...is that you've gotta peel them before you can eat them. At least, us furriners do, otherwise you're just asking for a dance lesson -- the Taliban Two-Step. Soooo, because mangoes have a skin like a pear instead of something sensible, like an orange, you either need a long, sharp fingernail (which possesses its own issues, unless you have a really wild guitar-pickin' style) or a knife. And, since mango juice is kinda like superglue when it dries, I figured I needed something a bit easier to clean than my Swiss Army toolbox.
There are other things for sale in the local armament bazaars than bang-sticks (and replicas thereof), which is convenient, because I wasn't planning to peel any mangoes with a Khyber rifle. Got myself a Khyber knife, instead. Welllll, okay, it's a Kashmiri folder, but it *could* have been a Khyber knife if it really, really wanted to.
This one wasn't the biggest one of the bunch (I didn't need an Ilbarsi three-footer and I *don't* have Freudian hangups), but all I needed was a decent mango-peeler, so I got the pocket-size. The decorative extension of the spine is what keeps the peeler from slicing your pocket (and thigh) to ribbons when it's folded -- it serves as the edge guard.
It ratchets open nicely and locks like a champ (the seller made a slashing feint at my jugular to prove it wouldn't flop closed); the latch flips up to unlock the blade when you've finished the mango massacree.
Heh. After the seller took his swipe, he grinned and said, "Hah! You are an officer, yes! Not a flinch! Civilian *always* jump back when I do that!" I just grinned my trademark boyish grin at him and told him, "*Retired* officer." What I *didn't* tell him was he telegraphed his move with a windup, he couldn't have stuck me unless he stepped forward another two feet (and his table was in the way) -- and, since we'd already spent a half hour drinking tea and talking flintlocks, I knew he wanted to make a sale, not a dead gringo.
Besides, I couldn't have backed up even if I wanted to -- I was already leaning against his wall.
I did get the lowdown on shipping arms out of Pakistan, though. The gummint doesn't really care *what* you buy, as long as it's not post-WWII and you pay a couple of bucks export tax. If you know an exporter who ships mass quantities of -- say, carpets -- to the US, you can avoid a lot of the usual red tape at both ends.
"Okay, what's your brother shipping today?"
"Two hundred Nepalese carpets, a functional replica of an SMLE and a Baluchi flintlock shotgun."
"Hmmmmm -- I want to examine those carpets..."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Heh. Maybe poor Joe gets stuck in the decision loop,
but I made all of *my* decisions along those lines instantaneously. Comes from years and years of analyzing the situation then-at-hand and asking this simple question:
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