Gustar 11th, 2006 There is an internationally known and accepted mail service called Business Reply Mail (American terminology) wherein a customer can interact with a company via post and the company will pay the bill. This is usually reserved for circumstances where the company gains financially from said interaction or is in need of servicing unfortunate victims of product failure, the latter being my particular situation.
Given that the European Union is not identical to the United States of America, the concept has details that vary. Yet, the basic idea is the same. They call it International Business Reply Service. Nikon would like me to send them my defective battery to eliminate the possibility of accident, but they understand that Chinese manufacturing problems are not my error.
And given the premium price one pays for top quality Nikon gear, it is expected that the company honor the relationship by making things whole. Hence, they sent me, at their cost, an envelope in which to return said battery. The envelope contains an IBRS declaration stating that Nikon will pick up the tab for postage. As well they should be expected. Good service.
Unfortunately, there are large parts of Romania still imbued with nostalgic communist concepts which preclude the possibility of the individual not being forced to bear the brunt of such exchanges. That is to say, the former-communist postal workers are completely out of touch with standard business protocol and generally accepted EU standards of commerce.
Only in the event of your absence does the mail carrier leave a notice informing you of their delivery attempt and obliging you to arrive to your local post office to secure said box. No, Romanians do not deliver packages. They leave you a note which specifies the time and place (which may not be local) where you are allowed to pick up your mail.
Back on point, in this case, I had my EN-EL3 camera battery securely wrapped up in its container and properly labelled for IBRS delivery to Dublin, Ireland. From my vantage point, this was a standard operation. Drop off the packet at any box or post office and the employees will deliver it, collecting their fees from the receiving company directly (Nikon, in this instance). Did you follow me so far? Good, you’re not an idiot.
A trusted person was going out on a round of errands in Braşov, so I asked her the small favor of dropping off my pay-guaranteed envelope at the post on her way. She agreed and the matter was resolved. Or so I thought. I was later informed that the employee working at the Poşta Romana counter had refused to accept the packet without payment for a postage stamp.Bah.
I was determined that business reply mail should be a standard adhered to by any self-respecting postal system of the European community. Out to prove a point? Perhaps. But I wasn’t about to let some commie pinko bureaucrat deter me from acheiving some modicum of standard postal service.
If I may be blunt, you Romanian readers know you would have acquiesed at this point. Paid the postage and moved on. Certainly a practical solution to the obstacle. And a common one, given the past of this rising nation. But, call me spoilt if you like, I’m fashioned from a different mettle. I intended to beat the bushes until satisified. Let this be a lesson to you.
I promptly went to the Poşta Romana website and dialed through their various navigation choices. In the end, I found a contact form for customer service help. I jotted down only the necessary facts and asked them to help me sort out the Braşov workers, so I could get my package sent. But, no one ever emailed me back.
I resolved to go down to the centru, where Post Office #1 sits next to the Primaria. By golly, I will knock some heads until the rubes manning the kiosk understand the concept of standard mail handling practice. Oh, yes, a quest. A mission. I’m a-fixin to learn someone a diddy or two about modern postal procedure, whether they want to swallow that medicine or not.
Post Paradise
My mail needs were different on Day Two, however. I had received a notification slip in my apartment mailbox. It’s a little white tearsheet of a poorly re-re-re-re-Xeroxed form which is filled out by hand, in cursive, to specify the significant pieces of data.
- Where you are allowed to pick up your package (not necessarily your closest post office… and, if you’re in a bigger city such as Braşov, then most certainly your local post office has been passed over in favor of the one strategically placed farthest from each and every neighborhood)
- Which precise day you are allowed to pick up your package (just because they have possession of it, doesn’t mean you can come get it, Bubba)
- What hours you are allowed to present yourself to the administrators (hey, these people can’t be expected to work a full day of normal hours just to accommodate you and, even if they did, why should you be able to arrive at a time that’s convenient for you… are you spoiled or something?)
The astute reader will immediately question the premise, before accepting the details: “What, they don’t actually deliver?” No, amazingly enough, no one ever bothers to try delivering your package to you in the first place. Can you even imagine such a practice? I couldn’t, but now it’s just become they way things work.
For my puzzled Romanian readers, in the more civilized parts of the world, the postal delivery persons actually come to the delivery address with the package and attempt to deliver it to you. Should the recipient not be at home, then they’ll activate Plan B and leave paper slip (notifying you that they tried to deliver it and you can now pick it up at your closest post office at any time or day that’s convenient for you during the next two weeks).
