02 AUGUST 2005 ‚ 1736 HOURS ‚ ZANZIBAR AIRPORT ZANZIBAR TANZANIA
Sometimes there's no easy way out of a country. Our transfer to the airport arrived at the hotel a few minutes late and the trip across the island to the airport was otherwise uneventful. But then we got to the airport. With no posted signs and halfway through the check-in process we were informed that there was an $8 (US) per-person "safety tax." With no American currency in our possession we asked how much that would be in Tanzanian shillings and were told by the shit-eating grinning congenial counterman that it would be 20,000. Trouble was Susan only had about 13,000 shillings left. Then we were told by the family behind us that inside another $25 (US) "airport tax" would be awaiting our payment. Fortunately there was a currency exchange that accepted credit cards inside the arrivals terminal and in a few minutes I'd purchased $100 of my country's dollars for the low-low price of $108. Delivered a hundred dollar bill and already well familiar with the problems one encounters trying to break bigger denominations, I asked the exchange person if he had anything smaller and of course the jackass said he didn't, but that the exchange across the terminal might. So we tried that one and the person behind that counter proved very accommodating in breaking the hundie into five equal parts. Thusly loaded we proceeded back to the check-in counter, paid the "safety tax" then went inside and paid the "airport tax." Were we finished? Hell no.

After that I was escorted over to the baggage handling station and requested to open our duffels orÖ? His open-ended sentence could only mean one thing: a tip was in order. But not wanting to be obvious I said "what?" and he would pause and say "Öiz OK," and I confirmed that and he reconfirmed all "Öiz OK," but as I began walking away I already had my hand in my pocket trying to fish my wallet out because I knew that leaving him ungratuitized would mean our luggage would certainly not be coming along for the ride home and would instead wind up at our good shepherd's home where he would marvel at my binoculars and give his wife the nice kaftan Susan had bought for her mom.

Sure enough like a dog after a bone he dutifully followed us around the corner and I pulled a ten-spot out that I got back in change for the "airport tax."
" Excuse me," he implored catching up to us, and I turned and answered with "I understand." Thanking me for making him $10 richer and me praying that our luggage would now find its way to the cargo hold of our airship, we parted company with Susan asking half incredulously "Ten dollars?" I half barked that I wasn't interested in nickel and diming and we proceeded through the carry-on baggage examination machine. Next stop the waiting area, right? Not so fast. Susan's bag passed inspection clean, but the machine crapped my bag out the other end and the attendant called for it to be physically searched.

"No problem," I said and lifted it up onto a low countertop and unzipped the main compartment. With him asking something I didn't understand but Susan did, she replied that it was camera equipment inside. Enthusiastically inquirying whether he wanted me to open the inner bag, instead he leaned forward and said softly "Do you have something for me my friend?" I wanted to yell "Unless you take credit cards you are ass out," but instead I just told him I had nothing left and he said "Ö iz OK."

"Yes?" I asked and paused. "Yes," he said somewhat resigned to the fact that I wasn't a cash cow, "izÖ all right." Thanking him I reclaimed the bag and moved the hell on before he could change his mind.
Finding seats Susan asked if I wanted to grease his palm as an afterthought, and I initially said yes, but bless her as she sorted through our remaining Tanzanian shillings I got religion and gave an emphatic "hell no!" I'm not going to feel guilty for not submitting to this low-level extortion. It already cost us $76 just to get from check-in to the gate and I'll be damned if I'm going to cough up cash I don't have to.

Oh well, the three-hour delay (that we knew of yesterday) has just become longer, announced over the public address that our flight will now be departing at 1705 instead of 1635 hours. One can only hope that will be the last delay, but there's probably a hope tax I'll be responsible for so instead I'll just go to the gorillas that live in my mind and attempt to remain as calm as possible. But there's probably a calm tax. And a waiting tax. And a looking around tax. And a sitting tax. And a breathing tax. And a wishing-we-were-off-this-poor-island tax. Hell, for all I know there's a tax on our opposable digitsÖ wait for it: a thumb tax.

Aw, come on. Even Susan chuckled and she's a tough laugh to get.

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