Tramites OR The Serpost (Post Office) Saga

We've been told by other expats here that they would rather do anything besides get a package from the post office.  How bad can it be?  Well, it takes a lot of time.  We were also told that if you get a package that is 2 kilos or less (4.4 lbs) that it should come to your door.  Our family has been kind enough to send several small packages with things for the girls as well as several envelopes and cards that we received from family and friends.  All of those made it through.  But, Serpost flagged the 4 lb package for pick up at the office.

The outside of Serpost (the post office)

Our tale starts with the family heading downtown to pick up the package, cute and adorable blonde girls in tow (hoping for preferencia).  Well, that was a total bust.  Cuteness did absolutely nothing to sway the way it is.  That way was helpfully taught to us by a French woman who spoke English and was waiting for a package.  Basically, the post office opens for two shifts, one at 8:30am and the other at 2pm.  You need to be there at least two hours ahead of the shift in order to get in line for picking up your package.  They give out 15 packages in the morning shift and 10 in the afternoon (though sometime they take pity on the crowd and will do a few more packages).  If you have more than one package, you need more than one spot.  The French woman had gotten there at 5am and we met her hours later; she had gotten one package but needed to get in line again to retrieve her second package.

You have to fill out a form that has your name, address, declaration of the package contents and value, and some official numbers (like your passport).  We grabbed a form and filled it out according to directions.  We quickly noted there was no point in sticking around (we didn't have a chance at a pick up spot that day), so we headed home.  We had to wait a few more days because we went on Dec 31 (holiday, closed early, and closed on Jan 1).  So, early January saw me trekking to the post office.  I arrived at 11:50am and set up shop to wait my turn.  The package was addressed to David on the official paperwork, so he had to be the person to actually get it.

When I arrived, I asked someone standing there if this was the right line for packages from overseas.  I knew it was, but I figured talking with someone would ensure that I got my place in line (there is no official number system, it's up to whomever is there to appropriately figure out your place in line).  Fortunately for me, "list lady" was there, setting up the most efficient system I've seen yet.  She was #1 in line and didn't want anyone else to usurp her.  She had six family members along as well and was keeping a list of who was in what place.  I got Dave's name added to the list (coming in at #14) and was told I would be good for the second shift pickup group. Every 30 minutes or so, she would call out names and scratch the name off the list if you weren't there.  I moved up three spots to #11 this way.  By the time Dave came at 1:30, there had been a few minor scuffles over "the list," but list lady was unyielding and I found myself wanting to cheer.  Hooray!  No latecomers are bumping me off the list with list lady in charge!  Looking around the waiting room, it was clear that many people had been there before.  Or many times before.

Some of the waiters.  There aren't enough chairs for everyone.

There was a man who spoke English and asked me what I thought of this whole system.  I told him that in the US, you would have to wait maybe 5-10 minutes to pick up a package, but that most of them would just come to your door.  He laughed and said that the tax agency wanted to be sure they could tax anything that came in (I found out that someone from the equivalent of the IRS stands there while you open the package to make sure you aren't importing something.  If they can tax it, they will.)  He also explained the pickup system to me.  You have official paperwork delivered to your home with a date stamp on it.  You are supposed to bring this paperwork with you (as well as fill out the additional form).  You then go into the room when it's your turn, the Serpost and tax people look as you open it, and you pay 10 soles (about $3.60) as a pick up fee, plus 1 sol (about 36 cents) per day that you are past the date stamp as a storage fee.  No matter that it's really hard to get the package or be one of the people picking up the package or that you would have preferred they just dropped it at your house.  Dave came to relieve me about 1:30pm.

From Dave's Perspective

The International Package

Diminutive list-woman called out her roster again – but this time, assigning positions along the concrete post-office counter as she spoke.  Like kids not picked for a team, others pleaded their case as to why they belong in the queue.  “I came here yesterday,” said one woman.  “It’s from my grandson,” said the neatly dressed old man.  List-woman remained unyielding, but #2 suggested to the grandfather that he plead his case with a postal worker.  Nervous looks and hushed conversation among ‘the waiters.’ 

A blue-vested Serpost woman emerged from her chamber, causing quite a stir among ‘the waiters.’  The line pressed as blue-vested woman pulled out a fat red marker like a sword for battle.  List-woman firmly established herself as #1 and retained her position as her form entered the hands of blue-vested woman.  A sense of impending finality washed across the room – a large ‘1’ squeaked out of the marker as it scrawled in the upper right corner of the form.  Man #2, then woman #3.  The line pressed forward. ‘The outsiders’ – those on the back of list-woman’s paper began to lean in and chatter.  Breaking apart, the line began to both compress, and diminish, as 5, 6, and 7 had their forms taken, summarily red-marked, and stepped out of line – confident in their destiny.  8, 9 and 10 positioned their bodies to avoid becoming a part of the jet wash of the advancing group.  My form received an 11, and after 12, blue-vested woman turn back to her chamber, trailed by a small ruckus of other ‘waiters.’ 

