Fiji
p. 57 · Read in the full issue
A Posf Office in Rural Fiji
By “Amel”
MANAGING a country post office in Fiji is neither beer nor skittles.
One is encircled and ensnared by regulations and restrictions.
The sealing wax must not be used for mending pots and pans, nor the blotting paper for mopping up the milk the cat spilt. The ink powder is for making ink, not for dyeing hair, and it is almost a criminal offence to tie up one’s begonias with the post office string!
One would think that a little frivolous extravagance would be overlooked. But, no! If one is too liberal with the sta tionery, or too sparing with the economy labels, an official communication looms on the horizon: — “Dear Madam, —Go easy on the envelopes, or else ...”
After nearly six years at this job, I hardly dare to lick a stamp, without pausing to think! To be on the safe side, T read all the rules . . . then put them away and forget all about them.
Consequently, when someone asks what is the postage to Timbuctoo, I burrow through yards of official memoranda before I find the correct answer.
The mail “boys” give me grey hairs.
They meet at this post office every week, exchange mails, and return to their respective headquarters. My job is to wait patiently for them, sort the mails, stamp letters, cancel stamps and re arrange things to everyone’s satisfaction.
One “boy” walks approximately 28 miles from the east, and the other the
same distance from the south-west. But, somehow, they never can arrive simul taneously.
The early bird squats on the floor, and glares, first at the clock, and then at me. Preserving an attitude of lofty
indifference, I take a pen in one hand, lean my head on the other, and scowl heavily at the blotting paper.
When the late “boy” arrives, oozing excuses from every pore, the early one cold-shoulders him and studiously ex amines his toenails, while I use tact and diplomacy to heal the breach.
Sometimes an intriguing little note comes along to brighten the day for
me: “Dear Sir, —Please will you push me a twopenny stamp, and tell rrfe the price of copra in Suva to-day. Your affectionate boy, Josese.”
Often as I toil at my desk, bitter thoughts seethe within. About my sal ary, for instance. Officialdom is callously indifferent to the fact that it is always mortgaged to the hilt. I am not sup posed to complain when it is two months overdue, and my creditors are pounding at the door.
Other Civil Servants go tripping away for holidays on full pay. I am limp with envy. When, I wonder, will my turn come? But reflection suggests that, with my salary of half-a-crown a week, I wouldn’t get very far, anyway!
One of the mail “boys”