When eating at local restaurants, a basket of bread and a small platter of butter is often provided, before the main meal arrives. Last night, I thought I would eat the butter up in one piece of bread, so I didn`t get too full. Too late, I discovered the cheapskates had substituted margerine. I couldn`t spit it out, and still had the rank taste in my mouth this morning.

As they apparently say in these parts:

The dhirum is in the dog`s arse; and the dog has rabies.

The fleets of Mercedes taxis with their heavily moustached drivers are still here, looking bruised and battered, as if they havn`t been replaced since Herge himself was in town. The police in their resplendant uniforms, gimlet eyes behind dark glasses, are everywhere, too.

The local buses make Indian travel seem like National Express.

Apparently, according to a copy of Watchtower which a local Jehova kindly gave me, the reason for the dryness of English wit has to do with those who could afford false teeth in the early days not daring to open their mouths when cracking a joke for fear of losing their individually carved ivory knashers.