Six dared enter with blue-vested woman into the ‘inner room.’  The rest waited anxiously, and clearly with little hope, in the corner of the great hall.  A young man’s sneakers squeaked as he paced.  The echo of a woman’s high heels on the terrazzo floor off the white stone walls reminded each visitor of the uncompromising nature of the institution.  In one corner, a small bank kiosk, in another distant corner, a set of glass windows to receive those with letters.  Back behind the wall of bright blue numbered post office boxes, a long ‘L-shaped’ concrete counter enclosed the world of ‘the waiters.’  The blue and white sign over their heads - Encomienda Internacionales (International Directed) may well have said ‘Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch’entrate’ – Abandon hope all ye who enter here.

Go ahead and plead.

2:15, 2:30… and without any particular warning, and without precedent, #2 steps out of the doorway of fate and announces, “Dah-veed… Seen-yor Dah-veed?”  Standing, “Si” – in a confident fashion – I walk behind the desk, and more than a bit curious, into the confines of the ‘room of decision.’   One uniformed man behind an office desk and one woman talking to the team of six.  Sitting down before the ‘man of decision,’ the parcel open and laid bare on his desk – I scan the contents of this adventure - a few small wrapped gifts, adorned in Christmas paper, corners torn, candy cane accessories now pre-crushed for a batch of post-Christmas cookies.  Would this constitute ‘gifts’ in his eyes, or bounty ready to be taxed?  At a sol-a-day fee, we were already over ten soles. 

“Pass-ah-port-eh” the man stated as he began scrawling out information on a form, then more writing on the form that I had laid before him.  Sliding a third blank form over to me – I scanned quickly looking for words I recognized as I place my passport on ‘the man’s’ desk.  ‘Nombre’ – got it – that’s name.  A place for my passport number.  A date.  Signature… and something that looks like I was supposed to list everything in the package.  I’ll guess… in English.  ‘The man’ spoke again, but I only caught a few of the words: “Dos copias… pasaporte… necesario…” Uh-oh.  Two copies of my passport.  Play dumb… and smile a bit.  See if he looks concerned if I stare blankly.  “Two coh-pees” the man said in broken English.  “Uhhh… ahora?” (Now?)  “Si” (Yes). 

Does that mean our time in line is done?  The other day when we came to Serpost to determine what we need to do to pick up a package, and we talked with a beleaguered French woman who had been waiting since 5:00 a.m. to pick up her packages.  First in line, she got her first parcel when they opened at 8:30, then was sent back to the end of the line to retrieve her second package.  We talked to her at 10:00 a.m. – and left with her still part of ‘the waiting.’ 

I’ll wait a moment in my chair before ‘the man.’  Maybe he has a copy machine in back and senses my lack of knowledge of this whole process… or will waive this requirement for the lost American. 

The man slid my paperwork and package off to the side and looked past me.  Good sign – the package remained in the room.  Bad sign – it was clear that my time at his desk was, at the moment, done.
 

As I stand to leave, I say again, “Copia.”  “Si… afuera” (Yes - outside).  Another good sign. Within two minutes I returned with ‘dos copias’ of my ‘pasaporte.’  Might as well be bold – and walked straight through the cluster of ‘waiters’, past the concrete counter, and into ‘the man’s’ micro-kingdom -  dos copias laid before his altar.  Taking the cue of ‘the man’ pulling my package back into the desk space of ‘the chosen,’ I sit down again and regain my confidence.  Moments later, he handed me the package and pointed to blue-jacketed woman, who continued to interview ‘the six.’ 

Peruvians love paperwork.  This is what we needed to pick up our package.
Plus the Bonhoeffer reading material for the long wait.

Preparing for a long wait behind the melee of ‘the six,’ I pull out my Bonhoeffer tome and practice my standing skills.  Only minutes later, blue-jacket woman pokes her arm through ‘the six’ with a small slip of paper – apparently for me.  Sounding something like ‘security’ and ‘in front’ blue-vested woman returns to attention to ‘the six.’  I look questioningly at the man next to me – a young man who I guessed could help.  “Seh-cur-eh-tee” and with arm extended, he pointed to the front of the building.  Is that where I pay or get kicked off the island?    Ed. note: we aren't really sure why, but they didn't charge us the pick up or storage fee.

   

As I exit the space behind the counter, I quietly thank list-woman for her help, and again to #2 man – while I wonder why they are still there.  Avoiding looking excited in a way that would cause others ill-will – nothing worse than a bad winner, I straight-face stride across the cavern to the stairway out to see what security holds for me.  I wait for the only security officer I can see – who is casually chatting with someone.  Handing him my slip of redemption I say “tu mirar este?” (you look at this?)  “Si.”  “Una caja en esta?” (one box in that? – my backpack).  “Si.”  And he hands back my slip with a look that tells me I’m fulfilling a non-obligation.

The long counter, where many plead their case.

Is that it?  Walking slowly down the stairs… waiting for the inevitable “Señor… espera!” (Sir… wait!)… painfully slow across the lobby entrance… out the large front glass doors and into the sunshine. I keep my feelings in check until I get around the corner of Calle Moral… do I allow myself to believe we might be done?  Hope returns.  I note the time of triumph - just before 3:00.  

Freedom lies just down the stairs!

Oh, and about the smartly dressed grandma and grandpa who were clearly somewhere near #20 in line – I saw them at ‘the man’s’ desk, parcel ties being cut open, as I left.

Keturah again: the girls being super excited about the package contents?  Priceless.