I bet if you were going to open up a tourist shop, full of attractive locally made pots and jugs, you'd want to name it after the coming final battle between Satan's minions and the legions of Jehovah. Near Heredia, Costa Rica.
If you're the poetic type, you probably translate olla de carne, a popular dish in Costa Rica, as something like "beef stew." But it's nice to see that there are still some sticklers for accuracy and literalness in this world.
You know how when you're bicycling and it's nearly 100 degrees Fahrenheit out, and you're almost out of water, and you've got a long way to go to the next town, and you come across two partially dessicated cow corpses on the side of the road, one of which only has half its skin left and the other one has a motor oil jug crammed into its mouth, how that kind of makes you want to pedal a bit faster? But I stopped, because I believe this would someday be a great site for a motel. Near Santa Ana, El Salvador.
In Honduras, not too far from the Salvador border, I stopped at the scene of an accident. The night before, a doctor driving a Toyota pickup truck had slammed head-first into a light truck. The truck won. In addition to the two vehicles, the road still sported plenty of broken glass and blood. I went over to ask a local man about the accident, and a crowd gathered to check me out. They loved the iPod, especially since I was carrying both some ranchera and some Marco Antonio Solis, but it was the digital camera that they really dug. Here a few of them line up to ask me my opinion of current theories about proton decay.
At a roadside comedor (diner) on the carretera litoral (coast highway) in El Salvador, I stopped for breakfast. This young lady wandered over to join me, also fascinated by the iPod and camera. Here she is about to give me her lower teeth, the traditional Salvadoran gesture of hospitality.
"Respect the Cyclist"