"The storyteller makes no choice
soon you will not hear his voice
his job is to shed light
and not to master."
On the beach there's a three man band - bass and snare, trombone, child yell-singing an unrevealed melody - and the music is like something out of a Seussian narrative. Bizarre, wholesomely psychedelic, vaguely menacing. An ambivalent omen of some ceremony about to begin.
On the sandy cobbled road we pass pigeon-toed pug-looking mutts and dingy white chickens overwatched by pearlescent black roosters.
In the mornings a Sanigas truck drives the streets just before nine and on into the morning blaring Sanigas' own fifteen-second radio spot on loop over a crooked, kazoo-timbered loudspeaker. A man's voice spouting tag lines backed by a women's chorus of cheap R&B.
Dreadlocks are not uncommon. Gluten-free and vegan options are available. At La Esperanza, soy, almond and hemp milk are available in your French or aeropress coffee. One can learn more by watching the young expats here than by listening to the tips offered by the older ones and there's an argument that this wisdom is a good part of what one needs to know about ordering one's existence.
If you haven't been, trust us, you wouldn't like it there. It's not for you. If you've been, spare your words in mixed company, amigo. We know where you live, when you walk your dog and where your family sleeps.