A couple of days ago, I decided to go on an adventure. Having received a notice that I had a package at the Ecuadorian post office, then having received a second notice because I waited forever to go and get it thanks to hosting a team, I realized I probably needed to go relieve the delivery service of whatever it was that they either couldn’t fit in Youth World’s mailbox at HCJB or for which they simply wanted to charge me.
The first part of this adventure was asking a million people where the post office is. Knowing that I’d be going by myself, I got several good directions and landmarks before I hit up Google Earth and drew myself a map that I could actually decipher. That was probably a little bit on the anal retentive side, but my Spanish isn’t perfect, and I figured I’d reduce the potential stress of the operation in any way possible.
A 25¢ Trole ride and short walk later, I saw the post office, exactly where I expected it. Many times we ask our short-term teams how their expectations lined up with the reality of their experience. This was exactly the spot where my expectations stopped lining up with reality. Even remotely.
The office wasn’t extremely busy when I walked in. There were two individuals and a couple sitting on benches in front of me. There was a window with a man working behind it, a door into his little area, a counter with a series of stations, and a Bank of Guayaquil/Western Union counter. Hanging from the ceiling above the counter with the different stations was a digital sign that said “Turno” and “Modulo” (Turn, or “Customer Number” and “Station”), but I didn’t see the typical little red plastic thing that spits out numbers. A woman was walking away from the door into the room with the window, and nobody in front of me seemed to be stepping up, so I just walked to the window and handed the man inside my slip of paper with the notice I’d received a package. I’ll also note that this seemed a perfectly logical decision because the door was clearly marked as the Package Center.
To put it mildly, window-man freaked out. He was outside in the main area at breakneck speed, telling me “No, no, no,” and that I needed to take a turno and wait for my number to appear before I could be helped, and that I would have to go up to the counter and accomplish a series of tasks before I could come to his window. He was speaking very slowly, loudly, and clearly, but very simply and miming everything as he went, because (obviously) I’m a gringo. I was a little bit insulted at first that he didn’t even try to ascertain my level of Spanish (I understood every word he said to me), but I (1) gave him the benefit of the doubt in that (despite the lack of posted directions anywhere) I had, in fact, already screwed up his very much defined process and (2) was afraid that the directions would get more complicated later and that I might appreciate the miming down the road.
He took the turno (number) from the typical little red machine, which was hiding on the opposite side of an architectural column in the middle of the room. I went to sit down, but as I turned to face the seats, a heard a “bong!” and changed my about-face into 360 to see that my number had appeared on the sign. The guy at the first station behind the counter had been watching this entire exchange and waited until window-man had finished his diatribe to hit his button and call me up, as I was clearly the only person in the building who had not been helped. Great. I’ve been in the building for less than 30 seconds and two people think I’m a moron so far. Things can only get better, right?
At this point, I was at least prepared. I handed over my package notice, and was totally ready when he asked me for my two passport copies. Knowing how things change in Ecuador, I’d also brought two copies that included a copy of my Censo (Ecuadorian ID) as well, along with my actual Censo and my actual Passport. Probably because I was prepared for the worst, none of this was needed. I did have to fork over somewhere in the neighborhood of $6.00, though. By the Grace of God, I had some cash in my wallet, which (due to experience) I don’t normally take on the Trole.
I also had the presence of mind to take my turno and put it in my otherwise-empty back left pocket, where it was accessible, and as opposed to the trash. After a few minutes while counter-dude processed my papers and got my change, he returned and asked for my turno number, (which I remembered to be 321, but had to prove to him with the actual paper anyway). Counter-dude proceeded to write #32 at the top of my papers and told me that he would give them to window-man and that in a few minutes, window-man would call my number again. There was slightly less miming involved this time.
This gave me the opportunity to rest for a moment and laugh at the situation. From the benches in front of window-man’s area, I noticed there was a second digital sign with turno numbers, which was sitting on #30. People slowly trickled through the door to the right of the window, and the numbers ticked up to #32. I walked toward the window, but window-man saw me coming and just ushered me through the door. I suppose this was because it would be easier to mime directions when I could see more than just his shoulders and head. Insulted as I was still trying not to be, I just held out what paperwork I had left from counter-dude rather than ask what I needed to be doing in the cramped little office with employees in various uniforms from postal stockroom workers to a rather imposing soldier in an officer’s jacket. I basically spent the next several minutes handing papers to people, receiving those and more papers back, and handing them to other people running in and out of the office through a back door that led to a warehouse.
Finally a female postal employee told me to come with her. Of course, the most complicated questions and directions would come from her, and she did exactly zero miming. I followed the conversation for the most part as we walked through the warehouse and she picked up my package on the way. The problem was I had no idea the answers to any of her questions. “Who sent your package?” “I don’t know.” “Is it of any value?” “I don’t know.” “What is it?” “I seriously have no idea.” I think she just assumed I was saying “No sé,” because I didn’t understand her, rather than that I actually had no clue. I thought pretty hard about giving her my series of complaints that the notice they sent to me was completely useless in that regard, and because it included no useful information, I had no way of knowing things like who sent it or even from where or what they had declared was inside, so she was actually much more likely than I was to have a clue.
She turned the large cardboard envelope over and over in her hands, telling me that she didn’t like this kind of package because when you slice it open, stuff floats out that is really bad for you to breathe. When she finally got around to slicing open the package, I caught a glimpse of the sender’s name (someone totally awesome and near to my heart) and the description “Cotton hat.” Even before she had totally gotten into it, she asked “Un gorro de lana?” “Wool” was close enough for me, and I was so frustrated (wondering why they brought me all the way down to the post office if they knew it was a hat and basically what it was made of) that I couldn’t think of the word algodón anyway, so I just nodded.
As she sliced it open and held her breath, I did have to give it to her that I understood why she doesn’t like those packages. Brown floating stuff the consistency of attic insulation went everywhere and stayed airborne for a while. Allergy-girl2 verified that it was, indeed, a hat, and sent me back to window-man, without my package. Window-man called in the uniformed army officer. They conversed for a while, then sent me over to a desk with a pretty young guy working behind it. Desk-guy had me sign a ton of papers, and asked me my name (Ecuadorians tend to have a hard time reading gringo handwriting, which I understand, because I have a terrible time reading Ecuadorian handwriting). I told him “Daniel” and he laughed and made some comment about “Daniel el Travieso” (which is “Dennis the Menace” in Spanish and which I actually already knew and therefore got his joke). I nodded and chuckled politely because I wanted my hat.
Desk-guy handed me a stack of papers, and sent me outside the office, back to the main part of the building to see the nice fellow at the bank counter. Desk-guy told me on the way out that I’d need to give those papers to bank-fellow and pay him half a dollar. I passed my papers and 50¢ through the space under the glass to bank-fellow, who looked at me like I was an idiot and told me it was 90¢ instead. I switched out the half dollar for a whole one and bank-fellow sent me back to counter-dude, who took my remaining papers, had me record my name and passport number, and finally handed me my re-taped package. He turned around and began a conversation with someone else. Normally I would stick around in this kind of situation and as “Am I really 100% done?” In this particular instance, with my package in hand and two hours of my life given to the post office, I power-walked right out the door before they made me pay for or sign another thing.
1At the rate I was going, and seeing as it was only 9:00am, I wondered if I was the 32nd person served on Thursday, or since the Ecuadorian Postal Service was founded in 1960s.
2I decided this was a better nickname than my originally-planned “package-girl.”
