Most people then walk off this delectable repast on a network of sun-dappled trails and wooden walkways, making a bee-line for the waterfalls along the nearby river, Rio Mimoso.
He saw things he recognized but his brain, befuddled with chemicals released by fear, couldn't locate the words to describe them: the twin stacks spewing plumes of dirty white smoke, the abandoned custom's station with a faded red star painted above the door, the line of white-washed bee hives on a slope near a copse of stunted apple trees.