|Dos Cabezas sunrise|
|Light comes in!|
|Art at border crossing|
My head is spinning, my body is convulsing with chills and nausea, and the ground is heaving at me in dizzying waves of sand and rock when Marcelino first sees Interstate 8: “Mira! La carretera!” (Look! The highway!)
“My father was a sheepherder, and his home was the hills.”
...There was a little boy in a beret and short trousers, and under his arm a loaf of bread that seemed as long as he was. There was a crude, wooden cart pulled by two oxen, whose nodding heads kept rhythm with the gay fringes on their horns. There was a girl in a scarf and bright peasant dress....
|Poverty in Agua Prieta|
And I want to dedicate today's post to my dear friend Helen. She will understand why.