Beading up

Nearly twenty years ago I had dinner in Pucallpa, in the Peruvian Amazon. I swallowed a mouthful of something lava-hot, and within a minute sweat was dripping off the end of my nose. The waiter said the offending chilli was called an ají, and it was the hottest I have ever had. That’s the first time I can remember flowing rather than glowing.

Here I’ve been happy to be not too obnoxious, literally speaking. While more blubbery farang have been red and dripping, I haven’t been sweating at all. But then, it hasn’t been hot by local standards. That changed last night, when it rained. After a short shower, the humidity just went through the roof. At the same time I managed to get lost, and splashed through dark side streets taking a long cut. By the time I got back to the Skytrain twenty minutes later, I’d sublimed through mere moistness and was dripping from forehead and neck. It was not a good look, and to Thai noses I probably smelt like a durian. And in this humidity, once it’s started it doesn’t stop. So I went for a curry.