we’re at that korean place in hulhumale, k food zone. it’s evening, the sky promises rain but the moon is out, a supermoon the likes of which we won’t see for another 13 years.

i’m here with an arty young man, jaufarji – i have never seen a person more in love with sketching. unless he only does it when we hang which seems a bit weird.

‘i’m only getting coffee,’ he tells me, but then goes through the menu and settles on a vegetarian bibimbap. he’s vegan but you won’t be able to guess it because the guy has girth 😀

i choose the beef bibimbap, and we have a can of coke each and some water. there’s a couple inside and it doesn’t look too roomy so we decide to sit out by the entrance.

as i settle in to my seat across from jaufarji, there’s a roar. a loud SQAWK makes my friend’s face light up. fucking motorists with macaws. but it seems a necessary evil of globalised development.

before jaufarji can get his sketchbook out, i try to impress him with my knowledge of local artists.

‘have you seen the work of island.cultures?’ i ask him. ‘nope,’ he says. he’s got almost no artifice, jaufarji.

‘well, look at this,’ i show him the instagram feed. ‘it’s a pretty cool water colour sketch isn’t it?’

‘i think it’s oil actually,’ he remarks. ‘it’s pretty good though.’

he scrolls thru my phone and comes across something.

‘now this is water colour,’ he says.

‘he’s not very good is he?’ i say. ‘it seems a bit rushed.’

‘it’s actually not bad at all,’ says jaufarji. ‘good technique.’

dear god.

‘he reminds me of the impressionists,’ i say.

‘who’re the impressionists?’ jaufarji asks.

‘you know, monet.’

‘aren’t they avant garde?’ he asks without any hint of irony and i’m glad he didn’t press me for more impressionists.

‘no, they’re just impressionists,’ i tell him.

our food arrives then. an old asian woman, presumably the owner, mixes up my bibimbap with the egg and sauce for me. i thank her and dig in.

‘it’s alright,’ i say. the sauce tastes acceptable, like korean stuff. the rice is ok as well but the dish is served in a plastic bowl topped with a fried egg, so you don’t get crispy rice grains and cooked strands of yolk and eggwhite. the beef too is cooked and very much on the dry side.

‘this isn’t at all what i’d expected,’ says jaufarji.

‘what were you expecting,’ i ask him. ‘did you have it before?’

‘no, but i wasn’t expecting this. the flavours are way too subtle. there’s no salt in this.’

‘oh. i think it’s fine when you add the sauce.’

but it didn’t improve matters for him. and when the bill arrives, it’s almost five hundred rufiyaa.

‘god, we could’ve got a ticket to seoul for the money we’ve spent here,’ i say. my friend nods. he seems to be over it already.

‘i feel like we should go to the beach,’ he says.

‘can i get some ice cream? there’s a baskin robbins nearby.’

so, we bury our disappointment beneath decadent chocolate ice cream. baskin robbins. like mother nature, you’re the perfect antidote to culture gone awry.