Recently, to my superficial delight, I recieved a package in the mail. I got two packages, in due fact, and I didnt get them in the mail, but rather, had to fetch them at the post office. The process of recieving two packages, in due fact, at the local post office, is much different from actually recieving normal old packages in the mail. First and foremost of difference is the level of anticipation. When one recieves word of a package one may passively anticipate its arrival. One sits around and goes about one’s daily business, when all of a sudden – ding - the door bell rings. You greet the door and find nobody there but a pleasant surprise.
This would be ideal. Instead, I have to go to the post office, which require a full day off of work during the workweek. How does the post office work in the third world ? Like the bank, it is essentially an outpost for people to collect Western Union money transfers from family working abroad. Thankfully, my post office also services mail, which, I gather, is some arcane relic of the old colonial system.
My post office is fifteen miles away in the regional capital, which requires an hour and a half on public transport to reach, factoring in the wait at the garage, stop by the gendarmes and subsequent bribe, and transfer to public transport. I am sent word by may parents in advance that I have something on the way. I then have to calculate approximately when the package will arrive and about when I should be expecting its goodies. I aim for about a month of two’s time, although my parents ask me on a weekly basis whether or not it has arrived yet, so I am spurred to check sooner than I normally would. I split a P.O. box with three other volunteers, thus requiring coordinated visits to secure the key. Four times out of five I go to the post office and open the box only to discover there is no pink package slip waiting for me. I recover from this setback by ordering a hamburger and beer at a local dining establishment.
On the fifth visit, however, I get the illustrious pink package slip. The slip indicates that I must visit the package guy to claim my prize. Prize would be a misnomer, however, since it is I, the package recipient, who must pay two dollars for the privilidge of reclaiming what is rightfully mine. I wouldnt mind paying so much if I actually recieved a service for the money. Instead, this is the point where the inconvenience begins.
There is no bigger son of a bitch in the world than a local package customs officer. It would be far too simple were your customs declared and checked beforehand and you could pick up your package from the guy you pay to pick up your package. Instead, you need another guy to watch you open you mail yourself and rummage through every item as he decides whether your worthless magazines and meagre food items warrant taxation. Besides the fact that he has the arbitrary power to make you pay whatever he deems fit, he is a son of a bitch. He is a son of a bitch because he knows how powerful he is. In fact, you beg for the privilidge of having your money arbitrarily taken from you, since the son of a bitch shows up for work about as often as he likes. Friday afternoons ? The post office is open. The package guy is there at work. The customs guy... will be back on Monday. Wednesday morning ? The post office is open. The package guy is there at work, but the son of a bitch is in Dakar for some reason. Tuesday afternoon ? The post office is closed. Must be one of the national holidays, which occur with as much frequency as the weekend. The customs guy... not there. Granted, this is not his fault, but you blame the son of a bitch for not being there the other two times and thus forcing you to waste yet another trip.
Monday morning... he is there. But instead of screaming at him and calling him a son of a bitch, though, you remain calm and remember his power. You walk in and small talk him. You watch him go through your package and try to cajole him. When he decides to wave that four dollar tax on Pringles, you thank him for his generocity and feel grateful as you walk away. Inside, you hate yourself.
This, of course, is an enormous improvement over the old system. At least your package isn’t pilfered or stolen completely by faceless postal workers.
This would be ideal. Instead, I have to go to the post office, which require a full day off of work during the workweek. How does the post office work in the third world ? Like the bank, it is essentially an outpost for people to collect Western Union money transfers from family working abroad. Thankfully, my post office also services mail, which, I gather, is some arcane relic of the old colonial system.
My post office is fifteen miles away in the regional capital, which requires an hour and a half on public transport to reach, factoring in the wait at the garage, stop by the gendarmes and subsequent bribe, and transfer to public transport. I am sent word by may parents in advance that I have something on the way. I then have to calculate approximately when the package will arrive and about when I should be expecting its goodies. I aim for about a month of two’s time, although my parents ask me on a weekly basis whether or not it has arrived yet, so I am spurred to check sooner than I normally would. I split a P.O. box with three other volunteers, thus requiring coordinated visits to secure the key. Four times out of five I go to the post office and open the box only to discover there is no pink package slip waiting for me. I recover from this setback by ordering a hamburger and beer at a local dining establishment.
On the fifth visit, however, I get the illustrious pink package slip. The slip indicates that I must visit the package guy to claim my prize. Prize would be a misnomer, however, since it is I, the package recipient, who must pay two dollars for the privilidge of reclaiming what is rightfully mine. I wouldnt mind paying so much if I actually recieved a service for the money. Instead, this is the point where the inconvenience begins.
There is no bigger son of a bitch in the world than a local package customs officer. It would be far too simple were your customs declared and checked beforehand and you could pick up your package from the guy you pay to pick up your package. Instead, you need another guy to watch you open you mail yourself and rummage through every item as he decides whether your worthless magazines and meagre food items warrant taxation. Besides the fact that he has the arbitrary power to make you pay whatever he deems fit, he is a son of a bitch. He is a son of a bitch because he knows how powerful he is. In fact, you beg for the privilidge of having your money arbitrarily taken from you, since the son of a bitch shows up for work about as often as he likes. Friday afternoons ? The post office is open. The package guy is there at work. The customs guy... will be back on Monday. Wednesday morning ? The post office is open. The package guy is there at work, but the son of a bitch is in Dakar for some reason. Tuesday afternoon ? The post office is closed. Must be one of the national holidays, which occur with as much frequency as the weekend. The customs guy... not there. Granted, this is not his fault, but you blame the son of a bitch for not being there the other two times and thus forcing you to waste yet another trip.
Monday morning... he is there. But instead of screaming at him and calling him a son of a bitch, though, you remain calm and remember his power. You walk in and small talk him. You watch him go through your package and try to cajole him. When he decides to wave that four dollar tax on Pringles, you thank him for his generocity and feel grateful as you walk away. Inside, you hate yourself.
This, of course, is an enormous improvement over the old system. At least your package isn’t pilfered or stolen completely by faceless postal workers.
posted by Unknown at 12:18 PM
1 Comments:
Jesus, Dan, if I had known what a hell I was putting you through I wouldn't have sent it. On the other hand, at least I won't worry now about your wasting away. Yikes!
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