Collecting this teeshirt took all of four hours. Photo : Elenko Elenkov

Kafka at the customs

To pick up a package of T-shirts purchased online, a Bulgarian journalist spent several hours, queuing at different counters, filling in forms, and participating in absurd dialogues. His account of half a day in the company of Customs Services agents prompted an outcry in the country.

Published on 13 January 2010 at 15:51
Collecting this teeshirt took all of four hours. Photo : Elenko Elenkov

If you shop online for products abroad, you had better beware. Starting on 1st January, 2010, the tax-free threshold for purchases outside of the European Union has been reduced from 150 to 15 euros. From now on, this effectively means that any purchase other than a couple of pairs of socks will be subject to tax. And to expedite these formalities, buyers are obliged to visit the Customs Services office in Sofia, which is what I had to do, because, shortly before Christmas, I had ordered a package of T-shirts from an American website. Here is a taste of what to expect from a not-so-brief encounter with the agents of our state.

"To be collected from counter No. 23" advised the notice that arrived in the post. The Sofia customs postal depot is located not far from the Central Station. Wander in off the street, and you will be greeted by the sight of employees pushing trolleys of parcels with reassuring logos: Ebay, Amazon, USPS, UPS, etc... In an ideal world, you would simply pay the four-leva "objects of value tax" and leave with your parcel. But unfortunately, my case was far from ideal, because the T-shirts had been sent from the United States. "We will have to inspect it," announced the lady behind the counter, pointing to my parcel with a mistrustful air. "I'll call the supervisor." The plainclothes inspector duly arrived, and asked me to produce my identity papers, and then promptly disappeared. A short while later, I was invited to pass through a small door situated in the adjoining counter No. 30, which gave on to small annex, where the staff were warming themselves over mobile radiators. Two inspectors immediately busied themselves with my parcel, opening it with a box cutter and removing the contents. As expected, it contained a number of T-shirts, a bill and a number of badges, which were a free gift from the online shop.

— And what are these? I was asked.

— They appear to be badges.

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— And why is there no bill for these badges? They have a value, do they not?

— Of course they do, I replied. But they are a gift from the shop, I didn't order them...

I began to feel that I was not making much headway with my explanation. The customs officers were already convinced that I was big-time smuggler of Californian badges.

Then they announced their verdict.

— Go to counter 17, and ask for an EORI certificate. Then you may come back to make your declaration.

— What's an EORI certificate? I wanted to know.

— Just go there, they will explain at the counter.

At counter No. 17, which turned out to be the accounts office, no one had ever heard of an "EORI certificate," but I had to fill in a form with all kinds of personal data. "Now you will have to make a photocopy of your identity card," explained the clerk. I dug my heels in. The time had come to explain that I knew my rights under the data protection act. But after several minutes of mind-numbing discussion, I realized that I had no option but to let the state break its own laws, if I wanted to leave with my T-shirts. I sheepishly made my way to counter No. 21, where the photocopier — a remarkably pricey one to boot — was located, before moving on to counter No. 13, where the EORI certificates — yes, they do really exist — are handed out. If you get a chance to visit counter No. 13, you should know that you are allowed to smoke there: apparently, it is a special case, where the ban on smoking in public buildings does not apply. The clerk behind the counter had spent at least five years in college, but his work involved nothing more than copying the handwritten statements from my form into a computer, which took — somewhat surprisingly — at least a half an hour. At last I was equipped with an EORI certificate bearing my own special online shopper's "provisional number," which differed only slightly from my social security number. The clerk assumed a confidential air, "For everything to be validated, you will need to have these signed by the customs director," he explained. The customs director was clearly an extremely busy woman, because she had two secretaries. I handed over the wad of documents for her to sign, but the two ladies were reluctant to disturb their boss, so I waited until she came out of her office to shout at another clerk. Then she signed my papers without reading them. I returned to counter No. 17 to have them rubber-stamped, and from there, I was sent to counter No. 28, where I filled in a "proper" customs declaration, which cost me eight levas. Then I was handed a floppy disk containing my data, which I was instructed to take to counter No. 9 — apparently the Bulgarian customs service has yet to discover the joys of local area networks...

At counter No. 9, all the office equipment including the computers was spanking new. The clerk produced a strange looking device, which she connected to the USB port of her ultramodern machine: only then did I understand that it was a floppy disk reader. I was stunned — it was as though she had attached a cart to the space shuttle.

But I was not out of the woods yet. First I had to visit counter No. 14, the bank service office, where I paid. Then I waited at counter No. 9, until my money appeared in the custom services account, before heading back to counter No. 23 (for the "objects of value" tax), and, from there, I embarked on the last stage of my forced march to counter No. 30, where I was finally able to collected my slashed parcel of T-shirts. It was the end of an unforgettable four hours within the walls of the Sofia Customs Service office.

Outcry

An article that rocked Bulgaria

Over one thousand people posted comments on Elenko Elenkov's account of his visit to the customs service office, which is the most widely read article ever to have appeared on the Dnevnik news website. It even attracted a response from Finance Minister Siméon Diankov, who promised an audit of the functioning of the customs services, which itself pledged to simplify its procedures. In the meantime, Dnevnik and the business weeklyKapital, which both belong to the same press group, have created a new newspaper section, which takes its title from the slogan on the T-shirts that Elenko Elenkov ordered from the United States: "This was supposed to be the future."

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