"In our country, there are rules, and the rules have to be obeyed. This is how it is in Africa."

Of course I needed reminding. I always forget myself, and think I am in my own country where I can do whatever I like. In my own country I would have got away with refusing to pay what amounts to a bribe, so silly me for thinking I could do the same here. Luckily there were a few people lined up to remind me that I have been bad.

All of this because I went to pick up a christmas present from the post, a box of shoes from my sister with the value $35 written on the customs slip.

The first day, I spent an hour there, chatting with the various men behind their counters, begging in my cutest wolof phrases and fake smiles for the man at ticket desk 4 to go and ask the man in 5 to come to his desk, so I can have my papers stamped. I went through the whole cringe-making ordeal of having to suck up to these people who have something I want (and is mine), only to fall at the final hurdle. When met with the douanier, the man who decides on the import tax fee, I lost my rag.

Punching numbers into a calculator, seemingly randomly as far as I could see (since he looked neither at the customs ticket nor at any kind of papers on his desk), he came up with a number which amounted to $30.

"A little mouse has been in your box," he said creepily, scattering the shreds of wrapping paper which were stuck to the everything. He was trying to make a joke of the fact that time after time, customs men at the post office had ripped open my present, taped it up with 'Senegalese Post' tape, and passed it on to the next person, only to be ripped open again. I said nothing. He repeated it, hoping, I suppose, he would get a smile out of me. I did not feel like smiling.

I told him I didn't see why I had to pay almost 100% tax on my christmas present. He said, his belly hanging over his trousers, that this was the rule. Knowing that it was only the rule for foreigners who are stupid enough to try and extract their own post rather than send their person, I left the office in disgust, and then, tears.

Day 2. I had to go back. How could I explain to my sister that I had left her gift at the post office? I could have got away with it by giving the guy a pair of shoes, but I wasn't sure what size he was. But this time I was armed. I had my friend, a man, and a Senegalese with me. Nothing could stop us now.

I waited outside the post for a while, hidden behind a tree, till my friend arrived. He did, and he went inside to try and sort it out. After 40 minutes he came outside and said that the man knew I was outside, he had seen me, and he wouldn't settle it until I had come inside myself. He knew I had come back with my tail between my legs and he was going to milk it for all it was worth.

I was dragged into the office like a naughty school girl. I was presented to the office of the customs man, another one, and told to sit down. He turned to me, stamping papers as he went, and started to tell me how things were done in Africa. My friend had told me to be nice to him, so I nodded as much as I could bear and muttered the odd, 'you are right'. Inside I thought of the number of ways I could put him through a similar ordeal in London. Perhaps make him wait in the que at the Lavender Hill post office for 45 minutes, only to find that parcels are collected next door, but only on Fridays.

When he had finished he told me that the man I had dealt with yesterday wanted to come in and talk to me. I told my friend that the point of me coming back was to get the shoes and leave. If I had to go through hours of humiliating lecturing infront of a room of people, then I would rather leave the shoes to their fate as permanent prisoners of the Senegalese Post. But my friend told me to stay. The customs man then said that he would do me a special favour. Because my friend had told him how much I love his country, he was going to let me off with just a $10 charge. He said it in a way that told me I should be very grateful.

I spoke for the first time. I said I was happy to pay any money, if he could show me the rule where it said it stated the percentage I should pay.

He pointed to a ridiculous scrap of paper stuck to the grubby wall behind him, handwritten, saying 45% import tax. I pointed out that I had previously been asked to pay 100%. He turned to me and said, as if I was incredibly stupid, that the person who sent the shoes must have been lying when she wrote out the customs form. These shoes were clearly worth a LOT of money.

At this point I just wanted to get out of there. I had had the most humiliating dressing down of my life as a stupid foreigner. I paid the money and made to get my parcel off the desk. Oh no no no. There are other fees to pay. Please go to ticket desk 5.

A hefty 'storage fee' later, plus an admin fee, I was allowed to have my parcel. My friend asked me to thank the man graciously for all he had done for me. Wearing my glasses so that I wouldn't have to go through the further humiliation of him pointing out to any bored person who will listen that the toubab was crying, I told the man how kind he was and walked away.

Crossing the road outside, I seriously considered throwing myself, and my shoes, under an oncoming bus.