There were children running and playing
along the highway in their bare feet; locals bicycling through the village; thin and sad - looking dogs roaming around and laying in the middle
of the
road; lots
of garbage and litter scattered
along the
side of the
road; abandoned buildings with jungle growth creeping inside them and graffiti on the exterior; open - air handicraft markets selling typical Mexican souvenirs and blankets in a variety
of vibrant colours; empty bus stops covered in graffiti; small, open - air and simple restaurants with red Coca Cola
signs on the exterior, and matching tables and chairs serving authentic cuisine; locals cooking and serving fresh meat on a barbeque
along the
road; a small park and square; narrow gravel
roads stemming off
of the highway to the remainder
of the village; and tiny one - room houses with either thatched roofs and wooden panels on the
sides or square white painted houses with a flat roof, barred windows and always a satellite dish on top.
They'd throw a few native wildflowers out
along the highway with their winery name in bold, pound the bright blue
sign in on the
side of the
road only AFTER they'd raped and yanked out an ancient oak forest for some stupid plot
of grapevines to save environmental face while giving someone else a buzz.