Six lanes of traffic in two lanes of road, the smell of burnt oil and exhaust. Small goats tied to ropes mowing the sides of grassy roads, a man walks his black steer on a rope, a dog gnaws on its back in the silty sidewalk. Face masks of neoprene, a girl rides side saddle, a little girl sandwiched between her father and mother, a boy in a powder blue tshirt drives three girls in pink tshirts, an endless parade of fashion and configuration. A box of pizza held by its rope from the brake hand, a bundle of rebar oscillating over the handlebars, two cylindrical plastic garbage bins secured on both sides of the rear wheels. Men sit in shadows at the foot of doors of wooden shops. Some stores are nothing more than tables in roofed recesses. Scooters slip in and around over-matched and under-powered motorcycle-driven taxi cages. Swarms of scooters dance in and around cars and sugar cane trucks and yellow buses beeping their way into oncoming traffic in the bustle of downtown midday. People crossing in invisible breaks in the flow, vehicles shooting in from sidewalks, driveways, and side streets. No traffic lights or stop signs. Just enough rules and courtesy and caution to make it work. A study in organized chaos. But no time to study, only time to react, dancing with the traffic, avoiding my own bug splat.