Rosario and La Playa

We can’t find Rosario on the map because it has disappeared in the folds! We pull over into the Ley’s, the biggest store in this town, so Alma can pee and we have a place to park.

Huge speakers are blaring under a red plastic canopy boasting Corona Beer ads, and a huge barbeque where beef is cooking by a whole cow in front of the doors to the supermarket.

On the side of the street, a family has set up two pots of corn on the cob for sale. We walk down the one-way street, passing other stores and families, men on horseback, dusty side roads, sweet little concrete houses painted bright colors, some grey and tumbling down, others with iron fences and tall palms.

We walk past the huge church square with womyn dressed in their Sunday best sitting inside while a male voice drones on and on over a loud speaker, audible for several blocks.

Alma says if they go to church now, they don’t have to go tomorrow morning.

We walk until the street ends and turn right. There, at the end of that block, is an old womon making tortillas in a tortilla factory. Alma buys a half kilo – the tortillas are fresh, hot and yummy.

When Alma asks where are the beans?, the old womon shares her lunch with us – refried beans that I taste and some pork dish that Alma helps herself to!

We walk down more streets and dirt roads behind little concrete and clay houses. A young boy approaches us with a pot of what looks like brown balls a little bigger than walnuts, floating in syrup that he is selling for one peso each.

He wants to put one in a plastic bag but I hand him a warm tortilla that he reluctantly spoons one of the balls and syrup onto. Alma orders me to give him 5 pesos instead of one.

It is very sweet yet the ball is almost impossible to bite into. It is like a hard seed. Alma tries to gnaw off an edge and eventually it bounces into the dirt. We never figure out what it is.

We see a man selling whole coconuts for $15 pesos – about $1.25. We get one. Again, refusing the plastic cup and plastic bag he wants to distribute to us. Alma tells him no plastico!

He makes a hole and inserts a straw instead. We drink and drink all the milk and then he cuts open the top, shaves out the meat, chops it up inside the shell, douses it with lime, hot sauce, and a little salt before we can tell him to hold the salt.

It is so yummy! We walk back by the church as the womyn and children are leaving. The male voice has finally ceased and now loud music is coming from a cd vendor.

We ask an old man how to get to the beach and off we go, full of warnings to watch out for the pot holes, take our time, and enjoy the beauty.

We stop at the last town before the ocean where a man is cooking and his wife is taking orders. Alma gets several tacos and I get two quesadillas. There are containers of fresh salsa, peeled cucumbers, cut up limes, guacamole Mexican-style (which is liquid avocadoes and chilies), chilies, and salt.

Alma gets sick and vomits on the way to the ocean.  She won’t stop eating food that makes her sick, although maybe all food makes her sick.

We finally make it to the ocean. It is dark by the time we find a place to park – a place with a little stretch of hard dirt to pull over onto, safely off the road and a few little sand dunes from the ocean.

We fall asleep to the sound of the surf.