I climbed up the spiral staircase and am sitting on the rooftop terrace watching dusk swallow the Torrox Pueblo. Up on the hillside to my right a herder is bringing the goats down for the night and I can hear them yelling and shaking a bell while the animals baaah and bleat in protest. The sounds float down along with the earthly scent of dung and mingle with the smells of roasted pepper and pork from kitchens nearby. The birds swirl and dive above the village enjoying their nightly buffet of insects, as the people here don’t use any pesticides so the bugs and birds keep themselves in eco-harmony.
The night is mild with a light breeze and I’m reflecting on my experience so far while enjoying the voices and laughter of children drift up from the streets below. The children here are set loose and play freely. I’ve seen them sitting on skateboards racing down sloped streets, playing ball in the square, and riding scooters around a parking lot.
The elders in the village are so small and round and the only truly accurate word is cute. The women with their dark hair, plump high cheek bones, dark skirts and orthopedic shoes. The men, most balding and as round as the women, many shuffling along with canes. If I say, ‘Hola’ they look up and smile like the sun. It is a sweet place to be.