If  I were voting in my small town in America, I would enjoy a peaceful visit to the polls.  I would leisurely walk uptown, passing by tidy lawns, well-kept houses and neatly paved streets on my way to complete my civic duty as an American.   But here in southwestern China, I gear up for a more adventuresome voting sojourn.  At last, my absentee presidential election ballot has arrived and I must pick it up at our area post office, located up the Yangtze river road from the college where I teach English.

Our small countryside post office is only a 10-minute walk from the school.  The distance may be short, but getting there is tricky.  Speeding buses and swaying construction trucks are constantly careening by.  Their blaring horns scatter stray chickens and dogs, and warn bystanders of their approach.  With no sidewalks or pedestrian walkways, the road becomes somewhat of a deathtrap.  

            Today, I am lucky.   I exit the school’s gate and find safety in numbers.  I slip in behind three coal sellers who are pulling their heavy loads on wooden carts.  We four move tentatively.  On one side, we keep diligent watch over oncoming traffic.  On the other, we take care not to slip into open sewage ditches. 

            While carefully making our way forward, we pass typical scenes of roadside China.  Family-run shops display a disarray of dusty products.  At the entranceways, owners position themselves on stools and patiently wait for customers. To pass the time, they knit sweaters, pluck chickens, wash vegetables and read newspapers.  Sometimes we pass a mahjong parlor, set up inside an abandoned farmhouse.  The elderly crowd around  the game’s square tables and slurp tea while noisily slamming down mahjong tiles. Through open doorways of private homes, we can see flames shoot out from under blackened woks.  The smells of Sichuan cooking reach us, stinging our nostrils with the vapors of hot chili peppers.  

            As my destination draws near, the coal haulers turn down an alleyway and I am left to continue by myself.  I wait for several buses to fly past, then make a dash across the road to the post office. 

Our area post office is a small, white-washed mud building. The roof is layered in old clay tiles.  Rustic wooden beams jut out through the outside walls.  To enter the building, I must first make my way through  a cluster of sidewalk sellers and their wares.  Stationery, envelopes and cardboard boxes cater to the mailers.  Fruit, hard-boiled tea eggs and sizzling beef kabobs entice the hungry.   The arrival of a foreigner always causes a fuss.  After being accosted by several sellers to buy their goods, I give in and purchase some envelopes and a tea egg.      

            With my purchases in hand, I am finally able to enter our local post office. Inside, a long counter with iron bars separates the customers from the two postal workers on duty.   I watch them bustle about while serving the Chinese ahead of me.  They adhere stamps to envelopes, fill out forms, check package slips and answer questions.  They toss packages into heaps on the floor and drag out overstuffed mail bags for pick-up.  It seems a haphazard system and a bit chaotic, but I have never once had a posted item from the U.S. lost or returned to the sender.