I can’t quite attribute one thing to my relative lack of updates these past few months. It’s probably something to do with a weariness. Also, being here for five months has washed everything in familiariy, and it’s hard to know what to write about.

However, I’ve jotted notes here and there. I’ve met many people who inspire poetry, in all its bleakness and beauty. Maybe they’ll be a series of poems, or just one.

In any case, I’ve enjoyed writing little bits, trying to pinpoint the finer details and feels of this place. Here is a bit I wrote in August:

The sun rises on unfamiliar seasons, melting away the muted blues and greens from the valley. The days are stretching out; could this be winter’s end? Marked by the clatter of dry avocado leaves in the trees, the crackle of a bush fire across the road–where Prudence and Knowledge live in tin houses, the bleating of Anna’s goats in the field over the sound of men building a cinder block chapel.

A lizard scuttles between the cracks in the brick wall. Bits of ashed-sugar cane fall onto my arms and legs. A taxi honks at it passes and the dust billows up from the road and covers everything. Its grit sticks to my damp skin, the children’s legs, and covers the sheets of our beds.

It hasn’t rained in six weeks.

A couple months later the farm is very different. Spring is here and it is cold and damp. Heavy fogs roll in and it rains most days. A strange country.