It is something of a dying habit, but I like to send postcards to friends whenever I travel abroad.  The ubiquitous franking mark making it rare to even receive a letter with a regular stamp on it, I always experience something of a thrill when I receive any communication from overseas smothered with unfamiliar and colourful stamps.  Proper gum-backed stamps, with perforated edges, where you have to lick the back to apply them.

Normally, before I travel, I make a note of the locations of the post offices in the places I plan to visit.  In Siem Reap, I knew the Post Office was a fifteen-minute walk from the centre of town, along a street that ran beside the Siem Reap River.  It was a pleasant stroll, passing the Night Market, the Wat Preah Prom Rath temple and the Royal Independence Gardens.  The Post Office, itself, was a joy, too.

Unlike so many post offices in Britain, where the traditional counter service has been replaced by a––often malfunctioning––self-service machine, here, the first thing you encountered upon entering, was a long, dark-wood counter, behind which sat two––smiling––young women.  It was a welcoming environment; spacious and airy; a cool refuge from the sultry Cambodian afternoon sun.

There were areas where it was possible to sit quietly and write letters and postcards, plus a display of old Cambodian stamps and first day covers.

Well organised, I already had my postcards written and addressed.  All I needed was to buy some stamps.  I held out the cards to one of the young women behind the counter, pointing to where I had written ‘United Kingdom’ at the bottom of the addresses.  She understood instantly, saying to me in English:

“I will send them for you.”

She totted up an amount on a small desk calculator––a sum of Riels, which I duly handed over to her.  I then expected her to hand me a batch of stamps in return but, instead, she repeated:

“I will send them for you.”

I admit, it was with slightly suspicious thoughts that I left the Post Office in Siem Reap having handed over my postcards and my money and not having seen any stamps attached to the cards.  Would the young woman do as she had said and send them for me?  Would any of my friends ever receive the postcards from Cambodia that I had lovingly sent them?

Well, it just so happened that I had a way of finding out.  Amidst the batch of postcards that I was sending, I had actually addressed one to myself.  The prospect of receiving a postcard from Cambodia seemed so unusual that I wanted to experience what it felt like to be a beneficiary myself.  I thought that a stamped postcard, which had gone through the Cambodian postal system would make a nice souvenir of my trip.

So, I waited for my own postcard to arrive; rushed, ever hopeful, to my letterbox every day when I heard the postman make his delivery.  Nothing.  Days became weeks.  Weeks became several weeks.  Until…

Suddenly, one day, on the mat beneath my letterbox, there was a postcard, addressed to me in my own handwriting, with a colourful Cambodian stamp depicting the temple at Angkor Wat on the front of it.

The young woman in Siem Reap had been true to her word.  She had sent my postcards for me.

Unlike that cheeky swindler in Ennis in 2015: God knows where any of the postcards from that trip to Ireland ever went to.

© E. C. Glendenny

E. C. Glendenny tries not to hold a grudge, but she knows who she blames.