Is Kirk Coningham just another bule choked by the black, leaded hands of the third-world city he lives in? Who, gasping for air, and getting more black fingers stuck up his nose, thinks he can write a book about the city and the black wounds it left in his head? Yes.But Coningham has conscience. His stories are angry at the misogyny of the white expats The Expats, sad at the nearly-doomed love between a motorbike-taxi driver and an office worker Ojek Driver and equally exasperated and ...