“Tortillas.” The small wooden sign nailed onto a dead tree grabs my attention. I’m very wet from a rainstorm and I,m also starving.
Our local friends have dropped us off at this village. They won’t be back for several hours. We’ve walked up and down the village many times, slow steps helping us while away the time. With one hour left before we meet up with our friends, the promise of tortillas lifts my spirits.
Following a dirt path, we wind deeper into this village. We are now a mile from the heart of the village and the homes are farther and farther apart. “Do you really think there are tortillas at the end of this road? Or are we walking into a trap in which our kidneys will be harvested?” I nervously joke to my husband. His laughter calms my fears.
Hearing the laughter, a cow looks out of one of the doorways and moos)a warning to its owner. A multigenerational family is sitting on the dirt floor of the home; their heads turn to watch us go by.
I wave to the family as I pass by. An old woman waves back. Deciding we are not a threat, the other family members lose interest and turn away.
I’m about to give up on the thought of a warm tortilla when I spot another small sign in front of a small wooden house. A short woman is in the yard feeding three tiny piglets. In Spanish, my husband asks her about the tortillas. The woman shakes her head, not understanding his Spanish. So he falls back to the international language of gestures, miming (模仿)the act of making tortillas. Her eyes light up in understanding.
“Sylviaaaaaaaaaa!” she screams. A small girl, no older than 8,comes running from behind the
house. Her mother explains, and Sylvia gets to work.
Back on the dirt path, I take my first bite. My taste buds (味蕾)dance with pleasure. Before we regain the main road, I decide that it would be a shame not to return for more. Despite the heavy rain that has picked up again, my husband agrees. We make our way back to Sylvia’s house.