The Dinning Room The table runs diagonally across the room and seats eight. Me cook?

No, no, no. A call to the White Negro Resort, next door, brings the waiter with whatever one desires from its large- selection menu. (Yeah, that's Pumpkin sniffin Givanni's hand for a munchie)

The most important part of the kitchen. (a huge space. Takes ten steps to get from that dinning room door to the trash can in the far corner. This room wasn't supposed to be the kitchen, but the real "kitchen" doesn't have one electric plug -- just a stone area to build a fire and a gigantic mortar and pessel for grinding rice. Only the maids use it to store buckets and for the side door to get water from an outside vat)

Those R2D2's, atop the fridge and next to the microwave, are voltage regulators. When the power works (MOST of the day, but time-outs happen, annoyingly, practically every hour), our voltage here drops to zero, then spikes. During prime time it plods sluggishly in the low zone. What do I need a microwave for? The neighbors provide me with a week's worth of Pumpkin-food: rice and meat. Twice a day I fill his bowl and nuke it. (no Kibbles & Bits in India). That's his red bowl under the table in a vat with water so the ants can't get to it. One crumb on the floor and I'd have highways of marching critters coming from all directions.

Oh, what a beautiful toiiilet! If you stand on the seat, you can see the sea just 30 seconds away. I get two, maybe three good flushes every other day when the water cometh. Otherwise, gotta scoop and dump from the red bucket.

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