A table everyone sits at.
Friday rice at the family compound. Neighbours, guests, kids, hammocks.
Most Fridays the family cooks a big pot of pilau rice and whoever happens to be at the property eats together. Sometimes that is four of us, sometimes it is fifteen.
Nobody is performing for the guests. There is a hammock, two plastic chairs that have seen better decades, a steel pot in the middle of the table, and a row of bottles of mango juice. The kids steal the best pieces of meat. Someone laughs too loud. The dog circles.
This is the thing we did not know how to write on the Airbnb listing. It is also the thing guests tell us about months later. They remember the room, sure. They really remember the table.
If you are around on a Friday and you want to join, just ask. There is always one more chair.
