so i have been gallivanting in baa, the FIRST ATOLL that’s a biosphere reserve, declared protected during baaghee waheed’s short stature. and yes, in that atoll i experienced among other things some shy green turtles and of course those stupidly splendid mantas. on a rainy afternoon in hanifaru, a giant ray glided just beneath me, an insanely close encounter – i almost thought i could hear it sucking in the sea. these mantas seemed quite used to our presence – perhaps they see us as tiny, clumsy aliens splashing about on their turf.

mantas in their dozens, yes, but there were also a gazillion mosquitoes. they launched a brutal offensive on me in maalhos as i was enjoying dinner by the beach. i had to go to the doctor because the bites grew too painful.

i’m telling this to moosaalhu in the calm sterility of salt cafe. he nods, whispers what i think is ‘idiot’, then calls the server. we’re getting the express lunch this time and the place has only two other customers.

‘anyway, take a look at my feet man,’ i say.

moosaalhu glances at my calamine encrusted feet with their dark, pus-filled bumps. he grimaces.

‘jeez. looks like you’ve got a touch of the plague.’

‘funny.’

‘how’d they even get like that?’

‘i scratched them too much i guess.’

‘ah,’ says moosaalhu. ‘the bacteria in your nails must have infected them. jeez. don’t think i’ve seen an uglier sight lately.’

‘looked in a mirror lately?’ i almost say but after entire seconds pass me by.

then the server comes with our food. he places my chicken penne on the table and asks moosaalhu if he’d settle for the rice, which he is carrying, instead of the quinoa as ordered.

‘hey, that’s NOT OK!’ says moosaalhu indignantly. he points at my plate saying: i’ll have what he’s having.

the server disappears.

‘they can’t do that to us,’ says moosaalhu. ‘not even if we’re paying just 100 bucks.’

‘nope,’ i say. ‘btw, man. this chicken is dry as fuck. and the penne’s overcooked. i can’t eat this shit.’

moosaalhu points at my chicken with his fork.

‘did you touch this bit with your cutlery?’ he asks.

‘no,’ i say.

he takes a bite.

‘it’s not too bad,’ he says.

‘it’s barely edible.’

moosaalhu grins.

‘maybe THIS is what it takes for you to lose some weight,’ he says.

‘jerk.’

the server appears with moosaalhu’s chicken and penne. the man digs in with some relish but soon runs out of steam.

‘you’re absolutely right,’ he says. ‘this is no good at all.’

and i bask in the fleeting glow of moosaalhu finally agreeing with me, rare as sighting a manta pup in male atoll.