This morning, I had two errands to run in my banking town of Diego. Such small errands that, if I lived in the United States, would not even require me to leave my home, or if so, would be rather painless: pick up a package at the post office (these are usually delivered right to your door in the U.S!), and buy a plane ticket (normally this can be done on-line).
I set out as early as possible to do these two simple errands since the heat and humidity these days steadily climbs and becomes unbearable by 10 o'clock in the morning. Unfortunately the post office and Air Madagascar don't open until 8:30.
First stop, the post office. But please, don't picture a post office. Picture in your mind instead, a dilapidated, abandoned building, complete with broken glass doors, crumbling concrete steps, empty office stalls filled with broken machinery, computer monitors from the early age of computers so covered in dust they look like an artifacts, stacks of phone directories from the 1980's, busted brooms and all manner of boxes, piles of yellowed paper and trash blown into corners. This is where I go to retrieve my packages... where one solitary man sits behind a wooden desk day after day, writing up dozens of package slips by hand in leather-bound books that look straight out of the19th century. Each slip must, of course, be stamped with several official stamps in order for every transaction to be complete.
But I digress. Already pouring with sweat in the stuffy building, I hurriedly give the man my package slip, wondering why it costs an astonishing 10,000 Ariary less than usual. He looks at me sheepishly as he turns the corner to retrieve the package; I sense something is wrong. Normally he will pull out an ancient set of keys that opens a dusty storage room; this time he simply picks up what I think is a large envelope on his desk. As he comes around the corner I see that what looks to be an envelope was once a good-sized cardboard box, now squished (perhaps under the wheels of a truck?) and bundled together with twine. One corner is open, and the whole box is soggy and smelling of decay. This is the package I've been waiting two months for.
I can't help but instantly show my frustration, by swearing (in English) under my breath. He starts rattling off some story about a problem with the truck, and rain, and bad roads, and in response, trying not to be overly confrontational, I don't look him in the eye. I understand most of what he says; his Malagasy is a dialect with which I'm not too familiar. He suggests if I would rather come back in the afternoon, I can file a formal complaint. (This really is just a formality, nothing would come out of it other than losing several more pints of sweat and sitting for several more hours in a stuffy office building.) I say no thank you, I'll take what's left of the package now. He tells me not to be mad at him, he didn't ruin the package. I know this, but still, the sweat, the heat, the two years of dealing with nothing that works in Madagascar... this one moment is just the straw that broke the already-broken-long-ago camel's back.
I pay the money with crumpled, dirty bills and move on to my second errand of the day, which holds much more promise of going smoothly; when I'd gone to the Air Madagascar office earlier in the week, there was actually a waiting area with comfortable chairs, fans that worked (though the electricity was out in half the office), and fairly competent staff who spoke an comprehensible mixture of French, Malagasy and a few English words.
The office is a good distance from the post so by the time I arrive I am once again dripping with sweat. Much to my delight, there is no wait! I make my way to the pleasant woman I'd dealt with on Monday. After securing the reservation (all the while fanning myself with a piece of plastic), we go together to the payment desk, which is where the trouble begins. My credit card won't process through their fairly-modern looking machine. She tries again, and again, and again. Several other workers gather around, trying the card. "Do you have another card?" they ask. No. Of course not.
We sit back down at the desk and she looks at me impassively. "Madame? Can I help you?" she asks, dismissing me and looking around for the next customer. I'm kinda -okay, really- pissed off. She tells me I'll have to go to the bank to get cash, then come back. Alright, fine. It's no one's fault, it's just life in Madagascar. Out in the street, back in the sun, I storm off to the closest ATM. As I approach the door, the guard stops me, calling out in Malagasy, "It's not working! You'll have to go downtown." Of course.
I get the fat stack of Ariary, return to the office and finally make the reservation with a new clerk, who is actually a 60-someodd year old man, who is in training and possibly discovering computers for the first time. He politely asks, "Would you like to pay now or at the airport?" Haha! I almost laugh. This whole time, I discover, I didn't even need to pay at the time of the reservation. I could have paid on the day of the flight, at the airport. Sigh.
