Going Postal

Recently, Shanti got word that one of her former professors was going to send a book to our address here. Not knowing what to expect from the Cambodian postal service, we feared the worst. Wednesday night, just over a week after it was sent, we got a slip at the house to pick up the package. On Thursday, Shanti went to the post office nearest to our house (just two blocks away), thinking the package would be available there. However, the package was not there, it was at the main post office, in a beautiful colonial building in the northern part of the city.

After our lunch, we went to the post office, which is closed from 11:00am to 2:00pm for a cushy three hour lunch. We arrived at 1:58 and walked in to the office and went to the proper “small parcels” counter. At first, the gentleman at the counter paid us no attention, watching some B American action movie. Finally, he turned around to acknowledge us.

“I’m sorry, it’s not yet two o’clock. You’ll have to wait maybe two more minutes.” He turned around to continue to watch his movie. We waited at the counter. He offered us a seat against the wall, we declined and stood at the counter. While waiting, we met a Belgian man who had had bad experiences with the postal service. His present package was sent three months before and was still missing. His previous one arrived after four months and was missing one of the three bottles of “cham-pagn-ya” he was sent.

Finally, after ten minutes of waiting, we got some help. A woman disappeared with the package slip and returned with nothing. A man disappeared with the package slip and returned with the package. There was a 2000 riel ($0.50) pick up charge. Shanti only had a ten. The woman that originally helped us began searching through her personal wallet for change. She disappears into the back with money. She returns with change and we escape from the post office with Shanti’s package and the correct change.

From the post office, I took a moto first to Shanti’s office to drop her off and then to a meeting with a local human rights organization, LICADHO, to meet with someone to discuss land titling and registration issues (more on work soon). The address was house #16 on Street 99.

A word on street and house numbers. The North-South streets in Phnom Penh have consecutive odd numbers, starting in the East and moving West and the East-West streets have consecutive even numbers, starting in the North and moving South; it’s a surprisingly good system. The house numbering system is not quite as effective.

Anyways, I made my way to Street 99 and tracked down #16, a non-descript looking house, which did not look like a major local NGO. I rang the bell and a small Cambodian boy answered. “LICADHO,” I said. He rolled his eyes and pointed down the street. It was 100m further on. In Phnom Penh, residents can choose their house number – there is no system for street numbering whatsoever, so oftentimes there are several houses on the same street with the same number.