Outside in the late
afternoon in a sleepy Mexican town, I sit in my plastic chair, and listen to the quiet. Unlike
other years, there is no blaring traditional music destroying any
chance of thought or solitude. There are the leaves, rustling
slightly in the wind. There is a bird repeating its whiny call over
and over and over. Every once in a while, a nut of some kind drops
from one of the trees, or I hear a dog in the distance. Mostly
there's only the tap tap tap of the computer keyboard as I attempt to
record the day's activities.
There is nothing
active, only stillness.
This is a world
removed, as dry as the hollowed out earth across from the front door
of my small casita, where roots hang down in tangled disarray, the
only sign of life occurring when a bigger gust of wind blows through
the little lane way.
There are rocks and
a bit of old rain or hose water sitting in a small dip of the ground's dirt.
In fact, every part of the small street is dipping and uneven with
waves of lumpy dirt and loose stones of every size, perfect for
tripping you up, breaking bones or gashing skin. No one ever thinks,
from year to year, of leveling the ground, or raking the rubble to
the side, of planting flowers or creating some kind of delineating
edge. A dry, dusty cliff of scrappy dirt lines the path, facing the
cement houses on the other side. At the end of the road, garbage bins
are knocked over and spilled by roving animals, their contents
flattened into the dust.
The houses are
painted here, cheery and bright, unlike on some streets, where the
concrete blocks just remain, looking like an abandoned pile of
unfinished construction, until you notice a light burning within, or
a clothesline full of garments, or a child wandering outside. Here on
the little dry lane, the homes present varied and colourful fronts,
although the sense of artistry does not extend to outside the front
door, where grey cement rises and falls like the topography of a very
bad case of acne on the faces of several entrances. The lumps swell
and slope in random patterns, as if bricklayers simply dropped clods
of their mixtures like bread dough on a bent cooking sheet, turning
their back on the preparatory work of smoothing the ground first, and
then just walking away, forgetting their concoctions as they baked to
solid forms in the hot sun. They are traps as well, defying you to
walk without attention, to assume any amount of confidence in an even
surface.
Walls with iron
gratings in window openings rather than glass; inside and outside
life that will erupt in a few hours and converge together in the
intimacy of a gigantic, town-sized family gathering. Aromas from the
several kitchens wafting through the air, and the occasional
break-out of that really loud music as people relax to their personal
form of therapy. All for one, one for all. Tables and chairs set out
on streets under poles that support a thin tarp - pop-up restaurants
of tacos and burritos, tradition of many years. Dogs and children
everywhere as families make their after-dinner trek to the ocean for
the wild and breathtaking canvas of the sunset, putting to rest
another day.
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