There were small, paved footpaths between tiny, concrete houses and bamboo huts. There was a church and three little tiendas, each selling the same assortment of tomato paste, rice, sugar, cooking oil, and sardines. As I walked back to the dinghy on that first day of poking around, a raisin of an old woman with no teeth called over, asking in rapid-fire Spanish if I wanted to buy aciete de tiberon-shark oil. "Why do you take such a thing?" I asked. "For asthma and grippe," she said, baring a smile of gums. "Oh, dear," I said. "Thank you, but I don't need it."
"Gracias a Dios," she said, blessing herself.