Shrimp Farming

As we continue to the coast, the mercury continues to rise. Uncomfortably so. In fact, the afternoon rainstorm is a welcome relief.



We decide to take the final detour and take the shortcut dirt road through Jama. Jama is home to many shrimp farms. I don't know what a shrimp farm should look like, but what we see is utterly underwhelming. In fact, you could say these were cranberry bogs or rice patties. I didn't see a single shrimp. I didn't see any "farming" going on. Just miles and miles of manmade ponds, I suppose to trap those little pink delights. Somehow, nary a single photo op.

We pull into Canoa Beach Hotel and they promptly greet us. If by greet us, you mean provide Kellie a curbside Mojoito!


Remember, when boiling a human, use lots of seasoning and do not singe the fur!






Now as the clock steals the final hour, Kelly is the first to retire to bed. Unbeknownst to the others, the 3 mojoitos have done little to dull her achy bones, which have largely not see this type of abuse since been boot camp days a few decades earlier. It's somewhere around 1930, but yet Kelly exclaims How remarkably late it must be. Surely she justs, but with an awkward smile she solders on. Today's ride while perhaps the tamest, has exacted a toll from her. Frankly, the adrenaline reserves are trading about as high as a barrel of crude oil (which is a price not seen since the previous century).