i’m burning, not just because of the sun but also cos i’m ravenous – my brain has relinquished control to the neurons in my belly. i can only think in terms of rice, or beef, or fish, well, you get the gist.

‘it doesn’t take long,’ says my friend alifulhu. ‘take it easy.’

‘easy for you to say, you just had a glass of fucking cold brew!’ i bark.

we’re waiting for our food at the chef mode badhige, and it seems like they’ve taken a page on interior decor from kavarna’s book.

alifulhu is getting two dhathuru noodles, one for him and one for our friend hasanbe who’ll be showing up in a bit.
meanwhile, i’m getting a mehemaanu rice, which alifulhu highly recommends.

‘they’ve basically gone and done what your mamma does, mixing up a good rihaakuru and valhoamas baiggandu,’ he said on our way here.

and my stomach went nuts at the thought.

soon, my helembeli huiy drink is brought in an ornate glass and my god! i don’t know what they’ve done with it but this stuff is DYNAMITE.

‘it’s even got a sliced chili. the kick is sweeeet.’ i gush to alifulhu.
then hasanbe enters.

‘how’s it going? where’s the grub?’

‘it’s taking a while,’ i tell him.

‘some guys attacked a bunch of yoga people today,’ says hasanbe settling into his chair.

‘attacked?’

‘yeah they stormed into a public session at the stadium. with flags!’

‘who the hell are these guys?’ i ask hasanbe.

‘eh, just some extremists.’

‘did anyone get hurt?’

‘dunno, but they destroyed a yoga mat.’

‘has the government called it an act of terror?’

‘the real act of terror is when you do the downward dog,’ remarks alifulhu.

our mains arrive. and oh lord, this baiyggandu! rice, thelli faiy, lonumirus, thin slices of smoky tuna, and further down, a bisgandu. god alMIGHTY!

‘alright, i’m not visiting my mamma anymore,’ i say.

‘told ya.’

‘i haven’t had anything remotely like this in a long while. how’s your joospetty?’

‘have a taste,’ says alibe. and the joospetty is tied to a curlicued metal stand, much like a hanged man, and there’s a paper straw sticking out of the bag. i suck on it. mmm, milky! plus a nice undertone of kashikeyo.

‘i think it’s got too much milk,’ says alifulhu.

‘i think it’s got just the right amount,’ i say. ‘but then my mamma had to rub habaru on her nipples to get me to stop so…’

‘chef mode is like the common man’s alternative to maldive kitchen,’ observes hasanbe.

‘do beyfulhun eat rihaakuru?’ i ask.

‘no they don’t care for the smell, i think,’ replies hasanbe and slurps his noodles.

‘maybe that’s why it’s not in anything at the maldive kitchen,’ says alifulhu. ‘chef mode is for people who qualify for social housing. look around.’

and it’s just your run-of-the-mill people here, a little rough, without saving graces except they make up the majority of the voting public.

‘huh,’ i say. ‘i never thought of it like that. love maldive kitchen though.’

‘who doesn’t.’

later, as we motor towards male on hasanbe’s bike, i catch the sign of a shop.

‘stop,’ i tell hasanbe and i snap a photo.

‘what is it?’ asks hasanbe.

‘it’s just letters away from being a real pain in the ass,’ i tell him and along the tar-ry road home we go.