Rambutan (red lychee) and Durian season are over. Durian is a strange fruit that smells atrocious - like sour garbage, and tastes like burnt soysauce with a texture of chicken or some kind of sinewy meat. You are not spossed to eat durian after drinking any alcohol, apparently the doshas - or energies - are both heated so the compounds can kill you. I will have to keep that in mind before boarding a 30-hour flight back to North America.
Also, a photo of my trusty three-wheeler, Zulfi. His son is Zafar (as tagged on the front of his three-wheeler), daughters are Zahara and Zara, and wife is Begem. Completely patient, loyal, my daily newsman, tourguide, translator, price negotiator at markets, mechanic, body guard, and chauffeur. At this point, I dont know what Id do without him! Even his wife cooks me rasam - a soup made of only spices - when I have fevers, and makes me polos - a very difficult curry made from a tuber that resembles jack fruit.
Finally, a photo of my flatmate, a British intellectual property lawyer, who has an active social life and queue of admirers. Now he is redeeming his soul by working on conflict and poverty issues with a local NGO. A bit flamboyant with obnoxious jetsetting friends, including two main squeezes - a Cockneyed-accented, coddled Sri Lankan girl and a French born-lisping metrosexual peace journalist of North African descent. Are they dating - no one really knows, but they are the drama queens in this rather posh flat.
Still, a good change from the chaos in Wella Watte.
