Ladrilleros
Ladrilleros. Where the hilocopters fly low like Vietnam. Guns hanging from faceless fingers out their open doors.
Where the children sing and beat empty kerosene containors with a rythym only found in the blood of an African.
The Indians work quietly. Selling the palm frond hats and purses. Their children's pigeon-toed feet slap the ground as they run past, flashing toothy, innocent grins.
Ladrilleros. Even the Hunchback has his place here. And the silent "cara de loco" who sells his collection of seashells, finally gave us some words to remember him by. A voice strangely reminescent of Mike Tyson's.
Ladrilleros. Where I ate fried fish, arroz con coco y plantains for 14 days straight, cooked by the incessantly screaming family who's little Alejandro could never keep away from mud puddles and trouble.
The ocean roars here with la marialta. After a night filled with jungle rain, the jungle seeps its way into the sea and fills it with it's hojas and trash from the pueblo.
Ladrilleros. I will remember you by hot nights, singing mosquitos y negritos, arepas con huevos, tranvestites and my first UFO sighting. Un hobne. Con la luna llena. Yo creo ahora.
Gracias Ladrilleros.
La playa. Filled with tourists and local women offering to braid corn rows.
Trash in the beach.
Cliffs and jungle line the beaches.
One of the many cara de locos de Ladrilleros.
Working. 7000 pesos for a trincita con semillas.
Neighbor getting a bath.
Our work. Mainly Rubèn's.
Trabajando.
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