No more Cujo driving interestingly, no more being unable to find a Diet Coke, no more village without telephone lines, and no more waitresses saying “it’s finished” when I ask if there’s any more Star. After well over 24 hours spent in transit that included sleeping on a bench in London’s Heathrow International Airport, an upgrade to the comparatively luxurious business class for the London to Philadelphia leg of the flight, and a comparatively ghetto bus that smells like beef jerky on which somebody calls the driver by saying “excuse me, Mr. Bus Driver Man?”, I make it home alive, sane, and vaguely considering the Peace Corps. It’s been a fulfilling trip, but it’s also whetted my appetite: roughing it is not a problem and I’ve survived a journey to the Third World, so where’s not to go?