I awoke to an early morning glow at 7:00 AM this morning in a panic, concerned that I had missed the sun crest the mountains that I am situated amongst. I ran to the tile porch outside my room and quickly assessed the stage of sunrise. Check, check, and check (East, South, and North), the sun was as yet nowhere to be seen. I returned to my room, grabbed a down comforter from the bed and returned to the porch to watch the coming show. Cocooned in down and nestled into a white plastic lounge chair, camera at the ready, I awaited it's appearance above the eastern mountains for over an hour. Slowly I watched a golden glow cast shadows across the lines of mountains rising jaggedly from the valley floor to my right; slowly I watched the glow spill onto the red mountain directly to my left, it's surface appearing mossy with low-lying greenery in the early morning rays.
At last, all of a sudden, its warming rays blind my eyes. I loosen my grip on the cocoon to feel the unbelievable warmth our sun emanates at 11,000 feet. I squint to see the tops of the mountains against an infinite, brilliant blue. Children let out screams of delight in the distance, roosters coo at regular intervals between diving, dancing, and colorful chirps and chitters that are unfamiliar to my eyes and ears. Dogs bark at a passing car; the sounds of both slowly trail off into the mountains. I spot a man across the courtyard, leaning against a dusty red brick wall, a shovel propped against his shoulder, arm hanging loosely around the handle. His hat is pulled down low against glare.
A woman moves with purpose across the dusty landscape; skirts shuffle with each step....long dark braids bounce down her back to either side of a makeshift hammock whose vibrant colors pop in the sunlight, seeming to pulse in unison with the tiny wad of life sleeping inside. A small boy trails behind; he hops and wriggles, feet moving double-time to reach his mother's outstretched hand, like a carrot stick always just out of reach. She does not look back but moves constantly onward, a cloud of dust following the pair like a billowing, colorless shadow.
At 8:30 I tried to phone the airport to inquire about my tardy luggage, but the phone was dead. I resumed my post as sunrise-watcher and stayed until 9:30 when to my surprise, the phone rang. The voice on the other end of the line was barely audible above the cracklings, rustles, and static that assaulted my ears, which were still ringing pleasantly from my hour of birdwatching. It was Jaime, asking about my bag. I tried to explain that the phone didn't work and I couldn't call. I think I heard him say he would call for me and come pick me up mid-day to take me to the airport. I once again joined the sunshine on the porch.
Noon came and went, and no Jaime; one o'clock came and went, still no Jaime. Just as I was beginning to get restless, the phone rang again; “ Subimos al aeropuerto mañana a las ocho y media” (We'll go to the airport tomorrow morning at 8:30.”). With a suddenly free afternoon and an itch for motion in my bones I laced up my boots, grabbed my camera, and set out on the dusty road. I left the house heading southeast towards the villages and mountains I've admired from the porch the past two days.
It's safe to say I stuck out like a sore thumb as I sullied my boots walking through the dirt alongside the smooth cobblestone road. I have a feeling not many tourists make their way to the outlying villages where as far as I can tell, the only thing to do is people watch and keep up with everyone else's business, both of which can be accomplished by walking along the road, sitting along the road, or standing at the entrance to one of the convenience stores/small restaurants that appear out of nowhere every few hundred meters along the road. Nonetheless, I had been assured by Jorge that the area was very safe; as if affirming this assertion, two teenage boys passed me with the all-too-familiar white earbuds dangling from their pockets, so I figured my 2005 digital point & shoot wasn't putting me at extra risk and took photos to my heart's content.
