Dear English-speaking readers, this page is an automatic Google translation from a post originally written in French. My apologies for the strange sentences and the funny mistakes that could gave been generated during the process. If you can read French, the original and correct version can be found here PetitesBullesdAilleurs.fr
The path to Tekek is punctuated by small houses, which range from the rickety hut to the dapper chalet. Cafes-restaurants-grocery stores sell sachets of noodles snapshots, fishing line and laundry packs, serve plates of fried rice and ...
Along the beach, old hulls stranded. Atmosphere a melancholy strand, at low tide.
I can not believe the kindness of all those people I meet, standing on their doorstep, hanging out along the road or perched on their motorbikes, all those people I do not know and who greet me with a gesture, a word, a smile.
It reigns along this now almost road, since it also passes a few cars, a nonchalance all tropical, a little tinged with melancholy. Everything crumbles, flakes, sinks gently, softened by the humidity of the air, corroded by the salty wind, disjointed by the burning sun: the stranded boats, the shabby huts, the awnings of crooked.
There are also places a little dirty, with piles of badly burned garbage where the monkeys come to forage, framed by countless panels DO NOT LITTER…
The ride is still very pleasant. The sea on the right, the jungle on the left. And I pedal in the middle sweating liters of water in the hope of finding crazy, in the shops of the village, some elements of civilization that I urgently need: an extension cord for the inconvenient catch of my cottage, of mosquito repellent seeing that my reserve is coming to an end and, who knows, maybe a connection really high-speed to internet?