And you thought YOU were patient!

We all know that in Soviet Russia, car drives you. But in developing countries, it is much more likely that the customers will go postal before the employees there. Allow me to paint you a picture with my words. A few weeks back, I received my first care packages from home. (Thanks mom and dad!) It was like Christmas. Happy birthday jesus, have some protein powder. This was quite the epic event. So epic, in fact that I missed a whole day of work. Not because I was so emotionally overwhelmed, but the time frame required to retrieve said parcels warrented a Friday in the post office instead of the clinic. There are a multitude of reasons as to why the post office functions this way. First, to pick up a package here in Linden, you have to go through customs. That means that when you go to pick up a package, somebody sits there and rips the box open, and tallies up the appropriate dollar values that will allow you to take home your envy inducing items. But, the customs officer is only available from 10:30am to 12:00 pm Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Why such limited availability, you may ask? According to lore, there used to be a man who worked for customs at the Linden post office on a daily basis. He discovered one day, that it was exceedingly profitable for him to import extra dollars into his bank account, and export cocaine and stolen goods. Needless to say, he got a big dose of karmic retribution dropped on his greedy ass. So now, a different customs officer comes down from Georgetown every week to serve the good people of my community. In addition to only going to the post office of specific days, there is a special order of operations involved. Once a parcel arrives, the post office delivers a ridiculously large piece of paper that states, quite simply, that you have a package to receive. I imagine it's the same type of thing that goes on when you're served a subpoena. But I wouldn't know because I follow all rules and regulations everyday, all the time. Then you have to take this large scroll into the post office, and wait, and wait...and wait. Until it's your turn. They call you up to the window, and then locate the highly coveted parcel with your name on it. Then with the Oz-like customs officer sitting hoitily on their chair, the postal worker grabs the dullest, most ineffective knife of all time, and prys the parcel open to examine the contents. Honestly, it's like trying to eat a steak with just gums. Then, magically, the customs officer pulls some numbers from the memory banks of their brains, and assigns some dollar values to your goods. Finally, after you pay and sign your name multiple times, you are handed your prize, to bask in its glory for the remainder of the day.

Conversely, I had to mail out a package the other day. According to the rules of etiquette, one can only mail out a package when the customs officer is present. Because not only do they open every incoming box, but before anything can be shipped out, it must be opened and inspected as well. I actually tried to mail this out on two occasions. The first time, in my overzealous exuberance, I had taken a small, awkwardly wrapped parcel in for mailing back home. This took a significant effort on my part, because if you know me well, you'll know that wrapping any type of box or present is my kryptonite. They wanted to unwrap it, and when I told them it was a broken digital camera I was sending home for repair, I was turned away because such items weren't possible to ship out from this location. I decided that instead of trying to navigate the labyrinth of Georgetown's post office, I unwrapped it, and returned the following week when a different customs officer was there. I arrived promptly at 10am on a Friday, again taking the day off at work so as to be first in line when customs became available. I came prepared too. Not just with the unwrapped box, but I had water, several snacks, a book, and some items to work on lesson plans for the following week. The customs officer walked in just before 11am. I had spoken with the postal worker when I first got there, making my presence and intentions known. When I walked up to be the first, I was then told that those receiving packages would be tended to first. Initially frustrated, I remembered where I was, and sat back down, retrieving my book and partaking of a sandwich. Around noon, I finally asked if I could at least get a customs form to fill out. The box was quite small, and the regular customs form was too large. He began looking for a small customs form, which he then handed to me. It literally was a 3"x2" piece of paper that said "Description of item, Dollar value, and weight" That's it. Once I handed the package to the customs lady, she angrily inquired as to "WHY ARE YOU SHIPPING THIS?!?!" I calmly replied "Because it's broken" I almost added "you ignorant slut" but figured that would be detrimental. She decided that my item was worthy of departure. So, I began wrapping it up, in the middle of the post office, providing endless entertainment for the locals who happened to be watching. The customs form had to be attached after the wrapping, and it didn't have any adhesive. I was handed a gluestick. Yes, the same one you used to paste macaroni on a piece of construction paper. The same thing went for the stamps. So, if all things go well, I tape covered, sticky parcel will arrive at my parent's house in the next month or two. I finally left the post office just after 1. Time taken to mail a package in Guyana: approximately 3 hours.

In other news, we have internet at the house now! The company installs a satellite network in your house. But, the satellite looks like a piece of tupperware bolted onto a galvanized steel pole mounted on the roof of the house. It shares an alarming resemblence to the weapons on top of the UFOs on the original War of the Worlds movie. The connection is a bit spotty at times, as to be expected. But it functions! Also, for all those Skype users, I've set up an account, so if you want to chat, then let me know and I'll send you my info! Tomorrow night, Tim and I were invited over to our neighbor's house for some type of social engagement. We have no idea what to expect. But you all can expect a story or two.

Be sure and drink a microbrew for me!

One love,

Tony