With a gnarled finger, Duong Van Ngo points at the words he’s just written in my notebook: “Le Dernier Des Mohicans.” The Last of the Mohicans. He asks if I know what that means.

“That,” Ngo says answering his own question with a smile, “is me.”

At the Central Post Office in Ho Chi Minh City, Ngo has spent 22 years writing and translating thousands of letters and documents into any combination of Vietnamese, French, and English. Everything from adoption forms to love letters have flowed from one language to another through his right hand. At one point, Ngo says, he worked alongside five other writers, but they’ve all passed away or grown too old to work. At 82 years old, he is the last warrior of handwritten correspondence.

I meet Ngo at his workplace, in a part of town where American cafes and mass-produced souvenirs threaten to overtake French architecture and wide, historical boulevards. Inside the airy atrium of the post office, we talk about his predicament. Warm and self-deprecating, Ngo is hanging onto a job well past the age of retirement because he knows that once he’s gone, so is the profession.

His memory is failing, just like his eyesight. An inoperable condition affecting his retinas forces him to wear glasses and use a thick magnifying glass to read the documents he translates.

“I know I am very weak and feeble,” he says. “I do not know if I will work until next year. But I have no time to think about [my health problems.] Coming here, I am joyous.”

Ngo has been a fixture at the post office since he was first hired at age 16. He had learned French in school and his employer sent him to English classes at age 36. His strong work ethic prompted colleagues to dub him 'The Little Corporal'. When he turned 60 and retired from his paid posting, he was asked to stay on as a letter writer and translator.

Today, Ngo goes to and from work by bicycle and rarely takes holidays. He sits at the same bench five days a week, eight hours a day, surrounded by thick, dog-eared dictionaries and books of ZIP codes under the watchful gaze of a Ho Chi Minh portrait. When a man approaches carrying a large mailing envelope, Ngo dons his glasses and moves the magnifying glass over the delicate script. It seems the customer’s package to a relative in France has been returned because of a wrong address. Ngo gets to work, consulting a map and pages of postal codes.

“How much do you charge?” I ask after the man leaves with the envelope tucked under his arm.

“VND 10,000 for a page,” he says. “But my customers are kind, they give me more.”

Ngo’s job is to translate, not compose from scratch, but he’s always willing to offer tips to customers. He encourages them to use the words “I wish” or “I’d like” instead of “I want” when requesting a favor. He also promises confidentiality. When I ask what he’s translated so far that day, he says he’s old and has already forgotten.

When business is slow, Ngo walks around the lobby, pausing to chat with postal workers and guards. He obliges every tourist who approaches with an iPad or camera, requesting a photo. He smiles, his small frame usually overwhelmed in the snapshot by the western traveler posing with him. After the shutter clicks, he always shares an abbreviated version of his life story. Children stop their fidgeting to listen with rapt attention, and parents gaze at him with admiration.

But the demand for his services has slowed with the rise of both digital communication and a multilingual generation. On each of the three days I visit, he sees no more than 10 people. Adapting with the times, Ngo translates electronic correspondence, too, but says they limit people’s ability to express themselves.

“With letters, they can explain more about their inner thoughts,” he says.

As his energy begins to wane, I say goodbye and promise to return with a copy of the article. He responds that he’d like that very much but asks that I remind him who I am when I come back.

“I am 82,” he says again. “I forget everything.”