Work

There are explosions outside the hotel every evening. Not sure what they are. I keep forgetting to mention that. It's probably the auto repair shop across the street.

I've had diarrhea since Monday. It had been getting progressively worse. Yesterday, my poop was just liquid. Even water ran right through me. The human body is amazing. It knew something in my system was bad and made sure everything that came in was thrown out, just in case. However, all that wiping really irritated my hole. Thankfully, my bathroom is relatively nice. I have a nozel that I've been using as a beday or however you spell that, I'm not French). I think it was Pizza Hut that did it to me. I can't take dairy here, yet I am too stubborn to stop.

I was going to ask the rickshaw drivers what they thought about Ronnie Belliard's game-tying hit for the Dodgers, despite the fact that he sucked with the Nats. He's this generation's Felipe Lopez. But I largely stayed in because of the diarrhea.

One aspect I've wanted to write about for a while is the Indian work ethic, if one can generalize like that. There are guards dressed in smart uniforms, who stand outside of the McDonald's all day and night, opening the door for foreigners and yuppie locals. Europeans seem to have taken to the local custom of ignoring these guards. There are vendors who get up at the crack of dawn and close up shop at 11pm. All they do is stand in their little stall. There's no weekend for them. Then there are the guys with cycle rickshaws. If they are fortunate enough to get a fare, they use every ounce of energy to pedal the customer to their desired destination. At night, they contort their bodies in order to sleep on their livelihood. And to some extent, these are the lucky ones.