After a rather rough night’s sleep I crushed the complimentary breakfast buffet in a manner that suggests my mind is subconsciously telling my body “hey man, this guy is going to try to kill you starting at the end of the week”. Time will tell if there is any truth to that. The food was a mix of very fresh vegetables, local breads, beans, vermicelli with milk, and more traditional breakfast fare. The tomatoes were particularly good so I made sure to eat them with reckless abandon.
Breakfast was shared with a few fellow riders – Tori from Canada, Christian from Norway, and Megan from various places in the US. Both are very seasoned riders, particularly Megan who at only 22 has already completed 3 cross-country tours in the US. Not much to say to that other than I hope my relative inexperience is somehow some type of blessing in disguise. At the conclusion of breakfast we had a game plan for sorting out local mobile phone service. It did not go according to plan, reminiscent of some of my experiences in my job, but unlike work, this bit of adversity yielded some nice memories.
We set out on foot, walking down the dry dirt road parallel to the hotel. After 15 minutes of walking it was clear there was nothing resembling a center of commerce anywhere near us so we backtracked and headed down a side street leading into a “neighborhood”. By street I mean dirt track, and by ‘hood, I really mean a collection of multi-story, partially-completed buildings. As we headed deeper into this area, there were increasingly greater numbers of people, and it was not long before we were greeted by the locals with a few blank stares and a lot of smiles.
After 5 minutes, a small contingency was sent forth to understand our attentions. Their hostility was disarming:
Local youth (a.k.a tour guides in training)
The guy on the left would prove to be the godfather of this group and made sure that I knew the names of all of his crew. This meet-and-greet process entailed him asking my name, awaiting my answer, repeating my name, then telling me the name of one of his friends. Rachman (his name) will likely go on to be mayor of this small barrio.
The frenzy and vigor with which we were greeted was nothing short of wonderful. Amidst this unpolished area of urban residence, we were greeted warmly by so many and it wasn’t long before a small cadre of children were walking behind us yelling “hello” and giggling wildly when we turned around to wave.
Len (my father) greeting the local children
Upon reaching the heart of the neighborhood we encountered lively merchants selling nearly anything a local would need: fresh vegetables, meats, livestock, and clothing. Loads of fresh mackerel, tilapia, and catfish rounded out the offering as fresh fish. The merchants were very motivated to sells us something. This guy thought perhaps we would change our minds if he waved his goods directly in our faces to prove their freshness:
Neighborhood Fishmonger
We spent nearly an hour walking up and down the streets taking in the energy of this bustling community. Some additional highlights:
Waiting to be eaten, or hoping for a haircut?
Round and round we go 
In response to your pic of the goat- my vote is “hoping for a haircut”. No one in their right mind would eat a goat with such terrible dreads. Was that goat also wearing patchouli and listening to “String Cheese Incident”?
Love your writing, keep em coming. tons of love, T
Two questions:
1. Did you find a phone?
2. How’s the food?
1. Found a phone – Torrey has the # if you want to send SMS’s and/or call. Please bear in mind the time difference and the fact that beginning tomorrow I will be very busy between 6 and 7:30pm trying to eat enough to avoid death.