there is a sign on the door that says boldly TRAINING ROOM.
inside we are talking about revolution; they have been telling me that NGOs are slaves to the agenda. the chalkboard is always covered in furious scribbles; the last few days, the conversation has been as agitated as i feel--i commence the great journey west at one am.
but right now im sweating and i can smell the sewer and the flowers and the humid air through the open door.
Outside there is a surprising mix of palm trees and buildings that were never completed with skeletal steel sticking out at strange angles. there are laborers draped over cinderblocks in the lazy afternoon heat, playing '92 era nintendo on bricklike gameboys.