I may have been a little misleading with my opening description of Chugchilán. It has two volleyball courts, not one. And although I’d be well within the limits of my poetic licence (who sets the limits of a poetic licence anyway?) to say it’s a quaint little place, unscathed by tourism and influence from the “developed world”, I’d be wrong if I said this.
There is a lovely colourful mural painted on a wall, by Peace Corps volunteers from the other America, encouraging the locals to use the rubbish bin, and the public toilets. I think it has been effective. The only poo I had to dodge in the street was that of dogs, chickens and donkeys.
As I sat by the road, pondering how funny that mural is and what the hell I am going to write about, Hércules pulled up. Hércules is the local beer and natural gas delivery truck. The driver jumped down, went around to the old lady next to me, helped her to her feet and shooed her back into the shop so he could deliver the beer.
Now, I know the beer truck comes on a Friday and this place is too small to have a truck come by on Thursday, as well as Friday, so why is the truck in town today? Tomorrow is Good Friday; I wonder what that means in Chugchilán.
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