Like any post office, the person arriving with the slip needs proper identification as well. So, I set about preparing the essential items needed for a trip to two different post offices. Post Office #16 to pick up and then Post Office #1 to send from. They are, respectively, the only two branches from which you can perform each task. Yes, my friends, the post offices in Romania do not offer complete services in each location. You have to find the correct, exact, precise one for your particular task and then be properly prepared.
On this day, I was already cutting things close to the upper end of the time slot I’d been alloted for pick up. There’s no bus that goes from my neighborhood, which means you can get halfway there and then walk the rest. In good weather, that might seem like a great opportunity to get out and stretch your legs. Unfortunately, with the inconvenient delivery limitations, I needed to hop into the nearest taxi and shoot on down Bulevardul Griviţei.
I must have arrived with at least 15 minutes to spare because it was still open. I have found the door prematurely locked on more than one occassion because the grumpy greyhairs halfheartedly working the counters are quick to take the liberty of closing anywhere from 5 minutes to 10 minutes early based on whatever pressing need they have to rush home and watch their favorite telenovela when a particularly exiciting episode is anticipated.
One of the first things you’ll notice in a Romanian post office are the reams and reams of handwritten documents carefully bundled up and archived where there is any space left in the building. They have so much in the way of paper documents that I’m willing to bet they still have record of the very first package Petru Groza received from Stalin as congratulations for the elimination of Iuliu Maniu. You can bet that complex modern electronic devices — such as computers, thermal printers, or bar code scanners — won’t be installed until the old guard workers retire.
Worker
of the month
Apparently, there is a benefit to arriving so dangerously close to the random closing times: the panicky locals have already made sure to come much earlier in the day to claim their packages. There’s no one in line ahead of me. I hand the lady my notification and passport as her cataracts peer at me suspiciously over the top her thick glasses. With a grunt, she begins shuffling through some of the numerous open ledgers scattered across her desk to navigate her way toward my corresponding entry. Some scribbling and a few forcible stampings later, I’m politely asked to sign for receipt.
And, then, she tells me I have to go stand in another line because this one is only for paperwork. Now, I’ve got new paperwork. I need to stand elsewhere and talk to someone else in order to actually get the package. This is unlike most westernized postal companies where the first person you deal with generally takes care of all your service needs, so you’re not bounced from window to window. However, I’m not ruffled up about it because I’ve picked up before and know how the dance goes in Romania.
Next up will be a harsh, balding man in his late 40s with a handlebar mustache and a secret longing for the communist days where he could browbeat the public with impunity. He revels in each chance to bark at customers with his deep voice while staring them down intently with his black eyes as if just another moment or two of scrutiny will cause the trembling package recipient to drop to their knees and begin confessing crimes against the people’s republic.
What a stroke of luck! A new guy is working. Lanky, friendly, and in his 30s. He happily snatches up my document and hustles off into the secret backroom to retrieve my box. Emerging only a moment later, he slides it to me with a “buna ziua” and heads off to do some other task.
I know, I know. My Romanian readers just marveled. Maybe even gasped.
Let me explain to the Yanks how this normally works. Right, so the ex-communist bureaucrat should never take the document from you without studying you critically and attempting to unnerve you with his raw suspicion. He’ll eyeball you for a couple moments and let you witness the single bead of sweat sliding down his chrome dome generated solely from the sheer ferocity of his personality.
When he does take the paper from your shaking hands, his zig-zag marbles’ll scanread over it as you hear his breathing grow into heavy huffings of disgust at your apparent, if only temporary, legitimacy.
Comrade will slowly draw his chin upward only as far as is required to lock eyes with you. They are on fire. I kid you not, you can literally see the wall of flames shooting out of either side of his black eyes while his nostrils widen broadly with each horsesnort drafting wind to suck out your very soul, mere mortal.
If you haven’t collapsed from a stroke by this point, he’ll crisply execute a half-step spin maneuver from his military academy days before disappearing into the void beyond the secret door.
During his absence, which varies from 2 minutes to 2 hours, you stand there calmly avoiding the temptation to search the nooks and crannies for the multiple hidden cameras he is most certainly watching you from before deciding whether or not to actually get your package. Eventually, he’ll emerge at some point carrying your box and setting it down with both his hands placed on top of it to prevent you from daring to touch it.
