I yelled, “I HATE INDIA!” today. I’m not proud of it. But I just had it with the bureaucracy here. I just wanted to mail a package home. When I did it in Delhi, it took three trips to the post office. On the first trip, I learned that post offices don’t sell mailing boxes (which the men at my hotel had claimed). On my second trip, I learned that you have to sew a white cloth around the box. On my third trip, I finally managed to mail the package.
I thought I was ready in Mumbai. The day before the attempted mailing, I stopped by the General Post Office (GPO) and was directed to a man who sews the white cloth around parcels. We agreed that I’d bring my items the next day and he’d have a box ready. By 4:10 pm, I was there. He commenced packing, I commenced filling out the proper forms.
At 4:40 pm, he walked with me to the appropriate counter at the massive post office. Really, the process should have ended there. But no. The system was down. I waited for half an hour as they hoped the system would come back up. Finally, I went to the desk. “What can I do, ma’am, there is nothing I can do.” “Can you do some of this by hand? Just weigh it and charge me?” “No, there is nothing I can do.” “There must be something you can do, I’m leaving for Goa tonight.” (that added to the frustration) “I cannot help you, miss.”
He then said I should go to the nearby Foreign Post Office. Jigga-whuh?!!? There’s another post office for foreign mailings and you didn’t point this out in any of the previous 30 minutes? I asked if they were still open and he said yes, until 8 pm. With his poor, almost unintelligible directions, I headed off.
It only took 15 minutes, but those were 15 minutes in which I began yelling, “I hate India!” (oh, it gets worse) I didn’t understand his directions (and he had been rude when I tried to clarify) and when I finally found a post office, it turned out to be the office for business mailings, but the guy in there wouldn’t answer my question about where the foreign post office was because I hadn’t come in through the correct entrance.
Finally I found the Foreign Post Office. I walked in, hot and sweaty from the day, carrying my large package, and the men looked at me and said, “We’re closed.”
I broke down. I started truly weeping now. Loud, shoulder-shaking, wracking sobs. I left the office, threw my parcel on the floor, and kicked it for good measure. I squatted and put my head in my hands. For three minutes I just wept and wept. Finally I came back, and they were willing to process the package.
I admit it, I kind of put on a show on purpose. Reasonable requests and impassioned arguing were not about to sway those men. But a weeping woman, looking at them through red eyes? Hells yeah.
The process took another 45 minutes. I guess since I’d come directly to the Foreign Post Office, I had to go through all the checks that I wouldn’t have had to go through at another post office. We went through the contents of my parcel, I had to help an old man copy my information into his book, he took forever carefully waxing and sealing the parcel, etc. At 6:15 I was finally free to go, and I had to hightail back to my hotel to book an overnight bus for Goa.
I’m gonna try not to complain about long lines at the USPS anymore. There is a mail hell, and it is India’s post system.
I thought I was ready in Mumbai. The day before the attempted mailing, I stopped by the General Post Office (GPO) and was directed to a man who sews the white cloth around parcels. We agreed that I’d bring my items the next day and he’d have a box ready. By 4:10 pm, I was there. He commenced packing, I commenced filling out the proper forms.
At 4:40 pm, he walked with me to the appropriate counter at the massive post office. Really, the process should have ended there. But no. The system was down. I waited for half an hour as they hoped the system would come back up. Finally, I went to the desk. “What can I do, ma’am, there is nothing I can do.” “Can you do some of this by hand? Just weigh it and charge me?” “No, there is nothing I can do.” “There must be something you can do, I’m leaving for Goa tonight.” (that added to the frustration) “I cannot help you, miss.”
He then said I should go to the nearby Foreign Post Office. Jigga-whuh?!!? There’s another post office for foreign mailings and you didn’t point this out in any of the previous 30 minutes? I asked if they were still open and he said yes, until 8 pm. With his poor, almost unintelligible directions, I headed off.
It only took 15 minutes, but those were 15 minutes in which I began yelling, “I hate India!” (oh, it gets worse) I didn’t understand his directions (and he had been rude when I tried to clarify) and when I finally found a post office, it turned out to be the office for business mailings, but the guy in there wouldn’t answer my question about where the foreign post office was because I hadn’t come in through the correct entrance.
Finally I found the Foreign Post Office. I walked in, hot and sweaty from the day, carrying my large package, and the men looked at me and said, “We’re closed.”
I broke down. I started truly weeping now. Loud, shoulder-shaking, wracking sobs. I left the office, threw my parcel on the floor, and kicked it for good measure. I squatted and put my head in my hands. For three minutes I just wept and wept. Finally I came back, and they were willing to process the package.
I admit it, I kind of put on a show on purpose. Reasonable requests and impassioned arguing were not about to sway those men. But a weeping woman, looking at them through red eyes? Hells yeah.
The process took another 45 minutes. I guess since I’d come directly to the Foreign Post Office, I had to go through all the checks that I wouldn’t have had to go through at another post office. We went through the contents of my parcel, I had to help an old man copy my information into his book, he took forever carefully waxing and sealing the parcel, etc. At 6:15 I was finally free to go, and I had to hightail back to my hotel to book an overnight bus for Goa.
I’m gonna try not to complain about long lines at the USPS anymore. There is a mail hell, and it is India’s post system.
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