You can always tell when the ice cream man is near. Growing up in England it would be the distorted strains of a nursery rhyme sounding from the ice cream van somewhere down the street. Here, in Islamabad, it comes from a tricycle and I have no idea where the exceedingly irritating jingle comes from. But in my book, failed states don’t have door-to-door ice cream men.
Postcards from Hell is my ironically titled list of things that are cool about Pakistan, my new home, or which contradict the notion that the country is some sort of failed state