On the streets, which were thick with mud from the heavy rain that buckets down this time of year, every day at around 2, people in their traditional clothing hurried about their work. Most were shy around us. The older ones kept to themselves and averted their eyes from ours. But the younger ones were curious, smiled, and tried to talk to us; one even wore a T-shirt with an American flag on it. Hombres in full regalia, with feet like leather, carried impossible loads of kindling on their backs. Small boys lugging shoe-shine boxes looked for customers with muddy shoes, and found them everywhere. A drunk lay unconscious on the sidewalk, his fly unzipped. An old woman went door-to-door with her hand out, people chatted with her for a moment, smiled, and gave her a coin or two—there's no other welfare here. Young mothers with babies strapped on their backs chatted with one another in Mam. Other women, with their long raven hair braided with colorful cloth and scarves, washed their clothes in pisinas, or rushed home with squawking hens carried by the legs upside-down. We quietly admired the gorgeous clothes, the art, the skill.