The post office

People tend not to use the post office here, and now I see why. We were told there was a post office in this strip, passed by one day, looked, didn't see one. We checked, and were assured that's where it was. So we went, bumped through dirt and mud, and found a place to park near a motorcycle repair shop. Outside in front of that shop was evidence of things they had failed to repair, I guess (or junkyard turned to art):






The former bicycle was unrelated to the former motorcycles. It was nearer to the post office.




This is the post office. This is why we didn't see it from the road:





This once-maybe-red box used to be a letter drop. It must have been a long, long time ago:






I took a picture of the sign just inside the door (open wall), and turned around to take another picture, for the folks at the post office back home, but the guy behind the counter waved his hand and was talking to the younger guy, and said something like "Why use your camera?" He didn't want me taking photos. So I got sneakier, and didn't take a picture of him.




The sign says there was a post office (it seems) at the railway station. We had just been there, and asked a policeman where a post office was, and he directed us out and away from the train station to a place where it turned out we couldn't park because it was an aggressive cab stand (rickshaws—the three-wheeled vehicles here that people use for cabs).


The side of the room I didn't photograph had stacks and piles of old (very old-looking) papers and documents on top of the desk, the filing cabinet, and shelves. I didn't see anything that looked like mail. There were postmark stamps on the table that shows in the corner.



I bought stamps for, and stuck them and left, birthday cards for Paul/Lavan and Holly, but I wouldn't be at all surprised if they never made it to the house.



Future note to Kathy, Debbie and Dante, at the Manzano post office--I have not seen a single post card for sale, and I wouldn't trust going back to that scary little post office. I'll try to remember to check in Bangalore, when we go there next week. Maybe there's a more... less... Maybe there's a more trust-inspiring post office. Maybe there will be a postcard.

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Update: The card to Paul made it all the way to his house in Albuquerque.

The card to Holly was delivered to Hema's house (the return address I had put on the back) a few days after I mailed it, so I carried it home to her.