Do you know what one of the greatest things is? Getting mail. Not e-mails (though those can also be pretty sweet when they're not work-related), but proper snail mail. Like, writing out mailing addresses, licking stamps, and wandering around foreign cities trying to find a post box (or some nice stranger willing to mail things for you when you've looked everywhere and still can't find a post box, or giving your stack of post cards to the airport convienience store clerk begging them to send them for you because you're rushing to catch a flight). In fact, I think getting mail is so awesome that a few of my friends and I have decided that we're bringing back postcards. So everywhere we go, we always send post cards to each other. Whether it's from Vietnam, Uganda, Ireland, New York, or the Edmonton airport, going on a trip means we always have our postcard lists on hand.
So far I haven't sent any postcards from Bangladesh. And it's not because I can't find any... because I always come prepared with my colouring-in post card pack for those places where you just can't find a post card. It's because as far as I was aware, the postal system doesn't exist here. I've never seen a post office, post box, or post card anywhere here. And when you ask the national staff, they just say "it doesn't work."
But something happened today that has completely turned my world upside down.
I GOT MAIL!!!
Let me tell you the story....
On Sunday morning one of our national staff came to my office with a huge smile on his face. "I have something for you" he tells me, then hands me this small piece of paper that's filled with Bangla script writing and kind of looks like a newspaper clipping. As I had no idea what he had just handed me, I asked him what in the world it was.
"I think you have something at the post office... someone dropped this off and said you have to go to the post office, pay 340 taka, and pick it up."
"What?!?" I responded. "There's a post office here??!!" Our staff assured me that there was, and all I had to do was show the piece of paper to one of our drivers and he would take me there. ...But the post office is only open until 5pm, and it's not open on Fridays and Saturdays. At that point my week was already packed with meetings and training sessions, so my chances of being able to sneak away to pick it up didn't look good. But the excitement was real, so I made every effort I could to encourage the driver to make a detour to the post office on my way back to the office from meetings.
Except, every time I tried to ask them, and showed them the paper (I tried on 3 separate occasions), they gave me a confused look and said something to me in Bangla that probably meant "you're crazy... there's no post office here."
But today, after a few back and forth conversations between a national staff and the driver, I found myself pulling up here:
The Cox's Bazar Post Office!!!
I walked inside and was surprised to see that there were probably 6 tellers, 5 of whom were busy with customers. I approached the counter of the free agent, but he just gave me an angry, annoyed look then waved his hand as if to usher me away. I was obviously a bit confused, so just stood there for a second... but then he started banging his fist on the wooden desk and motioned for me to go off to the side. At this point everyone was staring at me (probably because of this apparet angry man, but also because I was the only out-of-place foreigner in the CXB post office). Finally, after more banging and hand motions, I figured out that he wanted me to go around behind the desk to one of the small stand-alone desks in the far corner, where a cute little old man (whose appearance and actions didn't differ all that much from the DMV sloth in Pixar's Zootopia) was sitting and sorting through letters.
I handed him my little newspaper-clipping slip and he just put it delicately down on his desk and kept working. Finally, after quite a while of watching him meticulously tie up batches of envelopes with string, and write down records in his moldy and torn records book, he began to study the slip. Meanwhile, i'm sitting in this old wooden chair, at an old wooden desk, and in front of me, at the far edge of this desk, is a glistening white package that says "Canada Post." Ok... it wasn't "glistening" (it was actually full of dirt and dust), but it was surreal to see this Canada Post parcel amongst the massive stacks of neatly tied bunches of envelopes, stacks of old tattered books, and over-flowing "outboxes." Eventually, in broken English, he asked me my name, had me sign multiple receipt papers, write down my mobile number, and then finally he picked up the box, handed it to me with a smile, and said: "your parcel."
I couldn't even wait to get home to open it... thankfully the driver had a steak knife in the center console (WTF?!?!) to help me cut through the tape and string. I was overwhelmed to see so many little reminders of home, past memories, and delicious treats.
And as i read the letter that accompanied it, I was literally holding back tears. Such a thoughtful thing... and from someone whom I barely even know now. Someone who, after reading my blog, sensed that I wasn't doing so well and maybe needed a little pick me up, so went out and prepared a care package, all while not even knowing what to even put it in. AND... as they didn't know the address here, engaged in some detective work to figure it out, rather than ask me, so I'd be surprised.
Seriously. I'm blown away... and overwhelmed with gratitude and appreciation that someone would do something like this for me.
Thank you K.
You brought more than just a smile to my face today :)
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