immigration stamps across its flap and the Amhara Regional insignia on
its face. In it were two letters (each itself generously and variously
stamped), a photocopy, and some forms that I had fought for most of
Wednesday afternoon to procure. This whole process, of course, is to
get a replacement card for my stolen Ethiopian Resident ID Card.

The odyssey started at the police station. I arrived around 12:30pm,
thinking that some officers were bound to be on duty during lunch, and
that in fact the station might be less busy. That was true, I suppose,
but didn't really serve me. I chatted for a long time with the lone
guy on duty. He spoke no English, so we had a halting conversation in
Amharic, trying to find my police report, and, more importantly,
trying to figure out what exactly I was doing here in Ethiopia (this,
if you hadn't gotten the idea, is a very common topic of conversation
here). Next, my buddy offers me some coffee. It was probably 90F
degrees out at this time of day. I politely declined, citing the heat.

"But that's exactly why you should drink it!" he exclaims, "for making
an internal-external balance." I laugh…and somehow the next think I
know, there's a cup in my hand and I'm being asked if it's delicious
(to its credit, yes, it is).

Still no report located. Hmmm. What date was the theft? That depends
on what day it is today. It's March 7th by my reckoning, but we can't
seem to come to an agreement over whether it's the 25th or the 26th of
February in the Ethiopian calendar. We decide it's probably the 26th,
counting exaggeratedly on our fingers. Knowing the date doesn't help
to find my report though. I begin to suspect we're just stalling for
time.

Indeed, finally, the Chief Inspector (lots of stars on his shoulders)
arrives, and, because he speaks good English, is able to help me
figure out what I need: A piece of paper to request the forms
requesting the letter from the police to the Immigration Bureau. I
discover that I can purchase it from the tiny office next to the
police station. I do, and the Inspector helps me to write the letter
(that is, he dictates it to an underling while I sit back and get
confused).

But, alas, the man who does the stamps and the filling-out-of-forms is
still out on lunch break. Wait here, I am told. No, on second thought,
come with me, the Inspector beckons. And that is how I end up having
my second tea/coffee break with the Ethiopian police force, a cup of
tea being forced upon me, quite generously. Another conversation about
what, precisely, it is that I am doing here.

Back to the station, and, unfortunately, still no form/stamp man. I
wait in the office with a few of the cops. We attempt to make small
talk in Amharic; I have long since run out of anything to say, my
vocabulary really being sufficient for about a 15-minute conversation
(we're now on hour 2). They keep asking for my name for various
registers. I tell one of them, and then tell him that my surname means
"tall man." This is just about the funniest thing he has ever heard,
and he brings in three of his buddies and makes me tell it again.

Around 2, the stamp/form man finally arrives, stamps my letter and
tells me to go purchase the forms from the same tiny office. I do, and
some belabored carbon-copy and record-book action (and another 30
minutes or so) later, I am finally able to walk out of the station
with an official letter from the Bahir Dar police requesting a letter
from the Bahir Dar Immigration Bureau.

It doesn't quite end there, though. The hour sitting in the
Immigration office waiting for my letter to be typed was uneventful.
By that time I was numb to the process.

I've never been prouder of acquiring anything in my life, as I was
when I was handed over that majestic letter. And I will never complain
about the DMV again.