Land of the Locals

Land of the Locals 

As soon as we got off the bus, I could tell we were away from the touristy area and now in the land of the locals.  It was exciting and scary and so foreign.  A pack of wild dogs ran up alongside of me.  They were looking for food and stopped to see if we had any.  As we walked up the old cobblestone street, I could smell the flour of the corn tortillas being cooked.  Laughter filled the street of children playing soccer nearby.  They were all so young but could kick the worn rag ball with such strength and skill.  Women with babies tied to their stomachs with homemade slings stood outside to witness the mass of foreigners invading their territory.  A young brown child peeked her head outside of her hut and yelled “gringos”.  I was filled with awe of such a lively village.  As we reached the top of the hill, I looked back down and saw how the hill was farmed into perfect little squares.  Being from the Midwest, I did not realize it was possible to grow corn on the side of a hill.  The first house we walked up to had a garden with perfect little rows, like a tiny plow had been there, filled with vegetables.  The mother was sitting outside at what looked like a sideways harp.  It was a sewing machine that was powered by her feet.  Next to her sat a basket of what she had recently made.  She pulled out a deep maroon scarf that looked like a tapestry but smaller. It was woven so finely and felt softer than anything I had ever touched.  When we stepped into the house, the smell of the recently burned out fire filled my nose.  I looked around and was amazed at how they had maximized their space.  Although it had a dirt floor, the house felt homey and welcoming.  One of the daughters laid a blanket on the floor and invited us to sit down.  They had prepared a meal of chicken, a luxury, beans wrapped in leaves and hibiscus juice.  As they brought out the food, the smell of spices filled the room.  After we were all seated, they began to pray in Spanish.  Although I could not understand them, I could feel the power and trust in their voices.  With the smell of the freshly cooked food, the beauty in the small hut, and the sound of foreign voices ringing, I felt awed and humbled.