The women of the village would go to the well for water, the one that was at the edge of the village at the exit for el Tamarindo, near the house of dona Maxima and don Santos, the one who killed the jaguar and displayed the hide in the living room of his house.
You could heard the crickets and cicadas in the distance the sign of that day was ending and the night was beginning.
Mothers were boiling the corn to have it ready with rooster's calling the early morning
to take it to the mill were everybody shared information about what was happenings in the village.
The beach was clean and full of tiny treasures, small crabs and chocolopas and bits of driftwood that showed the wear of months of sailing and that would serve as fuel in my grand mothers kitchen.
The hours passed slowly or not at all, no body used a watch, the sun marked the time and the rooter's call started the day.
A summer morning that you could smell and almost drink like water of a thousand tastes and smells.
A simple life full of magic inherited from our ancestors who lived in adobe houses with gardens of tzempasuchil.
Dead did not exist it was only a passage to a better life.
The respect for the trees huge and strong and benevolent like giants full of life.
It is impossible to imaging a time when the hot and dry forest smelling of decay was green.
A time when you could see black iguanas wherever you looked.
A good time to hunt for ancient treasures that no one had discovered for years and and that promised kilos of gold and life without worry and the power to influence the lives of others and convert paradise into something ordinary like a house with a pool and air conditioning.
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