I love going to the district administration office. No errand is too small for me not to jump at the opportunity. I love the traditional temple-style building, the hushed corridors, the sound of rain water dripping from broken gutters into the cobblestoned courtyard. I love the extra offices that have been haphazardly added to the main building, the plywood floorboards that creaking and groan underfoot.
On this particular occasion I visit the payroll officer who has lost my account details by mistake. “So, sorry la,” she says, looking up from her Facebook screen of family snaps of her friend’s uncle’s cousins. “I guess I should write it down, la.” She takes out a pen and slowly inscribes the number on the wall of her cubicle, where it sits proudly alongside another hundred or so numbers. “Sir Matt” is written neatly beside it.
At least I know that when I return to Australia and my short-lived eminence is forgotten by all, my legacy will live on in an office cubicle wall above some creaking plywood floorboards in the accounts section of the district administration office.