the kikuyuDANLI, HONDURAS: FEBRUARY 2
I save money by staying at the hotel beside the Esso station. My guidebook recomends it as clean, with TV and parking. The parking is true.
I find an internet cafe and am recomended to a Mexican restaurant. The food is OK.
The Kikuyu serviced my bike in 2006. My editor asked why I called him the Kikuyu. I know him by no other name. I rise early and ride to his shop. He embraces me, checks my bike, tightens the chain an unecessary milimetre.
Brave, I ask, "Why do people call you the Kikuyu?"
He shrugs: "It is a bad habit people have."
A pickup arrives towing a trailer loaded with trail bikes. The Kikuyu is their support.
He and I embrace again, wish each other good fortune and head our separate ways.
