Driving just after nightfall. Somewhere in Honduras near the Guatemalan border. Huge, beat up trucks were roaring past. The road was - as always - potholed and the concentration with which I continued to stare at the holes in the road, trying to anticipate as early as possible what was actually hole and what was merely shadow, equalled a trance-like state. Then suddenly, in the distance, a neon-gem, a glowing cloud of cool colour with the amazing exotic, cool technological beauty of a U.F.O. and with the same promise of a different world out there, somewhere: A Texaco gas station with mini-mart. The car pierced the aura of light and glid into the sharpness of concrete and steel and familiar brand logos. While the tank was being filled, we waltzed into the air-conditioned coolness of the shop and went crazy over Hershey bars and M&Ms. We spent a small fortune, unashamed of it and of being so loud and so gringo, just as one is unashamed of singing loudly and out of tune in one's own shower.