Now is the dry season. The hills are sere and the grass is crisply dry. Clouds of silent flies congregate outside of our kitchen on the window screen. Despite the dryness, the jacarandas and the bugambilias are in full, glorious flower.
Since Sunday we have had no running water. The pump that serves our pueblo had broken down, and the needed part was not available in Pátzcuaro. Tuesday was a holiday, El Día del Trabajo—Labor Day, so, ironically no one came to fix the pump. However, tonight I lay in bed, dreaming of rains, and when I awoke, Susan asked me if I'd heard the tinaco filling up (the water storage tank on our roof). It was not a dream. The rains had not yet come, but the deep well that serves our pueblo of Las Cuevas was receiving water. Water is more important than holidays. In a month or so, the rains will begin, ¡ojalá! We will revel in the afternoon downpours and the nightime drizzling rains.
I went outside, at 1:50 a.m. and turned on the water heater. I, materialistic gringo, will soon luxuriate in a deep bath of hot water.
REPRISE: repeat above scenario, almost exactly one year later. Same resolution. Must be an annual ritual.