Writing postcards is bloody difficult. “Hmm, let’s see, must
write six weeks of experience in six sentences”. Will the erstwhile recipient
even care?
In Saigon posting them is like a top secret government
mission. First you have to haggle to the death with some conically hatted bint.
Then you negotiate and confirm that you are paying the equivalent of ten
English pence for a postcard with the image of a bound and gagged pig. You write some naturally witty spiel. You
make your way to the local PO.
But
then….
Your local PO isn’t like a local PO at all. It’s a huge
colonial remnant of Indochina and the architecturally splendiferous
French. You fight your way through
hordes of tourists, seedy little souvenir sellers and motorbike taxi men with
murderous eyes. You get inside. But then
there, piercing a thousand holes in your body with his eyes, is the eerie
portrait of Mr Uncle Ho. Old Hoey’s shit-eating grin laughs at your
tribulations as you desperately search through your mime catalogue to secure
the simple task of purchasing stamps.
Now, the best thing about stamps is licking the back of the
buggers. Even the most exacerbating post office session seemed almost enjoyable
with this little event. Not in Vietnam. You have to glue the bastards with a
brush and gluepot. You dollop on some glue, spend the next five minutes
affixing the slippery stamp in place, then move on to the next.
Nice building to do your business though, thank you
imperialism.
Check gallery to get what I mean:
