Today, through the usual haze collecting off the bay and undeniable stink of shanties what is above remains clear. The streets still reek of cheap business and squawk with the buying and selling of the exotic dead, fever red buses scream and fight to breathe along the Romas inhaling black spit of hoary late models too old but to creak with choking bicyclists and rickshaws pedaling giddy tourists on goodwill jaunts along the slithers and scattered patches of asphalt. Today, the whores stay home and count blessings while washing feet in buckets of dirty water, waiting for the whistle and howl of calling boats, and school children wrestle along hallways tugging weighted backpacks filled with sketchbooks of home worked attempts to pencil a heart on paper that beats stronger than August typhoons.