First I went to the counter with the sign saying Petits Paquets, thinking that would be the place to take my small packet. It was manned----okay, personned---by my neighbour's eldest daughter who smiled sweetly and sent me to Produits Postales, personned by a beaming former student of mine. I thought that would be where you bought postal products and obscure philatelic items, but it turns out it's the place where they shake your parcel, notice that it rattles and refer you to the Package Man.
This guy is a treat to watch. He sits at a battered wooden desk half under the staircase beside a large pile of carboard and, armed only with a huge roll of tape and a pair of scissors, transforms people's ragged bundles into tightly wrapped parcels, glistening with layers of sello tape. He was busy squashing a pile of textile products into a box for a tiny Lao girl and then taping, taping, taping it shut, until every vulnerable point and edge of the box was securely sealed with tape. Did he have a tape dispenser with a sharp serrated edge to cut the tape? He did not; he had only the big old pair of scissors. Then he laboriously addressed the parcel, pausing often for with lengthy consultations with the tiny sender until, at last, he was happy and she trotted off to send this masterpiece of parcelling art.
It was my turn. He shook the long, cardboard tube which I had already taped up thoroughly and addressed. It still rattled. Apparently that is not good. So off came my multiple layers of sticky tape, after which he casually but accurately sliced into the tube and pared it down to size, deftly measured, cut and fitted a square cardboard to stifle any remaining hint of a rattle, trimmed the edge of the cut again, popped the lid back on and began taping, taping taping.
A work of art, I said. He smiled self-deprecatingly. (Just pleased that I could fix yer rattle, ma'm.)
On my way back to the Philately Department, I was stopped by another acquaintance who works at the post office who shook my hand and asked how I was and so on, told me how busy things were, shook my hand again and scurried back to his post behind the counter.
The Produits Postales girl gave me another beaming smile and a sticker and a chit, which I took to the Paye window where they gave me a signed receipt. Then, and only then, was my parcel taken from me for the next stage of its journey
By now a good half hour was almost up, but I thought I'd just check to see if any mail had arrived for me. So I went to the window clutching my passport where the former Package Man who now works there greeted me warmly. The tiny sender was also there, discussing the next stage of her parcel's journey, but with less success than I'd had.
A lady in beige and a lady in purple were sent off to the back rooms to rifle through piles of mail for about five more minutes but nothing turned up. I said I was now using my 'son's' post box and they suggested I check that out. So I went down the hall to a huge room full of rows of PO Boxes, peered through the window but saw no-one. I waited with another lady carrying a wide-eyed grandchild who deftly snatched my passport from my sweaty hand and had to be convinced to give it back.
Eventually the lady in purple ambled in from the back courtyard where she'd gone to rest after the rigours of searching for my mail. The other customer took quite a while to explain her errand,waving her Identity card and pointing at a box, but the purple lady just kept shaking her head and picking her teeth until the customer left.
So I thought I'd have no luck getting mail from Sommay's box, since I am not him, but anyway I launched into a long explanation in mangled Lao about how my Lao son has a box, when she interrupted me to say "You mean Sommay?"and handed over the contents of his mailbox without so much as a glance at my proffered passport, Lao Identity Card and work permit.
It was only the latest New Yorker, but I was terribly impressed with how well it went, and shared my feelings with the hand-shaker who happened to be milling about again. He wanted to have a look at the New Yorker, of course, which gave me time to notice that the tiny sender was back at the pick-up window, patiently filling out a form beside her once exquisitely sealed box, which had now been cruelly sliced open in front of her for some obscure procedural reason.
She didn't exactly look charmed, but she wasn't much perturbed, either. These things happen, she was probably thinking, as she trudged back across the Post Office to the Package Man to start all over again.
I was, however, totally charmed as I emerged into the late afternoon sun, and a passing student stopped to give me a lift home on his motorbike, just in time to watch the big burning red sun drop into the Mekhong again.
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