Post Office...or Interrogation Building?

So mom and dad mailed me a package containing a MacBook battery about a month ago. I finally received a notice in my CIEE mailbox this week about this package and that I had to go to the downtown post office. But I had to go quickly so the post office wouldn’t open my package thinking it was a bomb just sitting on their shelves. I was so happy that my Jordanian peer tutor offered to meet me in downtown so she can accompany me to the post office and so we can do some shopping afterwards. Too bad receiving my package took up the majority of our time…enough to blog about it.

When we walked in the Jordan post office, it looked like what a normal post office would. There was a nice long counter with different lines for stamps, letters, etc. So I showed the man my notice and he said that I had to go upstairs. My peer tutor greatly helped with the language barrier. We went upstairs and found a “post office-looking” counter. Again, I showed the man my notice and he said that I had to go to the room at the end of the hall around the corner. So off we went. Again, I handed my notice to a man sitting at a desk. He looked at it, saw my CA driver’s license as identification, and had my package received. It was nice to see the familiar handwriting of my dad’s. I thought I would be on my way, but oh no--this was only the beginning of my post office experience.

There was another man in a uniform sitting across the room smoking his cigarette. He told me to see him with my package and a piece of paper that he gave me, so I’m all like, “Oookay.” I gave him the paper, he looked at it, then asked me to open my package. I’m thinking in my head as I’m opening it, “What the heck, is this a freakin’ interrogation room or post office? I just want my non-dangerous battery.” While I was having difficulty opening my package with a knife, the man just leaned back in his chair and kept puffing his cigarette. I strongly dislike the smell, so this didn’t help the situation with smoke all up in my face. My peer tutor offered to help, so I held the package while she tried opening it. I don’t like sharp objects slicing towards me, either. We finally got it open and he asked me to take out the contents. I took out the battery and he asked me how much it cost. I said, “I don’t know, I didn’t buy it, my parents did.” So I said a random number in Arabic, khamsiin ($50). He showed me the customs paper my dad filled out and said that it cost $130. Then I said, “Ya, that sounds right.” I continued my thoughts of why waste his time asking me how much it cost while he had the amount written on the customs form in front of him. He signed another piece of paper, gave it to me, told me to put the battery back in the box, and place it on the shelf next to him. I had my package, opened it, and now he wanted me to leave it in the room while I get another signature in order to take it home. My peer tutor and her little sister led me to the room I had to get the signature from. Another man in uniform (I’m guessing they were customs) signed it and sent me to another room for another signature…long story short, we went through 10 (maybe I’m exaggerating) different rooms different men to sign different papers. At this point, it definitely did not feel like I was in a post office anymore. We were even sent to go up another floor for another signature. My peer tutor and I had to laugh at how many times we were going to be repeating this process. I even had to fork up a 24 dinar fee since my package was sent through regular mail instead of through FedEx or something. We went back down to the 2^nd floor where I had to pay another 5 dinar, get a piece of paper stamped and signed before going back to the original room where my package was waiting for me. I gave the man sitting at his desk my paper and after some more signing, he gave me the okay to take my package.

What would probably take 10 minutes in America, took close to an hour, here in Jordan along with visiting rooms and asking for signatures that all blurred together. Thank you, parents…I said I didn’t need a new battery, but I guess without you, I wouldn’t have written this blog…