With My Little Eye

I'm really going to miss the daily commute to work with my colleague, the only other American at my company and in my guesthouse.

Our mornings have devolved into a game of "I Spy", in which points are awarded for absurdity and randomness.

I'll say, "I see a man with a sparkly pink sweater-vest."

She'll say, "I see a rickshaw with sixteen people in it."

I'll say, "I see a man whose choice of helmet is a tea towel."

She'll say, "I see a man transporting a pane of glass on the back of his motorbike."

I'll say, "I see a sign that says, 'Inconvenience Regrated'."

She'll say, "I see a man hanging out of a second-story window, welding, without goggles, and to keep his balance he's holding on to the part he's welding to the building.  And he's barefoot."

This morning, I had just casually remarked, "I see a cow eating burning trash," when my co-commuter suddenly took off her sunglasses, tossed them on the seat next to her, and burst out laughing.

"I see a chicken," she said.

We see lots of chickens.  I wasn't impressed.

"In the back of a rickshaw."

Sure enough, she did.

She always wins.