Nothing Works the Same

Really, if you come to India and expect anything to be similar to the UK, then you are in for a big surprise.  There is no logic to anything.  No consistency.  You never know what you are going to get, how much you are going to get or how much it will cost.  The "system" is not a system.  It's an interpretation of a set of loose guidelines, masquerading as bureaucracy; and they do love bureaucracy!

Take for example the simple posting of a package.

The story begins with my receipt of a legal text book from Amazon in the post.  Nothing controversial here, just that I was remiss in ordering the wrong edition.  A simple matter of returning the item for a full refund of around £12.

Or so would be the case if you happened to find yourself in any other country apart from India.

I followed the Amazon guidelines, printed out their barcoded address label, put the book in the original packaging and stuck the label over the original address, and off I went to the post office. 

You see, you already have an image in your mind's eye of what the post office is like.

Wrong!

It is a dark and unwelcoming government building, with hordes of people and no discernible queuing system.

They have a pen for public use! (but it doesn't work)

You can't buy envelopes here, but you do get a pot of glue to stick down the flap.

The pot of glue doesn't have a brush.  It has a twig.  Evidently, every morning it is the job of some lowly post office worker to go outside to break off a suitably formed twig from the nearest tree for the glue pot.

Gluepottwigwallah  they probably call him.  That's probably all he does.  He will have some sort of uniform that has a twig badge on the arm - more than likely stuck on with the very twig he lovingly selected that morning.  What a proud moment!

OK. So I arrived at the post office with my package in hand (careful!). It is not exactly near to the villa.  It's about a fifteen minute walk uphill, along the main road.  Not too many people there as it was still early - about 9-45.  I eventually got served by one of the jobsworth staff (there were two jobsworths serving the queues of public, but about another eight not serving any other useful purpose whatsoever apart from distracting the public facing jobsworths from facing the public in anticipation of receiving some compliment on their latest henna hand design, or their new motorcycle helmet that had been clearly fashioned out of the hulk of an un-ripened watermelon).

I got the male jobsworth, and proffered my package to him (again, careful please!).  He examined it in every detail.

 "No.  Cannot post",  he quipped almost triumphantly.

"Why not?"

"Package used before"

"Why is that a problem?"

"It has custom stamp"

"OK. Give it back"

At this point I borrow a pen and completely obliterate the customs stamp from the package and hand it back to him.

"No good.  Cannot post"

"Why not?"

"Package used before"

"But nobody will know! You cannot tell!"

"But I know".

Feck! Aerse biscuits! (as we say in Ireland).  I take the package back and walk about half a mile to the nearest stationery shop.  I buy an envelope from the envelope shop,  find a pen shop to buy a pen and a sticky tape shop for the sticky tape, as I can't rely on the glue-stick arrangement.

I walk the half mile back to the post office, go in, fill out the envelope,  put the package into it, have a go with the glue twig thing and the sticky tape.

Unsurprisingly for me at this stage, the sticky tape is not what you expect.  It is obviously a cunning trick, arranged by an Indian mystic, as there is no end to it.  In my frustration I bite the whole roll in half, and manage to get just enough to reinforce the flap which is now leaking glue and bits of twig.

By this time there is a veritable throng of people at the not queuing disorganised counter.  I admit defeat for today and walk home - somewhat dejected.

Next morning I make an effort and get up early to beat the queue.  I walk back to the post office with my newly packaged item and give it to the male jobsworth again.  He spends about two minutes examining it for flaws, but can't find any.  

I am chuffed.

"Export form"  He says handing me a small A5 slip.  OK.  I go to fill it out.  No pen.  The non-operational pen is still on the table from yesterday.  I manage to borrow a pen from some kindly gentleman, and fill in the form, and give him his pen back with thanks.  I hand the form to jobsworth.  He opened it up. 

"Two copies please"  

It wasn't carbonated, and I was quite pissed off at this stage. 

"Why no carbon paper?" I said.  

"Not an original" was the reply.  "I need an original".  

I debated the possibility of explaining the legal precidents set around carbon paper and original copies, but decided against it.

I again sourced a pen from a kindly local and filled in the form again and handed it back.  He seemed satisfied. 

"How much?" I asked

"600 Rupees (£9) for registered post"

"That's a bit much.  How much for ordinary parcel post?

"547 Rupees (£8)"

It really wasn't worth it for a book that's only worth £12, with no guarantee of it actually getting back to Amazon.  

"Never mind" I said.  The book is still sitting on my bookshelf.

Nothing works the same in India.