“Is this your package?” he’ll ask as a trick question. Of course, the honest person would first look at the labels before answering, “Da.”
“What’s inside?” is the next intimidating barrage of the interrogation. “Nu ştiu exact, dar…” and then you begin to read off what the external customs form written in English itself says. His nostrils once again collect wind like sails, but there’s a twinkle in his eye from his amusement that you dare to mock his authority by pretending that what the legal declaration says is in the box… is actually in the box.
He breaks out into a wry smile and baits you with, “Let us see, mmm?” Your answer is irrelevant.
Out comes the knife and now arrives the moment everyone in line behind you has been waiting for: the chance for all to know what is inside your box as they curiously look over either shoulder just before the inspector begins raking through the fragile items and lifting the contents of your private package high into the air for all to stare at in wonder, like some Simbaesque spectacle.
As an American, your psyche cringes at this heinous betrayal of your very basic right to privacy. Your soul cries out in rage and frustration against this rape of your very humanity and dignity. Naked, helpless, and at the mercy of the cruel mass accomplices cowering behind you in silence out of fear of Gherla.
At the point where the inspector senses your inner capitulation, he gives you a wink to let you know just who exactly is the bull in this prison relationship and then unceremoniously drops your junk back into the box, shoving it in your direction.
“Next!”
And now you see why this fresh approach of the younger, new guy was such a surprise. In fact, it’s a lovely surprise. That box is mine, not yours — stay out of it! As proof, I snagged this photograph of the unopened box sitting on the counter at the post office, because I knew some of you would not believe it possible.
Silly me. Taking a picture immediately set off alarm bells in everyone’s head. As I picked up my box to walk out, suddenly everyone was shouting and motioning for me to come back. Not wanting to be arrested for terrorism, I immediately rushed back to the counter whereupon the now very nervous employee began asking me why in the world I would be taking photos. Was I a journalist? Am I taking photos for a newspaper? What’s in the package? Don’t I know he has to open it now as the customs rules demand? What are the pictures for? Who am I?
Quick on my feet, I immediately launched into the role of the dimwitted foreigner to convince him, not without some irony, that I had no idea it was illegal to take photographs in order to show my friends that I have received their package of foodstuffs from across the pond. Repeating the same story twice while gesturing towards my camera and the customs declaration form seemed to win him over.
He reluctantly placed his faith in the idea that I was not an American undercover journalist set out to expose the criminal underworld of postal workers who have the deceny not to rifle unnecessarily through your box like the communists of yesteryear.
That is how I happily escaped with my package of mostly edible items. Buried underneath it all, and wrapped in a pink t-shirt for good measure, was my external firewire LaCie dual layer DVD+/-RW drive designed by Porsche. The bizarre, outdated, and unjust customs regulations would have meant I had to pay a pretty penny in “import taxes” on this piece of hardware.
They don’t care that I bought and used this same drive back in the U.S. for six or nine months before moving to Romania. All the Central Committee cares about is the ability to eek some cheese out of the foreigner. Afterall, citizen, if you are bourgeois enough to afford such a finely crafted capitalist item, surely you must see you can afford to help out the proletariat…
Lugging my box about, it was time to walk down a block to the nearest bus stop. I jumped onto autobuzul la numar cinci until I arrived at parcul centru. More or less kitty corner from the bus exit — down and around the Primaria building — you’ll find the main post office situated inside a pretty old-style building.
To protect post office employees from the savagely violent Romanian populace, these hardworking and kindhearted staff are securely placed behind bulletproof glass kiosks reminiscient of iron-barred booths of 1840s American banks in the wild, wild west. Accompanied by more people waiting in more lines, all without air conditioning.
Oh, my American friends, I forgot to tip you off to a social quirk of Romanians. They don’t stand in straight lines. Whereas our culture generally lines up in an orderly fashion one behind another, the locals in Transylvania generally stand to the right of (and maybe half a step behind) the person in front of them which results in bizarre curved lines completely unnatural to the interior layout of most buildings. Chaos often ensues, which is the desired outcome: it gives you a chance to cheat lines.
Of course, this assumes people even bother to wait in line. Many Romanians, notably the older ones, have an extremely annoying habit of simply sliding right up to a counter without any respect for whomever is currently being serviced. They’ll elbow their way into the windowspace and begin talking loudly to the person working.
