Back on trail, I had gained confidence from the morning's experience, all the while riding with a chunk of tasteless root in my mouth.  Mixed with saliva long enough, it eventually softened up enough to bite into.  Saliva didn't bring out any flavor, but at least it was food, or so I hoped.  If it got me up these treacherous mountainous passes, I guess I should be satisfied.  I needed to be positive and accept that I was eating to stay alive and not for enjoyment. 

Day after day the routine never changed, follow the trail, climb mountains high, initiate contact with people whenever I could, and keep gnawing away on roasted roots.  At each clan site the result was basically the same; friendly people, teach them a few words of English, as well about bicycles, gather more portraits and then pedal away with a fresh handful of roasted root balls. The balls traveled well, but never provided much, if any, satisfaction. Occasionally I was offered a handful of bananas as well. Now that was satisfying.  Never however would they accept payment, and usually looked confused when offering to pay.