going postal

Prior to meeting in the asswipe border town of La Quiaca and heading to Bolivia, Paul left weeks before me for the Argentine northwest. He informed me from the road that he had bought himself a woven piece of art and had it mailed to himself. I was spending a lot of time at home trying to organize laundry, packing, and logistics for leaving the house for a couple of weeks. I could be there in the mornings for the mail no problem. When it was bought, there was a $20 peso down payment and the rest of the $200 pesos would be due upon collection at my doorstep. Little did I know that my last few days in the city would be spent inside the post office.

The occasion of Paul’s gift to himself was no exception. Naturally, when the package arrived, our doorbell was on the fritz and, naturally, the postman didn’t leave the package with the doorman. Instead I got a note that I had missed the delivery and would have to collect the package in a different area of town. No problem. I take myself to nearby Montserrat’s post office where they tell me that I cannot collect the package until the next day.

When I return the next day I take a number and pull up a wall in the standing-room only waiting room. The middle aged gentleman to my left is testing the Kleenex capacity of his sleeve and I worry momentarily that the woman on my right has passed away until I see her chest rise and fall gently. They call number 62, so I check out how I am doing. My number says 03. Not looking good for me. Not to worry, I have my Soduku. 19 minutes later I finish my Soduku.

2 hours and 16 minutes later with my claim slip in hand, it is explained to me that I cannot pick up the package as it is addressed to one Pablo Rivas and not to me. I timidly explain that Pablo Rivas is partying in the Argentine North and may not plan to return. Not to worry, they tell me, I can pick up the package with my passport, faxed authorization from the aforementioned Paul Rivas, and a his passport – provided that he was my husband. When I countered with some dainty tidbits about how trying to get my “husband” to send a fax would be the equivalent of trying to force-feed broken glass to a regular person, they told me it wouldn’t be a problem as I had five days to get my shit together before they would ship the package back to its origin. With less than 48 hours until my 26-hour bus ride to La Quiaca, I started to get the stress sweats.

Within the hour I was on Gmail chat with Paul explaining the situation and trying not to chuck a virtual punch at him for not addressing the package to me and not himself. He told me where to find a copy of his passport and sent an email, in lieu of a fax saying that I was his wife and had his express permission to collect his mail for him. I printed the letter and returned to the house where I found a copy of every important document that Paul has – minus a copy of his passport. At this point I realize that it was pure luck that I found Paul online before and he was unlikely to go back to a computer for days. I switched to Defcom 5 and trudged back to the Internet. I had a fuzzy memory that Paul and I had emailed each other copies of our documents in cases of emergency. Thanks to the miracle that is Gmail, my email produced a copy of his passport.

The next day I was supposed to return to the post office with a fax, a copy of Paul’s passport and some money for the painting. I figured two out of three wasn’t bad. This fortuitous day I only had to wait 90 minutes to be attended. I had my coima on hand, you know, just in case. The man helping me says no way. You have a passport for Paul Rivas. The package is addressed to Pablo Rivas. Eso no sirve. Fucker. I explain that the names are the same and that Paul was just doing that to uncomplicated things for the esteemed Correo Argentino. He looks baffled but a kindly colleague steps in for me at this point telling him that what I am saying is not, in fact, a bold faced lie. Clearly, I am trying to bribe the wrong dude. The man helping me is pissed now; real pissed. This is my third visit in three days and he is trying to make it three for three with sending me away empty-handed.

He shrugs, resigned. Where is MY passport then? Fuck. I look at him blankly. That came from left field. He called my bluff and I am left baffled and pants-down. He can smell my fear. He grins. Oh yes, he explains, it is absolutely imperative that we have your identification on record also. I am rooting around in my Mary Poppins style purse. Wallet that weighs at least 20 pounds, gum, planner, fuzz, pens, hand sanitizer… hold on… Kleenex, half a candy bar, driver’s license?!?!?! No?! Shit. Ticket stub from movie, lighter, gloves, headphones, band aid… PASSPORT! PAASSSSSSSSSSPOOOOOOOORRRRRRT! I hold it triumphantly above my head and wave it around. I let out a giant Whew. People are staring. The attendant flounces off into the back room to look for the package and I stand at the counter with a shit-eating grin on my face. The other customers are split. Some elderly women smile warmly. I have won a battle for all of us. This story will become urban myth – the gringa who got her mail. The others scowl jealously, knowing all too well that they will be sent away when their turn comes. I breathe heavily and wait.

As I wait I sort out the $200 pesos that I will need to complete the transaction and get the fucker home. The man returns about a century later with the package and hands it over. I have it in my hands and he turns his back to me, walks back to his station, and calls the next customer in line. I look at him, utterly confused. Doesn’t he need the money? He notices me staring and gives me a snarky ¿Sí? What the hell am I still doing there? I turn tail and run. I feel only mildly guilty for ripping off the museum that Paul bought the painting from but in my heart I FEEL that I am really ripping off the Argentinean post office. And that feels good. And I don’t want to be around when they realize what has happened. So I just… run.

I unwrap the package when I get home. It’s a pretty woven painting though not my taste. The mailing has totally bent it. Either that or an angry postal worker had his way with it in a dark corner of the mailing office. This, however, doesn’t matter to me. Every time I see the painting it rings out like a shining beacon of victory.

Hopefully previous blog posts, or a quick reading of Bad Times In Buenos Aires have made it clear that things move slowly here. Just two days ago, ironically, on another trip to the post office, an elderly gentleman greeted my sister Julie and I. I asked if he was in line. He replied, in Spanish, “Yes. I have been waiting here for ages. Make no mistake, girls, this is a great country but it is full of lazy fuckers that don’t want to do anything for you.” I smiled and nodded and he gave me a hearty suerte as he left. Wiser words I have not heard lately.