Besides being creative with fabrics, the lifestyle of self sustainibility must grow first. Read my new blogpost:
Food. One can not do otherwise than loving Indian street food, in particular the dishes available at truck dhaba’s. The inventiveness of African mom’s is not to dismiss either. They cook up delicious meals with leavy vegetables and home-made palm oil. A delight for a cyclist on sandy roads through the few patches of virgin forest. I vividly remember my breakfast at restaurants lining the streets in Sana’a, though busy with clientele I would eat in quietness. Fresh fish perfectly fried, while goat heads would simmer next to where I sat. In the far away past I would wander the streets of Bangladesh and Pakistan in search of a restaurant mentioned in the Lonely Planet, sometimes it took me hours to find such place, not seldom wandering off forgetting to eat. Though my own prepared sugary tomato paste pasta in the desert was tasty and bread fried in olive oil whether at a soppy wet Patagonian patch, the hostile windy pampa or a sweltering Argentinian yerba mate grove was always good enough. Food mixed up with sand in Mauritania, quick decaying beef in warm sunny Bolivia and constipation enhancing dishes in Paraguay, it all had its charm.
Crossing the Sahara into Mauritania (by bicycle) was promising for food, apparantly. But it turned out the smallest shacks run by African moms were the best.
Shibam was forbidden for me to travel to. All the more reasons to go there. It was yet another hightlight in Yemen. I backpacked two months through Yemen alone, and loved each moment of it.
At this particular spot I smelled that the meat I bought had started to go slightly off. I decided to fry it all in one batch to keep it longer. Since this was my first huge climb into the Andes I wanted to have a lot of energy.