Behind the broken taillight stretched hundreds of miles of potholes, sprinkled with occasional chunks of bitumen. The thick air lungs spa bathed my lungs, and the jungle loomed darkly, thriving in tangled masses just off the broken road. An empty water bottle teased my feet and crinkled with dehydration, bouncing lightly with each rut the jeep dove into. We stopped with a squeal, after we saw him: the Pineapple Merchant. Juicer than a bass beat and sweet as your niece in a sundress, his wares awaited. Ten cents and a pineapple later we were back on the road, his smile disappearing in the distance.