Mobile and ramshackle, motorized vendors seek and hunt in their lust to sell without someone yelling “Taxi?” on foot. We are unheard of with almost equal frequency, establishing rapport with virtually no chance they understand. I ask them, "are you one of the tribe of Seraphim?" The next evening, I understand the situation better. Go hype thyself is the worser fortune. Without exception in the Mata Hari shopping mall, really fine coffee worth is almost half our lackluster currency, miscoloured by repeated cycles in fate's unsteady washing machine. At the final language barrier, Napoleon pastry in hand, the driver refuses the big yellow sheet, so we veer impolitely around the roundabout, striving oh justice not to fall from the bike.