Do you think I really wanted to spend the past five days waiting on you hand and foot, you stupid tourist? No, I would much rather have gone to work and earned some money to feed my wife and four children. But I couldn’t just leave you to fend for yourself in this unfamiliar city, because my culture values hospitality above all else.
It started when I saw you moping around the bus station looking like a pathetic lost puppy. I waited five minutes for somebody to come and talk to you, but no, nobody else seemed to notice. From that moment, you became my responsibility.
I invited you to my family house not because I wanted to make awkward mimed conversation for the rest of the evening, but because it would have brought great shame upon my ancestors if I’d refused you. Still, you didn’t have to eat four plates of fucking rice for dinner.
At least you were able to sleep off your feast in the comfort of OUR ONLY BED. I really, really didn’t want to sleep on the floor, but the extremely complex customs of my culture DEMAND that I give you the place of honour as my guest. Now my back hurts like hell.
Normally, on a Monday morning, I’d go to work, seeing as I’m my family’s sole provider and all. But this week I was compelled to drive you around the city, as if I were your personal tour guide. My boss has probably already replaced me.
Of course, it would be scandalous if I were to let a stupid tourist pay for anything. You keep pointing out things you want to buy, then making half-hearted attempts to pay for them. It’s killing me.
If you understood anything about my culture, you’d know that you have to refuse my attempts to pay THREE times before I’m allowed to give up and let you pay. But you only ever refuse me TWICE. So yes, I keep paying for your dumb fridge magnets and ice creams, even though I only earn $8 a day.
I wish with every fibre of my being that you’d just leave before you bankrupt me. But no, you keep saying “It’s so nice here; I might just stay one more night.” At this rate, we’ll all starve before the end of the month, and you still won’t have opened your wallet once.
My wife and I have been desperately trying work out how we can make you leave without disgracing ourselves. As it turns out, there’s no cultural loophole that allows us to turn our back on a guest, even if he’s a stupid tourist who’s driving us crazy.
But there’s no rule against spitting in his food.
Enjoy your dinner.