Last Day in Olinalá

On my last day in small town Mexico, it was appropriate to eat the classic breakfast of atole and tamales. Sliding on to a low plastic stool, I crowded around the small table dominated by the three large aluminum vats; one with tamales, one with atole de arroz, and the last with atole de granillo. Under the low slung blue tarp, the proprietor Doña was at ease chatting and joking with the five or six diners; the middle age man in a tie to the humble older women from the surrounding communities to the three cheerful twenty-something boys who joked with her while maintaining a definite level of respect. She did a crisp bit of business in the twenty minutes it took for me to drink the piping hot atole de arroz (rice milk), part of my usual morning routine, to which I added un orden de tamales (an order of tamales, which is three).

By mid morning, it was clear that the day was going to be its usual hot, sun searing the plaza. I was sure to indulge in my daily dose of agua de guayaba on my way to buy one last box from the town artisans. In the late afternoon as I rushed to finish my errands, one of which was to visit Doña Sofía, the local seamstress who was putting on the finishing touches of my dress, I should not have been surprised to see people gathering around the sidewalks of the plaza. A procession was about to begin. I vaguely heard the band attempting to tune their instruments in vain. Indeed it was appropriate that I would see one last procession honoring the patron saint of Las Ceibas neighborhood.

I have yet another night bus ride this evening, though not my last. I will return to Olinalá monthly during my time as Country Representative, but I will miss my daily dose of agua de fresa or horchata. I will miss waking up to the sounds of the chickens and sheep drowned out by the booming 80s hits from the neighbors. It is easy to start the day with a smile when the chickens have to harmonize with Journey or the sheep sing along with UB40. Finally, I would be remiss if I failed to mention that during my six months in Guerrero, I thankfully escaped the deadly sting of the scorpion, the menace of the region.