The women here wear blue clothes. It is loose and free flowing on their bodies. Intricate patterns of manila, red, and brown are woven to the sides. They try to sell us their crafts. Bracelets. Scarfs. Large pieces of garish fabrics. But every scarf and bracelet look the same.
“No gracias” we say at least three times during lunch. We eat pizza made by the natives. Pepsi. Cerveza. The men sell crafts too. Wooden flutes. Drums. Tooled purses. The same patterns on all things sold. It is as follows. True red, hot orange, yellows, cyan, magenta, indigo, and sometimes bronze.
We never buy things for the actual price. They never will leave this tienda, this generational job. They will live in this exploited town full of tourism and ex-patriots until they pass on this profession to their children. Sus ninos.