This morning we meet up with another Kiwi couple, George and Margaret from Nelson, for a leisurely late breakfast at one of the beach restaurants. They've been all around the world and regale us with their inspirational travel experiences, which include domestic service for the aristocracy in England! Afterwards Sarah decides that she wants to post home some heavy items that she bought at the Anjuna flea maket last week, so we take bus trip into Madgaon to visit the main post office there.

Clive - There's nothing that typifies Indian bureaucracy more than an Indian post office. The one at Madgaon is quite major since Madgaon is an important market town. Nevertheless it's dimly lit, with paint peeling off the walls and cobwebs hanging from the upper walls and high ceiling. As befits a government building, there's no aircon and the ceiling fans only serve to move the hot air around. There are a large number of staff behind the counter, most of whom don't appear to be doing an awful lot. Watching one chap in particular, we see that he seems to read a document every few minutes, which he files or stamps, and the rest of the time is spent chatting to colleagues.

The Postmaster sits in official splendour in a windowed office at the back of the room with his title prominently on the door and on his desk. The Assistant Postmaster sits outside the Postmaster's office, patiently awaiting the day when he can have the job of Postmaster. At the back of the room are a number of open shelving units, on which sit a large number of ancient dog-eared files and piles of paperwork. It's doubtful that anyone has looked at these for a long time.

The only computers appear to be at the teller's desks. It's difficult to see what vintage these are since only the tops of the monitors are visible, but it's apparent that the majority of transactions don't require the use of a computer. There are six counter positions of which only two are open. One, marked 'Stamp sales' has no queue, but the other, marked 'General business' has a very long queue. We join the General queue, but after about 10 minutes with no significant movement I take our parcel over to the Stamps queue while Sarah keeps our place in the General queue.

"How much for this parcel?" I ask. The teller studies it carefully then hands it back to me. "Write 'Sample Package' in the corner" he says. I don't argue and do as he says then give it back to him. "Registered or ordinary?" he asks. Thinking on my feet I answer "Ordinary". He weighs it then studies a crumpled piece of paper on which there appears to be a table of rates. "430 rupees". I get out my wallet and take out the notes, but the teller gestures towards the General queue. I point to the sign that says Stamp Sales. "Can't I pay here?" The teller gives me a look as if to say "Of course you can't pay here, stupid tourist". Clearly this is a matter of a 'general' rather than a 'stamp sales' nature.

Fortunately Sarah has not left the General queue, and is now half-way towards the counter. The General queue now stretches out through the main doors. I note the Postmaster and Assistant Postmaster both sitting passively monitoring the situation. One might imagine that they would re-assign staff to open another counter, but that seems as likely as me winning a night out with Liz Hurley. Soon we reach the front of the General queue and we hand over our parcel to the teller who studies it carefully. He seems particularly interested in the words 'Sample Package' which I've just written in the corner. "Registered or ordinary?" he asks. "Ordinary, and we've been told by your colleague that it costs 430 rupees," we answer loudly in frustration. The teller; studies the package for a little longer then, handing it back to us he gestures over to the Stamps counter where a queue has now formed. "But he's just sent us over here!" we chorus. He shrugs. "Ordinary is there" he says, pointing over to the Stamps queue, and sits passively waiting for us to move aside.

Trying not to get cross, I look around for the Postmaster or his assistant, thinking I might engage Senior Management to resolve the situation. Strangely neither are anywhere to be seen. Fortunately the stamps queue moves relatively quickly and we are soon at the front. I raise myself up to my full 5' 11" and face my foe. "He says to come to you" I say, pointing at the General teller and handing over our package. The stamps teller studies the package intently, then calls over to his colleague. A brief, sharp exchange in the local language then takes place, in which the words 'registered' and ordinary' are prominent, and our package is held aloft as Exhibit A.

Clearly the General teller has won this battle, because the Stamps teller appears to resign himself to having to deal with this matter. He studies the package carefully then hands it back to me. "Please write 'Registered' in the corner". "WE DON'T WANT REGISTERED. WE WANT ORDINARY!!" we shout loudly in unison. Everyone in post office stops work and looks up, and there's a brief hush. Even the Postmaster, who has now returned to his desk, feigns an interest. The Stamps teller shrugs, puts the parcel back on the scales then consults his rates table. "430 rupees" he offers, helpfully. "I know how much it is," I hiss, "You've already told me that. Now can I pay, pleeeeease". I wave the money in his general direction. The Stamps teller enters something into a machine on his desk, and feeds a piece of A4 plain paper into a small printer. What comes out appears to be the franking mark. He then picks up a razor blade. "Oh no," I think, "I've upset him and he's going to slash his wrists". But no. He proceeds to cut out the franking mark in a rectangle, which he then gives to us along with the parcel.

Having taken our money he now appears to consider the whole process complete. "What about sticking it on and posting?" I ask. He gestures through the door. "Outside." We take the parcel and the cut-out 'stamp' outside, where there's a pot of something that looks like snot on a shelf. It's clear that this is what we're to use to stick our stamp on the parcel and I delegate this delicate task to Sarah who was not impressed at having to dip her finger into the pot of snot.

Although the snot causes the stamp to adhere to the parcel, we wonder whether this will be the case throughout the whole journey. Still, there's nothing we can do about it now, and we return the parcel to the teller for posting. Without looking up he throws it in a bin, which we assume is not the waste bin. And that folks, is how you post a parcel in India!