Mailing a Package from Kathmandu, Part 2 of 2

September 13, 2007

I go back to Mr. Smiley and assure him that the package now fits his stringent requirements. Proof is the re-taping and a tuft of plastic bag peeking out from a corner of the somewhat bloated package.  He now advises me to go to the line in front of his colleague. 

I encounter another smiling man. I am starting to understand why these guys are always smiling at us. We may be “rich,” but we are so stupid… and that offers them a source of constant amusement.

He looks my package over, checks the paperwork, hands me a new form to fill out. It is some form for customs, looking all official with the seal of the King with quadruple copies in different official colours and the paper is thick added to the carbon sheets in between and necessitates a hammer and chisel to get to the fourth copy, but that one’s not so important because it’s for me, as a sort of diploma to put on the wall for surviving the ordeal, or something like that.

It says; I, the undersigned, certify with my legally binding signature, that the particulars given in this royal customs declaration are correct and I swear under oath that the package contains none of the following items…

And then there’s a list of about a dozen things… in Nepali… but for those of us who can’t read Nepali… No problem… They have it in Hindi as well. How thoughtful.

“Sigh” … they don’t even use our alphabet. How could I have been so stupid as to come here without learning the language first? India was easy; the “Raj” did have its good point. With over 1500 dialects in India, you can be real glad that English is the official language. But we’re in Nepal now.

So while I’m looking at all the squiggles and dots, I’m wondering about those “Tanka’s” and holy prayer bells I purchased. If they didn’t rip me off, and they were real and stolen from the Dalai Lamas bedchamber, like they had promised me on the virginity of their wives, I could be heading for some serious trouble here. I stare at the hieroglyphics, I look at the package, I decide to go for broke, and sign. I trudge back to the guy who looks at the signed form and also says yes a lot, but I have to go to customs first… that’s next door. So I go.

At customs I approach the uniformed customs agent. He does not smile. He looks at me… closely… for a long while. He counts the sweat beads on my forehead. He glances at the package, raises his eyes to me again… and says…. “Open please, must see inside.”

Then he smiles.He examines the spread out contents with feigned interest. Stamps the form and lets me know we are done here. He has no further wish to see me and that I may now vacate the premises after taking my worthless junk off his counter. All that is said with a simple but articulate wave of his hand.

I return to the “Pack Wallah.” I know the way now. The package has expanded even more. I intercept a fellow who is one step behind me in the process and advise him of what’s coming. He takes my advice and saves himself one taping.

It’s getting hot, we’re three hours into the venture. One hour left to complete the tasks, otherwise… sorry sir, we close, try again tomorrow.

We backpackers curtail our rising rage because we are representatives of our respective countries and wish to make a good impression and present ourselves in a spirit of goodwill, towards the Nepali people… but mainly because the Nepalese are armed and probably the toughest dudes I’ve ever seen anywhere.  Even their feces have muscles.