Dust. Everywhere, everything is dulled by a thick layer coating its surface, permeating its cracks, stealing its vibrancy. Even the ancient bougainvilleas, red and magenta in full bloom, lining picturesque stucco walls and framing elegantly stained wooden and wrought-iron entrance-ways look tired and defeated, resigned to a life of sub-par botanical grandeur. Everything here seems to be in a constant state of change, though any motion to that end is barely perceptible. Piles of bricks, stones, beams, and other construction materials lay dust-covered at the entrance to nearly every establishment. The concrete and brick homes that line the street have a decidedly unfinished look to them, most notably in both their lack of windowpanes to fill the large gaping holes that are customary on the second floor, as well as in the audible flap, flap, flap of the blue tarp roofs protecting the construction more from sun than rain. If it weren't for the regular stream of Hispanic music, World Cup broadcasts, and the occasional tidbits of conversation that I hear cascading from these open abodes, I would certainly consider them abandoned. As it is, however, when I consider the mild climate, warming sunshine, and lack of rain, I am hard-pressed to come up with a justified reason as to why these abodes are entirely uninhabitable other than what must be a tiresome struggle to beat back the dust and ward off the nighttime chill. Empty lots also abound, though they are strangely partitioned by networks of red brick walls tracing odd, partially closed-off
I walked through three or four villages, separated by lengths of road spotted with homes hidden behind ornate but weathered estate walls. A gutter on either side of the road occasionally carried a stream of murky brown water and orange peels; dogs sniffed their way along the walls, occasionally dipping out of the sun to pad their feed in the cool (if rank) water. Discarded chunks of concrete served as mini-bridges over the gutter from road to doorway at intervals along the walls. I passed an impossibly old woman crouched in an open doorway, layered in skirts and shawls spilling over the asymmetrical block beneath her. Hair that was more salt than pepper fell loosely gathered at the nape of her neck underneath the rim of her bowler hat, and her tiny eyes pierced crystal blue from the depths of the deeply browned ridges that gathered around them; their clarity startled me...I smiled and said hello and she muttered incomprehensibly in a dialect I did not recognize. Every once in a while the road would widen to accommodate a central plaza with rows of well-tended gardens, painted iron gates, laid brick sidewalks, and invariably a small number of lazy restaurants, a church, and a small army of people-watchers. I felt their gaze and sometimes smiled, but usually kept my head down and feet moving, disinterested in becoming the subject of the day's gossip.
After an hour or so of adventure and a satisfying photographic record of the journey, I decided to turn around. Sunburned and exhausted, I arrived at the house ready for dinner and a nap.
Dust. Everywhere, everything is dulled by a thick layer coating its surface, permeating its cracks, stealing its vibrancy. Even the ancient bougainvilleas, red and magenta in full bloom, lining picturesque stucco walls and framing elegantly stained wooden and wrought-iron entrance-ways look tired and defeated, resigned to a life of sub-par botanical grandeur. Everything here seems to be in a constant state of change, though any motion to that end is barely perceptible. Piles of bricks, stones, beams, and other construction materials lay dust-covered at the entrance to nearly every establishment. The concrete and brick homes that line the street have a decidedly unfinished look to them, most notably in both their lack of windowpanes to fill the large gaping holes that are customary on the second floor, as well as in the audible flap, flap, flap of the blue tarp roofs protecting the construction more from sun than rain. If it weren't for the regular stream of Hispanic music, World Cup broadcasts, and the occasional tidbits of conversation that I hear cascading from these open abodes, I would certainly consider them abandoned. As it is, however, when I consider the mild climate, warming sunshine, and lack of rain, I am hard-pressed to come up with a justified reason as to why these abodes are entirely uninhabitable other than what must be a tiresome struggle to beat back the dust and ward off the nighttime chill. Empty lots also abound, though they are strangely partitioned by networks of red brick walls tracing odd, partially closed-off 
I walked through three or four villages, separated by lengths of road spotted with homes hidden behind ornate but weathered estate walls. A gutter on either side of the road occasionally carried a stream of murky brown water and orange peels; dogs sniffed their way along the walls, occasionally dipping out of the sun to pad their feed in the cool (if rank) water. Discarded chunks of concrete served as mini-bridges over the gutter from road to doorway at intervals along the walls. I passed an impossibly old woman crouched in an open doorway, layered in skirts and shawls spilling over the asymmetrical block beneath her. Hair that was more salt than pepper fell loosely gathered at the nape of her neck underneath the rim of her bowler hat, and her tiny eyes pierced crystal blue from the depths of the deeply browned ridges that gathered around them; their clarity startled me...I smiled and said hello and she muttered incomprehensibly in a dialect I did not recognize. Every once in a while the road would widen to accommodate a central plaza with rows of well-tended gardens, painted iron gates, laid brick sidewalks, and invariably a small number of lazy restaurants, a church, and a small army of people-watchers. I felt their gaze and sometimes smiled, but usually kept my head down and feet moving, disinterested in becoming the subject of the day's gossip. 
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