I need a beer.
I set out as early as possible to do these two simple errands since the heat and humidity these days steadily climbs and becomes unbearable by 10 o'clock in the morning. Unfortunately the post office and Air Madagascar don't open until 8:30.
First stop, the post office. But please, don't picture a post office. Picture in your mind instead, a dilapidated, abandoned building, complete with broken glass doors, crumbling concrete steps, empty office stalls filled with broken machinery, computer monitors from the early age of computers so covered in dust they look like an artifacts, stacks of phone directories from the 1980's, busted brooms and all manner of boxes, piles of yellowed paper and trash blown into corners. This is where I go to retrieve my packages... where one solitary man sits behind a wooden desk day after day, writing up dozens of package slips by hand in leather-bound books that look straight out of the19th century. Each slip must, of course, be stamped with several official stamps in order for every transaction to be complete.
But I digress. Already pouring with sweat in the stuffy building, I hurriedly give the man my package slip, wondering why it costs an astonishing 10,000 Ariary less than usual. He looks at me sheepishly as he turns the corner to retrieve the package; I sense something is wrong. Normally he will pull out an ancient set of keys that opens a dusty storage room; this time he simply picks up what I think is a large envelope on his desk. As he comes around the corner I see that what looks to be an envelope was once a good-sized cardboard box, now squished (perhaps under the wheels of a truck?) and bundled together with twine. One corner is open, and the whole box is soggy and smelling of decay. This is the package I've been waiting two months for.
I can't help but instantly show my frustration, by swearing (in English) under my breath. He starts rattling off some story about a problem with the truck, and rain, and bad roads, and in response, trying not to be overly confrontational, I don't look him in the eye. I understand most of what he says; his Malagasy is a dialect with which I'm not too familiar. He suggests if I would rather come back in the afternoon, I can file a formal complaint. (This really is just a formality, nothing would come out of it other than losing several more pints of sweat and sitting for several more hours in a stuffy office building.) I say no thank you, I'll take what's left of the package now. He tells me not to be mad at him, he didn't ruin the package. I know this, but still, the sweat, the heat, the two years of dealing with nothing that works in Madagascar... this one moment is just the straw that broke the already-broken-long-ago camel's back.
I pay the money with crumpled, dirty bills and move on to my second errand of the day, which holds much more promise of going smoothly; when I'd gone to the Air Madagascar office earlier in the week, there was actually a waiting area with comfortable chairs, fans that worked (though the electricity was out in half the office), and fairly competent staff who spoke an comprehensible mixture of French, Malagasy and a few English words.
The office is a good distance from the post so by the time I arrive I am once again dripping with sweat. Much to my delight, there is no wait! I make my way to the pleasant woman I'd dealt with on Monday. After securing the reservation (all the while fanning myself with a piece of plastic), we go together to the payment desk, which is where the trouble begins. My credit card won't process through their fairly-modern looking machine. She tries again, and again, and again. Several other workers gather around, trying the card. "Do you have another card?" they ask. No. Of course not.
We sit back down at the desk and she looks at me impassively. "Madame? Can I help you?" she asks, dismissing me and looking around for the next customer. I'm kinda -okay, really- pissed off. She tells me I'll have to go to the bank to get cash, then come back. Alright, fine. It's no one's fault, it's just life in Madagascar. Out in the street, back in the sun, I storm off to the closest ATM. As I approach the door, the guard stops me, calling out in Malagasy, "It's not working! You'll have to go downtown." Of course.
I get the fat stack of Ariary, return to the office and finally make the reservation with a new clerk, who is actually a 60-someodd year old man, who is in training and possibly discovering computers for the first time. He politely asks, "Would you like to pay now or at the airport?" Haha! I almost laugh. This whole time, I discover, I didn't even need to pay at the time of the reservation. I could have paid on the day of the flight, at the airport. Sigh.
I need a beer.
