Essay #20 (Pochta)

I'm almost up. The girl in front of me wears her hair down and stands on her tip-toes trying to see the shelf of cards behind the glass. Her jeans creak with the stretch and her face is confused. The woman behind the desk explains that she can't send a non-standard envelope through the mail. She'll have to choose one of the "Hallmark T-stan" cards with a giant picture of T___ the Great in order to send her oversized card to Russia. She looks at me, and we giggle as she tears open her already stamped and addressed envelope to shove its contents into some form of T-bashy's picture which will greatly confuse the recipient, no doubt.

I get to the counter and say I'd like to send two packages. We start the process quickly. I fill out one form and triplicate the form by hand while she itemizes the first package. The items are weighed individually and wrapped in white material. She hand sews the package closed and seals the seams with some black glue. I get a black ball-point pen to write the address directly on the material. As she attends to others in the fast-growing line, I sit down at a table with my first package. To my left is an old woman writing with black marker on what looks like a giant pillow. To my right is a man carefully writing a return address on some kind of giant banana. I bring my finished product to the young woman, and she charges me about a dollar, consults my passport, and then throws my package onto the general pile. I ask about my second and she replies that it's already 5:30 and they're closed. Closed?! I stare at her in disbelief. She's Turkmen and wears a Turkmen dress covered by a smock. She's tired from giving directions and yelling orders all day--not to mention listening to everyone's complaints--all for about $50 a month. I give in easily to her strength and resign myself to coming back tomorrow.

The next day I feel something's awry as I approach the doors. The power is out. She says they can't send packages without power. I give a laugh and say, "See you tomorrow!"

Day 3. I open the door of the post office and realize I've left my passport with Peace Corps today - no package sending. For good measure, I ask her - no go.

Day 4. We greet each other informally today and smile. I'm in! We get right to business, and in minutes my package is on the floor ready to go. Bidding adieu, I go about shopping for shoes and a coat. An hour down the road I hear someone calling to me. "Devushka!!" she yells. "Your passport! You left your passport at the post office!" Amazing! A strange woman who evidently also sent a package today saw my passport on the table and was told, no doubt, that if I'm spotted, she should direct me back to the post office! I run back and have a good laugh with my newest Turkmen friend and say goodbye for good.

Unfortunately, I now live in a new city with new postal ladies. I started off on the right foot here in Balkanabat. I've had little chats with the two workers and they seem friendly. My first package was successful, though it took a week of sitting in the office before everything was in order. The girl behind the desk, however, showed me how she sewed it together with great pride in her work. We check our mail often, and they get almost as excited as we do when a package comes! They know our names and the names of our loved ones.

I have been waging a secret battle against the recently mandated standard envelopes by sending my own and trying to slide it past them, but they're getting quicker. Whether to boost local envelope business or to begin sliding down the slippery slope towards outlawing foreign mail altogether, thin envelopes with "To:" and "From:" written in Turkmen are required for all mail. I wouldn't expect anything less, however, from the people who read our mail and reseal it with conspicuous-looking stickers. ("Mom, did you put Viagra stickers on your Chrismas card on purpose?"). We'll use the standard envelopes for now and someday, perhaps, the constitution will be upheld (which in Turkmenistan states all forms of communication are private). The irony will come when someone receives this essay with the last paragraph blackened out!

Cheers to the Turkmen postal service in all its glories!