“And three to Ireland, please,” I asked next, showing him the Irish-addressed envelopes.
“Ireland?” The clerk repeated, frowning down at the addresses.
“Ireland. Eye-er-land.”
“I am not knowing this country,” he declared firmly, shaking his head.
I stared at him. I could see a copy of the Pakistani Postal Workers Handbook on a shelf behind him. “Can you please look in your handbook?” I asked.
The book had a list of countries with their associated postal rates. He searched through it while I waited. “Madame, I cannot find this country,” he said eventually. “Is not on my list, therefore cannot be sending letters there!”
It is such a surreal experience to be told that your country does not exist. What do you say? Especially to someone who has already told you they have never heard of your country, and appears to have consulted an official document to back this up? I wanted to laugh. I also wanted to post my letters.
The clerk passed the handbook over to me, so I could look for myself. I searched through it. I looked for “Ireland”, “Republic of Ireland” and even “Eire”, but the name of my home country was nowhere to be found. “It’s not there,” I said with disbelief.
“You see!” He said with triumph. “This Ireland is not on my list!” He pushed the Irish-addressed letter back across the counter to me, still minus stamps.
“But I want to send them,” I persisted, pushing them back at him. “I know they’ll get there. Honestly, there really is an Ireland.” It was one of the most bizarre conversations of my life.
The clerk had not heard of Ireland, but he volunteered the information that he had heard of a country called Holland. “Perhaps,” he offered, “you could send these letters to Holland. I am knowing the rates for Holland.”
What he meant was, he would put stamps at Holland rates on my Irish-addressed envelopes. I briefly fretted that someone, somewhere else in Pakistan, would notice that my envelopes were not carrying the correct postage rate, and thus take them out of the postal system.
I had spent a lot of time writing those letters. They were good letters, and I wanted them to reach their Irish destinations. Then I realised I was being far too literal. If the postal clerk himself in Karimabad was signing off my letters at a rate that might or might not be correct, it was extremely unlikely anyone else further down the process was going to notice.
“OK,” I said. And so, my letters to Ireland, a country that didn’t officially exist in 1995 in the mountains of northern Pakistan, were finally posted.
Fortunately, every single one of those letters arrived.