Yo no lo sé.

A mother bathes her protesting son in the flowing freshwater. A dark pig feasts on the scanty offerings of the earth, manoeuvring itself confidently about the waste and broken glass. Men congregate on street corners in ponchos and handsome Panama hats, in animated conversation, discussing the world, awaiting it. Smoke climbs from corrugated makeshift steel roofs, unsecured but for the burnt rubber of used and redundant automobile tyres.

A previously white wall stands unashamedly nearby, in all it’s dilapidated glory; scrawled with youthful commitments of love, lust and other arbitrary colloquia. Amidst the graffiti, someone has penned in crude heavy characters “But where are the Spanish?” and I look around and about myself in way of response. I guess I don’t know.

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