India Post: the service for mail and chai

Everything on this trip is an adventure. Some are more exciting than others, but they’re all adventures nonetheless. The past few weeks though, I’ve been on some especially crazy ones. The first involved me going to the post office. Alone. With no way to contact anyone, and really no idea what I was doing.

For over a month, I had impatiently been waiting for a package sent from home to arrive (six to ten business days was such a lie.) I kept checking its tracking number to make sure it wasn’t lost—supposedly it had arrived in India and cleared customs weeks before. I was about to give up on it altogether when I decided to give it one last shot and call the foreign post office. I had not been notified that my package was stuck there because of “unidentified medicines” that it contained. All I had to do was go to the post office before 5 p.m. with my passport to claim my package. Easy. Or so I thought it would be.

We had a guest lecturer that day who spoke around in circles with a heavy, incomprehensible Hindi accent. Time ticked by--4:15, 4:30, 4:40—until I was finally able to run out the door and catch the first tuk tuk, getting me to the post office around 4:50. I was then directed around to the backside of the building and up a flight of stairs to the foreign post office, which turned out to be a few run-down rooms filled with men sitting around. I got there at 4:58. I gave my spiel to a man sitting at a desk, asking if I could please retrieve my package. Next thing, I was led back to a tiny office crammed with more men and had to go through the whole thing again. Their response: come back tomorrow before 2 p.m. But after waiting for that cursed package for so long and being so close to it then, I was not going to give up. I pleaded with them to allow me to get it, as I was only in India for a short time. Eventually, they led me back to another room and brought my package in. I thought that was the end of the endeavor. I was so wrong. They ripped open my package and started going through every item, asking me all of the contents were. I can understand why they would have held my package—protein powder and vitamins in Ziploc bags could appear quite questionable in a customs officer’s eyes. The men asked me why I didn’t have a prescription for the medicines, and couldn’t comprehend when I told them I don’t have a prescription because the medicines don’t require one.

“They are made of herbs and fruit and vegetable powders,” I told them.

“But why don’t you have a prescription?”

“Because they are not sold that way in America.”

“But how can you not have a prescription?”

“Because I just don’t!”

It went on like that for a while until they opened the Ziplocs and started taking the vitamins out. One man even grabbed a multivitamin, popped it in his mouth, chewed, swallowed, and bobbled his head as if to say “not bad.” It was maybe the most bizarre experience ever. There were also stretchy exercise bands inside the box. When the officers saw those, they picked them up and, after finding and reading the accompanying sheet that described possible exercises, began playing with them.

Apparently they were satisfied with my explanations because after a while, they told me I needed to write a letter to the assistant director of customs asking to release my package. I was then taken to another back room, where a man dictated the content of the letter to me.

“Now you wait an hour or two while we bring this down,” he told me when I was finished.

So I waited an hour, and then two.

It gave me some good time to do my readings for seminar at least. The men seemed very interested in my reading as well, and took it from to look it over. They asked me what I was doing in Jaipur, which prompted the whole TBB explanation (we are all too well versed at giving that by now.) Apparently it was also tea time, so they gave me a date to eat, as well as chai to drink. I was the only customer there. The whole time, the package was sitting about ten feet away, tempting me to just grab it and run. But I kept waiting.

At around seven, I was told that all I needed to do was give my signature before I could leave with my package. I waited some more, rather impatiently at this point, as a man entered other people’s information into a book. One customs officer started talking to his friend and pointing to my package. I picked up the word chocolate a few times and got a little worried. My worry was confirmed when he said to me, “the customs officers try your chocolate to see if it is tasty or not.”

“YOU ATE MY CHOCOLATE?!” I almost yelled at him. (Okay, not almost. I did yell. Chocolate is serious stuff.)

“We open your box,” was his response.

So, for the third time that afternoon, my box was opened. The man took out one of my protein bars and repeated again “chocolate.”

“Oh, no, no,” I told him. “That’s not chocolate. That’s a protein bar.”

At least they didn’t eat my chocolate…

“Protein bar? Customs officers will try it.” He told me.

Right before my eyes, he opened the protein bar and broke it into pieces, sharing it around with the other men. “Not chocolate, but tasty and sweet!”

All I could think was…SERIOUSLY? Is this actually happening?

Yes. Yes it is. I’m on TBB.

After that was all done, I was offered a ride home from one of the men on his motorcycle. I declined and walked home, carrying my package, literally laughing out loud to myself. After all that, it felt like a victory march.

Despite all of the frustration and waiting involved, I feel like my post office mission was a success. Out of it, I not only got my package, but some excitement and a story. I truly was able to see India up close and personal, in a very non-touristy way. On this trip, I’ve been questioning my status as “tourist.” I’d like to think I’m not when I’m living with families in each country for so long, volunteering and interacting with its people. But then again, I can’t escape the reality that I AM a tourist on a visit. Ventures like this, though, make me feel different than your everyday traveler to India. Maybe I’m just wishing too hard. Either way, it’s something I’ll never forget.