Commerce is heavy on the streets of Varca City. Teeming with life, smelling of fish, diesel exhaust, a million spices and a billion people, Varca is a microcosm of something or something else entirely.
Diving into the indoor market, we eased gingerly past the drying meats in the sausage-maker's stall. "Hey Robbo," we quipped. "There's your sandwich, ripening nicely!" Rob wondered to himself, "Did I really eat meat like that, or was it all a bad dream?"
Oh, you ate it, Rob. But the kindly ministrations of multiple and multi-hued bottles Kingfisher Ale and a shot of Jura before bed each night set his innards right, and indeed, all of us remained healthy despite pushing our luck repeatedly.
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