"So we breeze into a bandit heartland with a photo-ID and say, Excuse me, gun-wielding bandit-type fellow, but have you seen these men?’ when we know one of ‘em doesn’t look like this anyway." Geraint pondered over a junk-food brekfast. The airport didn’t seem to offer anything better, but at nearly noon–by the time they’d managed to wake, bathe, dress, and pack everything again–they didn’t fancy the lunchtime menu and the junk was all they could face.