It’s very annoying that none of the Romanians in line have the chutzpah to chastise this selfish prig, but it’s even more annoying that the person working begins to serve the cheater rather than tell him to shut up and get to the back of the line.
Each success simply reinforces the behavior. Thus, you have all manner of rude old people simply barging into your transaction and taking over the scene because everyone is afraid to lay the smack down. Rest assured, my friends, that nearly never happens when I’m up to bat. I may not speak romaneşte terribly well, but I manage to get my point across such that it’s understood: bugger off.
To combat this old habit, the post office wisely puts up signs asking people to behave themselves by staying in an organized line and not interfering with the privacy of the transaction in progress.
So, I’m standing as the third person in line at my designated window #9 (because everyone narrowly specializes and cannot possibly help you with anything else). There’s a middle aged lady in front of me and currently being serviced is a ponytailed young lady. Behind the window a harried worker full of excuses about how she cannot help.
As the interaction starts drawing to a close, an old woman previously out of sight suddenly enters the stage craftily slinking toward the window like a queen moving between pawns. A split second after I notice her, the middle aged woman in front of me notices that her rightful inheritance of soon-to-be-vacant window is about to be undermined in treachery. And everyone springs into action!
The middle aged woman moves forward, out of line position, and to the right of the young woman. But the young woman is surprised the the old woman suddenly brushing up against her left, so she moves an inch or two out of instinctive respect for the elderly.
The old woman now has a wrist and fingers claiming real estate in the windowspace. Not settling for second place, the middle age woman cuts in with an elbow maneuver and now has half a meter of skin in the game.
The bewildered young woman makes a fatal mistake by trying to avoid bodily collision when she takes a small step backward. The hens let fly with a sqwak as they fight over the center line of the service window clucking loudly all the while to get the attention of the postal worker who is trying to get answers, paperwork, and money to the young woman. Madness breaks out.
When the dust clears, the beseiged postal staffer has partially helped the old woman enough to move her a few inches to the side as she fills out some form. Meanwhile, the middle aged woman has been assured that she is next, if she’ll just move a few inches to the other side. And the young woman is finally able to step forward and complete the transaction.
Approximately twenty seven years transpire before it is finally my turn at the window. The lady recognizes the package immediately as the one she just rejected yesterday. She shrugs it off, rambling something about needing to buy postage somewhere else, and tosses it back in my face. Undaunted, I slide back to her and start explaining the concept of business reply mail.
She’s clearly pissed off at being harassed about her lack of knowledge, but to her credit she’s attempting to be polite to an obvious foreigner. We go round and round, until I finally start asking her to talk to a supervisor. Surely, the manager must be aware. I mean we’re on the eve of EU ascendency, people. Let’s get with the program, eh!
She refused to talk to a supervisor. There isn’t one. Or he’s not here. And he’s busy anyway. A number of hasty replies show she just isn’t going to ask anyone for clarification. I’m getting frustrated, so I press her to call the headquarters in Bucureşti. She could just buzz them up and find out how to handle my package. Nothin’ doin’.
She refuses to pick up a phone and call anyone. In fact, she says she’s not allowed to call Bucureşti at all for any reason at any time. Furthermore, there is no one else to call whether in Braşov or otherwise, plus she’s just not allowed to use the telephone for any reason whatsoever. Deadlock. I point to her badge identification number and indicate that I’ll be forced to report her non-cooperation. That’s when she let’s me know that if I want someone to call Bucureşti, then I need to talk to the lady at booth #13.
What a sucker. Boy, she got me good with that one.
I had turned around to get my bearings on where #13 was located in proximity to my current location. When I turned back to keep talking to her, she had already snuck off away from her desk. Dirty dog. Now, what am I to do? Why, get in line at #13, of course.
Trouble is that no one is at #13. I don’t just mean there’s no one in line, I mean there ain’t nobody a-workin’ there. The waiting game begins. Immediately adjacent is booth #14 where a very unhappy and bitter woman is slamming papers around with her orange windowblinds drawn to hide from customers. She barks out, gruffly, “Go away. There’s no one working there. You’re wasting your time.”
Oh, thanks lady. Thanks a lot. Since she’s invited conversation, a series of questions are given to her. Who works at this window? Where is she? When is she coming back? In response, she spews some hate speech to drive me away.
