The fiber of my people.

Through the year after attending special regional celebrations like the one for the Patron Saint of Todos Santos “Saint Pilar”, the local dances in the town square, watching the whales go by and/or sitting to watch one of the surfers catch a wave I have started to carve my own space in this small piece of the earth.

It has all come back to me: the fiber of my people, the color of my country, the freshness of the sea water, the comfort of my own language and inevitably the nuances of my culture.

I giggle inside my head when I see the little car with a big speaker on the roof driving around promoting a restaurant, a new business, a politician or the next dance over the weekend. Or, look out the window when I hear the honking of the fish guy, or the gas truck, or the water delivery guy. Which one of them is it today?

It pains me when I hear the cry of the man who walks all over town saying “Vendo ollas, vasijas, tarritos y muchas cosas de barro”, over and over again. While he carries a big load of pottery on his shoulders. Or, when I see the 80 year old skinny guy, wearing his big old hat, push the ice cream cart all over town. Up and down busy streets.

The need for survival is the norm in every third world country.