The Post Office

I got an email from Iman at the Fulbright House that I had a package waiting for me at the Jordan Post office in the balad. How exciting! I was definitely in need of a pick-me-up so it was perfect timing. I grabbed a cab to downtown. Side note about giving taxi drivers directions: road names are a fairly recent addition in Jordan. So, when you what to go somewhere you have to navigate the driver using landmarks or simply give him directions. When I got in the cab I told the driver I wanted to go to Hashim's (Jordan's famous restaurant) in downtown. When we got closer to downtown, I told him that really I was looking for the Jordan Post. We stopped at a nondescript building. I asked to make sure this was the post office. He assured me that it was. I was unconvinced. I asked again and again he assured me it was the post office. So, I paid him and got out of the cab.

Iman's email instructions said to go up to the second floor and talk to a man named Hamza. I walked behind the building to find a guarded entrance. I slid through the gate without a word from any guard and walked upstairs. I only saw two offices- neither of which indicated that a Hamza worked within. One of the two offices was occupied by a woman so I knocked on the door and told her I was looking for a Hamza who supposedly worked there. She asked if I was sure that he worked at Orange (a Jordanian mobile phone company). As it turns out the cab driver was wrong and this building definitely was not the post office. The woman kindly gave me directions to the post office and asked if I needed her to walk me there. I told her I hoped I could manage and walked back downstairs and out of the building.

After walking further down the street I found the actual Jordan Post office. I was sure this time because there was a sign outside. I went to the second floor and saw a flurry of activity. There were people everywhere. It reminded me of Baker Hardware on a Saturday during spring. There were workers chatting with each other and chatting with the customers. There were lines of customers waiting to be helped by one of the few people that could assist them. It was, needless to say, a busy atmosphere. I found myself stepping into a line not really knowing if that was the line I needed to be in. A fellow waiting customer asked if I had a package to pick up and I nodded yes. He pointed me to a different line where I was waiting for the man in blue. When it was my turn to be helped, I smiled politely and told him that I had a package waiting for me.

"From where is your package?"

"The United States."

"Fulbright?"

"Yes.

"Name?"

"Paula Koch."

The man rifled through a stack of packing slips until he came across one with my name on it. He handed me the slip of paper and told me to go to Office #1. I walked around the corner to find Office #1- so labeled by permanent marker on the wall. Inside the office, there were 2 desks with men sitting behind each. There was also a counter that opened behind into a small warehouse with shelves of packages. I walked into the office and stood waiting for one of the men at the desks to be free. A worker from behind the counter gestured at me for my packing slip. I thought it was just going to be that easy- I would give him the paper and he'd find my box and I could go. I thought completely wrong. I asked for my passport and wrote down my name on the paper again. Then he slid the slip over to one of the desks. I stood behind the desk waiting my turn. After a minute or two, I was told to go sit in the hallway and wait. I sat for 10 or 15 minutes waiting for my name to be called. Finally a man stepped outside and called "Bola!" By this time, I've come to accept that my name is Bola half of the time. Back in the office, I saw my package sitting on the table. The man asked me if it was mine. I nodded yes (it had my name on it). He picked up a box cutter and opened it up. I couldn't help but grin when I saw the contents of my care package from Jonah: gummy bears, gummy sharks, gum, a card and a stuffed eagle that says "Got Freedom" on the front and "Thank an Sailor" on the back. The man who opened my box slid the package over to the second desk. This man behind the desk looked through the contents of the package and told me "You can buy these things here!" in a rather accusatory tone. Iman's email warned that they are checking to see if I am importing goods to resell. I shrugged and used my best Arabic to try and tell him it was just a gift. He asked me what I was here for, how many words in Arabic I knew and then told me I need to learn a new word everyday. Finally, he asked me how much I customs tax I wanted to pay on my package. I said nothing. He chuckled. I took that as a good sign. He handed me my paper back after scribbling on it. I thought I was done so I tried to take my box. All three workers in the room said "No!" and told me I had to go get the director's signature first. I wandered back into the hallway looking for the director's office. A shorter man in a uniform came running out of an office and guided me to the directors office where he walked behind the desk and signed my paper. I asked him where I should go now. He pointed me to the line I was originally standing in. I finally handed over my packing slip again. He signed it and directed me to a second line where I was told I needed to pay .95JD in tax. I thought I wasn't going to have to pay anything! Oh well- I could deal with .95 JD. I asked again what my next stop was. He said I needed to go back to Office #1. I walked back in and stood in the middle of the office, not really sure who I was supposed to talk to this time. A worker came up, grabbed my paper and handed it over to man at desk #2 again who wrote me out a receipt. "Am I done?" I asked. He smiled and nodded. I took my package and left. I was laughing because of the absurdity of the whole process and grinning on top of that because I got a package from Jonah :)