9.09.2017
The french doors of my darkened room opened into the night, to sounds of a gentle rain over a town slowly drifting to sleep. The bleat of goats I heard nearby, fodder for the handwritten “cabrito” sign on a piece of cardboard taped to a roadside milk crate. Drunken shouts echoed down the alleyway from the nearby cantina where exhausted workers played cards and drank, the smell of beer and sweat fresh in my mind from when I'd passed the open door in the darkness earlier.
I remembered the smiles of the cook and waitress as I’d passed the open air cafe on my way to the little store adjacent. Inside the cramped little tienda, two small children squealed with laughter at a Disney movie in Spanish playing on the tiny old tube tv sitting on a box. Their watchful mama smiled kindly as she handed me change for the pack of tortillas that would be my dinner. Her little shop was illuminated weakly by a single, cold and dim fluorescent bulb that flickered. It made me want to get back outside under the night sky.
The day had been spent wandering Xilitla, dodging spats of rain and walking the steep, green-tinged streets covered with algae from the constant jungle moisture. I liked Xilitla. Oddly, it seemed a world away from the rest of Mexico I knew, as if I’d been transported to another country further south. The people noticed the gringo but didn’t care, going about their business undisturbed.
The sky had been filled with fog and rain, broken with momentary spots of sunshine and blue, but the humidity lay so heavily that I feared the consequences of temperatures higher than the 72 degrees of the day. It had been frustrating trying to capture photos of life and of the town, feelings and moments so hard to convey with images. But that, however, is the eternal struggle of being a traveling photographer.
In the dark of my room I settled into a review of the photos of the day on the laptop, until my eyes were too heavy to remain awake.
Location… Location… Location!
