“When 'just the Law' doesn't make Sense”

IF ONE day, Ghanaians were to wake up to hear on the radio, and subsequently read it gazetted in government newspapers, that “alcohol was prohibited”, the ripples it would send in the community would be far reaching.

If protests of whatever magnitude failed to influence the government to rescind the law, then every alcohol business would go underground. This was the case during the period of the prohibition, in the mighty United States of America some one-hundred-and-fifty years ago.

Everything within the prohibition would become difficult to get all of a sudden, and if you managed to lay hands on the commodity, it would be damn expensive to purchase. Some consecutive Middle East nations operate today like in America during the prohibition, when most people made their own liquor at home, utilising the tip from jelly-can manufacturers, who would print on their products the ingredients you needed to put inside the can, and “do your own thing”.

In the conservative Middle East countries (let us limit it to the biggest of them), the situation with liquor is according to strict prohibition. You won't find the stuff in any grocery shop. But, it exists, if you know where to get it, and had the appropriate pocket.

With a little bit of luck, or let's say with an awful lot of it, you may get invited on board a ship, (and an example would be a container ship from the Far East loaded with four thousand automobiles from South Korea, or Japan, to dock in Jeddah, or Al Khobar, Saudi Arabia).

It is rumoured the opulence is a lot loftier on a Naval ship from the West, or Japan. But, let us stay with the container-ship. In just under forty-eight hours, the giant cranes would whisk all the huge numbers of cars off the stratified deck, and the Captain and his crew should be ready to leave to return to load new consignment from the Pacific Rim. One “goody” that could befall anybody residing in that part of the world (especially immigrants), is to be invited for a meal on a ship such as mentioned above - lunch, or dinner, but preferably lunch.

In a number of Far Eastern countries, pork is a delicacy, schnapps, or a kin, made in the orient, consumed with delight. Beer, in its best sort, is ”gulped” down too, and a day on such a ship would remind anyone of life in Europe, preferably, Germany, if one had ever lived there. So, with such an invitation, the thought of sizzling hot pork-chops would cause one's mouth to run watery for days preceding the event. But, nothing comes so easy in such a place, and not even such a dinner in anticipation that our narrative is all about. The boat is strictly speaking extra-territorial.

To get there, it's like applying for a visa that lets you out first, and then in again, into the country. This is supposedly made simpler by leaving all matters in the hands of an immigration officer at the port. So, the simplified process looks like this: You leave your ID card with the immigration office, and you get issued a piece of paper the size of a man's palm, the writings on which translated from Arabic into English, should say; “Mr. X, a citizen of the planet Mars, and on resident visa Qm 2006, presently in the city YCR, is hereby being allowed to visit the container ship Honshu-45.

It is hereby required that the said visitor should exit the vessel six hours before her departure.” This is signed by the immigration officer on duty at the time.

This document you must keep with you until you hand it back to the officer, who meanwhile has kept your ID card. You need the ID almost like the very oxygen in the air you breathe, and make no mistake, the duration on board of the said applicant, is not expected to exceed 24 hours respectively. For many years, I never came across anybody who declined such an invitation. It is like being invited to the White House, and Franklin Delano Roosevelt, John Fitzgerald Kennedy, or Barack Hussein Obama should be your host. Well, even if it should be daydreaming to have a casual invitation to the White House, I have passed through such container-ships several times, and I can assure you, the memory lingers on with you for months, even years, until something more memorable comes your way (and some say your 25th wedding anniversary, might not quite match). Even so, just read what is next.

On one such occasion, my eyes had caught on a scene whilst standing on the deck talking to the Captain, who was so happy to have a man on board the ship with a profession, he said, he found so intriguing. He threw a series of questions at me, the answers to which he said soothed his over-anxiety. In the process, I inadvertently dipped my hand into the pocket of my jacket, and the paper given me by the immigration, the details of which I have so elaborated upon above, and my fingers so got enmeshed that in trying to free the paper, it got whisked away by the breeze.

Before anybody could undertake any magic tricks to salvage it, it was already in the Red Sea proper. The mammoth machines standing one next to the other, and buoying hither and thither, and the piece of paper the size of a human hand was gone (disappeared), irretrievably.

The onus was on the Captain, (meanwhile my friend) to get me back on land, and not just that, but to get my ID card, which I needed daily, even though I needn't attempt bragging, I was needed by my host country, badly. The Captain thought it was going to be easy, sorting out this “trifle” and he needn't overly worry. Well, he was wrong. It was no trifle. It was a big palaver.

The Captain first tried to have the Immigration Officer understand that we could not possibly retrieve the lost permit on a piece of paper.

It was gone, and at the time he was talking to him, it could even well be in the gut of a shark.

The Arab officer demonstrated he was by no means in the mood for jesting. After well over sixty minutes of trying to win his favour, so he would hand me back my ID to go home, we realised we were just wasting time.

Just then, I intuitively recollected I had the name-card of “a very big man” in the security apparatus of the host country stuck in my wallet. As if he knew I could one day slip into difficulty, he had told me, almost invocating, “you could call me, anytime you got into difficulty.” Now, I was in difficulty and a nasty one for that matter, except that I did not quite appreciate how badly. I called him, and I got him on his “handy” instantly.

“Sir, this is me …I, I….”, and before I would continue to Babel, he said, “I recognise your voice? Where are you, and what do you need?” My voice was still not that steady, like he knew it to be. “Kindly give the receiver to the officer you are dealing with, and let me talk to him”, he instructed.

From this moment on, all I heard from the otherwise unflappable officer, was; “nam”, “nam”, “Al Wasir, nam”, and in English, “Yes Sir.”, “Yes Sir.”, “Your Excellency. Yes Sir”. As the officer talked to “the big man”, he kept looking at me, and the impression on his face was a question which could read, “Who is this man, standing in front of me? Who is he really?” At this moment, it did not matter really, who I was, all that was important was that I and the Captain were no longer in trouble. The “Honorable”, “His Excellency” had instructed his subordinate to trivialise the case, and let us go. We were free!!! The big man asked me to visit him at his office the next day, for him to take me for lunch. Of course, I did.

Over a sumptuous “Kapsa”, he advised me to resist accepting such invitations in future. Even if they might be legal, they may be fraught with complications such as I and the Chinese Captain of the ship “accidentally” got ourselves into. A piece of paper slipping accidentally out of your hand, when standing on the deck of a ship, is not a crime.

On the same wavelength however, an immigration officer not able to account for the return of a man residing in the Kingdom, whilst having visited a ship, could be the beginning of a criminal saga, with a lot of ramifications. “The best is that, you stay out, right?” “Yes Sir!”, I responded, “In this country,” he explained, “if a crazy driver slammed his vehicle into your house whilst you were deep asleep, and he died in the process, it's your problem, and you must pay his family indemnity. Did you know that?” Of course, I did not.

What the law says doesn't need to make sense. It's just the law, and it must be obeyed. I had graduated!

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