A little old lady has kidnapped me and is making me lunch.
She is bent over a pile of bamboo, preparing it for cooking, while I gaze around at the few possessions in her one room wooden home. Two chairs, a fridge, that pile of bamboo and a tattered poster of Stalin.
“You like him?” I ask, pointing to the picture. She nods. “I like.”
“He’s Russian,” I say. She shakes her head. “German,” she corrects me. “Russian,” I insist. She looks confused and shrugs “I don’t know”, and goes back to making me lunch.
Well, I think, news must be a little slow to arrive in this corner of the world. 
