Updates from the alley

and the post office

There was a storm on Sunday evening, brief and wild.

In the afternoon, dark clouds had amassed in the south-west; there were a few flashes and rumbles. Then nothing. Quiet, the sky once again clear, with a pleasant breeze. I might have imagined it, the idea of rain.

But it returned, hours later, wild and boisterous, doors banging, the sound of things lifting, smashing, coming to settle before doing it all again. And then it poured.

Every day since the rain has come back—earlier each day, and for longer, too, though without the wild intensity of Sunday.

Living things—me and my plants and a dragonfly perched on one of them—we’re all delighted.

**

It’s a mixed bag for the road works. After last weeks’ load of dirt and stones came a cute little roller to smooth things beautifully even.

And then men are here again with digging tools and for a moment I think we might be back to square one.

But they’re just uncovering the thick, round concrete drain covers, removing them to carefully apply concrete to the area round the hole, in preparation for paving. As I pass, I can see the brick sides dropping down to the drains below, neatly and carefully arranged in a circle, some far older than I’d expected.

When they finally finish with this alley it’s going to be a job well done. Should I say if? No, we’ll go with when.

For better or worse the dirt that’s been used to fill in the road is of that particular yellow-brown that you find in certain parts of Nepal… and once the rain hits, well, it’s soon a thick gooey mass that clings to footwear and follows you up the stairs. The only downside to this rain.

**

A few weeks ago, picking up a couple of books at the post office, I found new procedures were afoot. It’s more like they’ve reverted to the old ones, but with a few steps added for good measure. As books are still not taxed, I didn’t get the full experience that day.

Yesterday, thought, my post box held two pink cards, on one of which was some Nepali handwriting that, apparently, indicated that the item was taxable. Under the old system, both of these parcels, being small (the limit was under two kilos) would have been put straight into my post box. If they were too large to fit, the card would direct me to a room where I could collect them. Only a parcel weighing over two kilos warranted a trip around the building, and I hadn’t had one that large since operations were moved to the new location.

Procedures have now been consolidated on the ground floor. An outside room houses the parcels, and after I write the relevant information (name, signature, date) on each pink card, the parcels are found, scanned, and the details I’ve written entered into a computer; my post box card, with the dates of each annual renewal noted in a careful hand, is also duly inspected.

A cheerful woman—there seem to be several on this duty—follows me and my parcels, both to direct me and to make sure I don’t abscond with them, it seems, till we reach a man sitting outside, whose job it is to check the envelopes’ contents.

A giant pair of scissors is produced—truly you have never seen scissors the size and weight of these; I’d bet they’ve been around longer than I have and will be here long after. The kind of tool that the expression “they don’t make ‘em like that anymore” was created for.

Man checks the contents, confirms the book will incur no tax, but the summer dress will. He scrutinizes the shipping label, points out to me that it says $7 before proceeding to write $6 on the pink card instead. I have no idea why.

Like the woman, though, he’s very jolly.

The parcels remain on the table between the man and woman, while I am directed inside, to another room where I recognize a man at a computer; he’s the one who filled out my no-tax details when I was here for the books a few weeks ago.

As he once again enters the details from the pink cards—now with the inclusion of garment value—I learn (some of) the new tax rates for incoming mail, which are as follows:

36% clothing

58% shoes

82% for chocolates containing cocoa

I assume the latter is to differentiate from general candy, often referred to here under the catch-all term of “chocolates” and I’m so surprised and amused by this incredibly high figure that I forget to ask about candies that don’t contain cocoa. (If you, dear reader, are one of the friends and family who has my postbox, please, never send me chocolate, containing cocoa or otherwise.)

The printer spits out three or four pieces of light blue paper which, aside from the details being typed instead of handwritten, seem nearly identical to those pink sheets separated by carbon paper from the old post office, and for no real reason I find the familiarity of this detail delightful.

“You have to pay two-hundred-and-eight-three-rupees” he says and so I’m pulling out my wallet but no, not here; I am pointed to the bank by the happy couple chaperoning my goods.

At the bank counter, one blue paper stays (I think?), and I receive a receipt and change, counted out to the last rupee. Back I go; I show the lot to yet another man at yet another desk and each blue page that remains is rubber stamped with a stamp bearing a startling amount of information, and then the woman tears off half the receipt with a ruler and carefully staples it to a single blue page and hands it to me. The others are spirited off to file folders somewhere where they will probably remain for the next decade or so.

I’m left wondering if this is all an elaborate job-creation scheme, but listen: as long as you plan to collect your post on a day when you’re in no hurry, everyone’s friendly and helpful and really it’s one of those things where you just have to enjoy the ride. And I’m okay with that.