Locals and Visitors

5 blocks long, 7 blocks width, an avenue along the coast in which one after another, the harbours get aligned, the conexion with solid ground, I`ve never understood that actually, as if in an island, the soil wouldn´t be solid at all.  After the harbour, the navy facilities, ater that the local`s town, and then the exclusives hotels and high class houses. The south end with it`s toy ruins and it`s lost in time iguanas and going back by the rocky coast where the sea hardly shows the fierce it can have as last time it did six years ago. In this shore the small fishermen villages whith tiny houses all pilled up as if they where protecting themselves from the breeze and the salty wather that ruins everything in their way, everything but the original beauty of those little houses borned from the need and sisters with the sea that provides them in every sense.

This is Isla, the island en which i`ve finished the first part of my trip through mexico before flying to cuba. Island in which I`ve felt the strongest emotion so long. Island where I tried to staly and work for some time, island in which i`ve lived the best and worst moments of this journey so far.

Life-stories.

Some of them arrived a few days ago, some others a gew months, others years ago, so long I haven`t met anyone that was born here. They, we all have life stories, some of them are told by night, in a beach day, with beer, by the sea at night, playing the guitar, eating tacos, playing the saz. Some others are told more slowly, or are not told but they are guessed hint by hint. There are others, the most  importants of them, that get us included, I`m in some stories, some of them get in to mine.

They get in, they take part.

Get in slowly. Just with no reason, doesn`t have to do with an amount of hours of talking, with common interests. They`re just moment of conection, feeling accompanied, brief absences of loneliness. moments when I forget I`m alone, away from what we call home, as I explained earlier it has no relation with an especyfic place but with a day to day group of people that you know. Everiday things that can reappear in a common code, in a wink that lets us know we can count on them.

Anguish, departures.

I stay, the leave, they departure, the go on. As I`ve done myself so many other times, it`s just that now it`s me the one to stay, the one that live his day again in the same place, waking up at the same hour, walking by the same seafront, having a beer in the same bar. But this time every place carries the memory of someone that has left, that has carried on, that beer, that seafront reminds me again about the ones that once where here and now are gone. They have those visitors inside, those that are now visiting somwhere else, while my local me gets without them.

Perhaps I must become a visitor again, maybe it`s the best.