The questions come again. Do you think you help me for just a moment? I’m trying to find out who can call Bucureşti for me to get an answer about mail service. Now, she’s ignoring me entirely and slamming her papers around.
So, I knock on her glass. Ignored. I ask again, when is this lady coming back to #13? Do you know where she is? Ignored.
Out comes the English, as I knock rather loudly on her window pane, “HEY. Can I get some service here? I have a question.” Now, I’ve no idea what stream of obscenities she let fly that time, but I do know she hissed it like a cornered rattlesnake who has just been smacked upside the head.
Bah.
What am I going to do? I could make a scene, but that won’t do any good for anyone. I’ve been bedeviled here enough by customer-hating postal employees. It’s time for tactical withdrawal. We live to fight another day. Back on the #5 bus toward home.
I fired up the Poşta Romana website again. Since I hadn’t received any email, I figured I’d go ahead and call them. Browsing the website in English, I opted for a telephone number listed as being for help with international mail. My mail was certainly internationaland I definitely needed some help, so they got the call.
A woman answered in romaneşte. “Oh, buna ziua. Am intrebare, vorbeţi engleza? Nu? Hmmmm….” After a moment of silence, she promise to find someone who did.
Another woman took the phone. Physically took it, not an interoffice transfer. I could hear them both giggle during the sounds of the clumsily jostled hand-off. “Hello? May I help you?” We talked about the package and she was pretty sure Poşta Romana didn’t handle things like this.
She understood the concept of business reply mail, but there doesn’t exist such a thing on international level. Surely, the pre-paid postage notice was only applicable in Ireland and the UK. I tried to convince her otherwise, but she politely informed me that even if other countries honored IBRS/CCRI packages that Romania did not.
Disappointed, I hung up the phone and stewed over my predicament. Obviously, I was going to have buy the postage and send it. Apparently, that’s just how things work in Romania. Besides, I did need to get that battery in the mail and off to Nikon without more delays. Sure, it’s worth it just to pay the small price and get things over with.
Still, it burned me that Poşta Romana did not accept IBRS package, so I went back to the website to ask them why not.
Why does Posta Romana not honor the International Business Reply Service like other European countries? The post office in Brasov will not accept my IBRS/CCRI mail. They insist on charging for postage, but I should not be forced to pay.
I shuffled off to take care of some other business. This time, I reached someone knowledgeable. Within an hour, I got an email reply.
Dear Sir,
Please accept our apologize for this inconvenience and let us know in what Postal Office from Brasov you couldn’t sent an IBRS/CCRI mail. We will contact them and after Romanian Post deliver your mail .
Thank you for your trust!
Whoa! Good news, campers. I was correct all along. Romania does accept international business reply service. Lo and behold, a competent customer service rep is actually offering to help me solve the dilemna by talking to the folks in Braşov. Thankful for their outreach, I wanted to arm them with all the details they might need.
Thank you very much for the prompt reply.
In particular, it was a woman whose badge ID number was 20654 working at window #9 in the main Post Office #1 (next to the Primaria in the city center). She insisted both yesterday and today (yes, I’ve been twice already) as well as refused to call Bucuresti for clarification after I specifically asked her to phone your customer service department in order to check with you.
Please confirm once the staff has been educated on IBRS and let me know what steps, if any, I need to take. I very much appreciate your assistance.
The very next morning, the customer service representatives in Bucureşti gave me the answer I was waiting for.
Dear Sir,
Please accept our apologize again. We contact the Post Office nr.1 from Brasov and the problem is solved. We can go there to send your letter.
Thank you for your trust!
Clearly, this was excellent news. All that remained was to go back down the post office on Day Three and face the shrew who had ditched me earlier. Clutching my package with newfound righteousness, I boarded bus cinci and headed into the centru. I marched up to window #9 where there was no line and no employee. The waiting game, again.
I’m 99.9% certain the same woman was working that day. I’m 99.9% certain she was probably in a different part of the area when I walked into the building. I’m 99.9% certain at some point before returning to her desk to help the customer waiting outside her window, she recognized me before I could see her. I’m 100% certain she didn’t want to talk to me.
Why? Because a non-uniformed guy, who looked every bit the part of a stereotypical IT staffer in all his nerdly glory, approached the station and awkwardly asked if he could help. I gave him the package and he proceeded to inspect its markings for a moment or two before nodding.
“Nici o problema.”
