In the UK, the postal system is a machine. Ok, so admittedly the actual post office is not my favourite place. And it never will be. I still get a creepy Silence of the Lambs feeling when I visit one. My public Britney-Spears-esque meltdown at the Windsor post office in our first couple of weeks will haunt me forever. And possibly the staff. Probably not though. They've got thicker skins than those gnarly granadillas my Gran used to grow. But I have to give credit where credit is due. The postal system in the UK is reliable and safe. And most of all, it works. In July, I sent my father-in-law in South Africa a gift for his birthday. He sadly never got it. It was sent to a post box noggal. I know what you're thinking and you're wrong. I didn’t mark it: “To Grumps. Somewhere in Howick. On the River". It was properly addressed with a real name, codes and everything. And a stamp. Lots of stamps in fact. I’m gun-shy now when it comes to stamps…I err on the side of over-compensation. It was also marked as a "gift" and I stupidly included the correct "monetary value" of the gift on the customs declaration. Epic fail. I understand now that this is the equivalent of waving a red flag to a charging bull and expecting a pony ride. You're not going to get a Mary Poppins canter around the auditorium. You're going to be mauled. Proper. Expect nothing less.
The parcel was tracked having left the UK on the day after I posted it. She had a fighting chance par avion across the African continent until she reached the RSA border. Then we lost her. No sight or sign of that little parcel. She was apparently ‘unable to be located’ in the quagmire of sorting in South Africa. I contacted the British Royal Mail who sent me an apology letter for failing to deliver. Literally. Enclosed was a cheque to recoup some of my costs. A real cheque that I deposited for real money. The Royal Mail took responsibility for a parcel that was lost in South Africa after it had successfully reached South Africa. That’s service. It’s a little stupid. But it’s service. My latest efforts to send parcels home involve marking on the customs declaration “Second-hand item. Sentimental. Granny’s crochet work. No value whatsoever. Except to family of Granny. Granny is dying by the way. For reals.” So far, so good. Deliveries are going through. No one seems to notice I've had like eight grannies thus far. Not surprising really.
It's no surprise either that Amazon outright refuses to ship a majority of goods to South Africa. No wonder they won't accept any claims for non-delivery. They tried it. It didn't work. Grannies notwithstanding. Goods posted were "unable to be located". People were pissed. When Amazon first made attempts to ship carte blanche to sunny SA, I can just picture the scene in a sorting depot in Pinetown or Pietersburg when the first packages starting rolling in... it would've been like one of those sales at YDE where everything in the store is a hundred bucks. The result is a complete dogshow of grab whatever you can. Almost like looting. Exactly like looting in fact. Frenzy. Frothing. Grown men and women kicking and scratching each other like feral monkeys fighting over a banana. No skaam. No dignity. For Amazon, the current set-up is solid business practice that simply makes sense. If you keep getting kicked in the balls, you’ll avoid the people who kick you in the balls and the places where it happens. And you’ll wear a groin guard for protection. Amazon’s groin guard is restricted delivery to SA. I don’t blame them.
So in efforts to fly the capitalist flag and show my support to the global e-commerce giants, I’ve been making up for a lot of the purchases that Saffas back home can’t make. Amazon, e-Bay, Ikea, Gap, Banana Republic, Boots, Cath Kidson. I’ve been there. Added to my basket. Proceeded to checkout. And the next day….a parcel is waiting for me. In its original packaging. Nothing missing. Nothing damaged. It’s slightly addictive. Getting exactly what I pay for. A novel concept that I’m slowly (and dangerously) beginning to accept as my new status quo.
The UK may not be able to offer many of the qualities of life we Saffas deem important. Madiba. Archbishop Desmond Tutu. Swimming pools you can swim in. Petrol attendants. Jonny and his Rotis. Boere and their wors. But they do have a working postal system. And that’s not too shabby. I don’t miss the SA Postal Office in the least. I have only come to develop greater scorn for their lack of service or accountability and their overall inability to deliver. On any level. The glaring disparity between two public service offerings has never been more contextualized for me. The righteous Royal Mail may be very British and unsympathetic when it comes to dealing with a sobbing mother who posted her son’s school application without the stamp she’d just bought. But they earn their Royal stripe every time they deposit my post through my letterbox or ring my doorbell with a parcel. On time. Every time. So I am perfectly happy to trade a boerie roll or two for a box of bed linen from Cath Kidston. Swap my pap en sous for a Royal Mail postie with a smile. For now. We'll re-visit this subject in a couple of months or so. In January I'm thinking. At the height of a time I'm led to believe when ex-pat sentiment resembles something like: "WTF, this place sucks ass. Where's the sun? I can't do this much cold. It's just not right. It can't be normal. Are the Poms cold-blooded. How do they cope? They must be reptiles. That makes sense." The novelty of buying stuff online and actually receiving it may well have worn off by then and I'll be willing to trade everything I've acquired for a sunny day and a stukkie droewors. We'll see. I live in hope and denial. I am African after all. That hasn't changed.
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| Postman rang twice. I wasn't home. He left my package. I got my package. Still blows my mind. |
