Piece out

Well, it’s finally happened. I have a dicky tummy. However, it is not a case of the Delhi Belly or the Bombay Jelly, or the Jaipur Bi-Polar.

I am fairly convinced it was the result of drinking two cups of espresso on an empty stomach.

To be honest, I probably just need to do a big fart and let the caffeine (which my body is most definitely not used to at present) finish its course. Then I’ll be fine. But right now I feel a bit shaky.

What a total gimp.

Last night I witnessed the Dashara festival celebration. It is a traditional ceremony performed every year. Thankfully for this particular display of mass ritual I wasn’t at the mercy of the baying millions. Instead I was able to watch the proceedings with Teena’s family and (a lot of) their friends at a house with a view of the whole affair.

Given that the same pantomime story is rehashed year after year by (I assume) struggling hacks, I was almost surprised to see such a turn out.

We had a stage for the loud and wooden dramatic rendering of the tale, a large monkey dude statue (21 feet high), a street procession of elephants, donkeys and armour - all visible from this seriously well-located house.

After about an hour of shouting and marching around the stage wearing what seemed to be a fabric representation of multi-coloured candyfloss, the main dude in the incomprehensible story (I think it involved monkey cuckolding) walked through the crowd wielding a ball of fire. He then chucked it at the monkey dude statue and we all watched as twenty one feet become none. Simultaneously we were subjected to some spectacular and deafening fireworks.

It was all rather exciting.

As a stroke of luck, on returning to the hotel (after a nifty motorbike ride from Teena’s bro) I got chatting to an English girl called Lucy. We agreed to share a room for the next few nights which again saves me money and allows me to speak at a reasonable speed.

Mosquitoes are starting to bore me quite frankly. Unfortunately for me my ‘hot piece of ass’ seems to be endlessly intriguing for the little bastards, and renders me some kind of leprous freak. They particularly like my feet - I’ve actually taken to wearing my trainers in the evening (though not in bed). However, they aren’t averse to a bit of arm, neck, or worryingly, testicle.

I must be sterile.

I have discovered that mosquito ‘repellent’ is only effective if sprayed in large does into a mosquito’s eyes. In this event, the mosquito is temporarily blinded, decides a life of impaired vision is not one worth living and promptly opens up its stomach with a scythe.

I do hope Lucy is more sane than my previous room mate: the insane Israeli girl called Daffy (I should have known). I think I forgot to mention that twice, on returning to the room and having to wake her to let me in, I knocked on the door, and both times, she instantly jumped up in bed and let out a blood-curdling scream.

Israeli army. It does things to people. Say no more.

English people (and American, Canadian etc) travel out of boredom and curiosity. Israelis – I’m starting to think – are all just AWOL!

Football yesterday was abandoned by my co-footballing chums. Unfortunately for me they had no way of letting me know before I’d just hawked up serious dollars to get my ass to the obscure patch of grass they had chosen to stage the fictitious event on. So I walked around understandably pissed before going back to the hotel to sulk for a bit. I rang the dude supposedly in charge of the expedition and he apologized for accidentally making me travel across town to walk around on an empty field. Bastard.

My stomach is not feeling too pretty. Think I should probably go before it becomes problematic.