Maria Espinosa

Cocks have been crowing for hours before the sun begins to rise over the village of Melaque on the Pacific coast of Mexico, several hours drive south of Puerto Vallarta. The town lies along a large bay. At the northwest end are steep green hills, studded with rocks. The sea at this end is calm enough for easy swimming and fishing. Further southeast towards Villa Obregon, the surf is rougher and at the southeastern end is Barra de Navidad, where white buildings gleam in the sky. I run down to the beach for a quick dip in the ocean and afterwards come back to my room, drink coffee and munch a bolillo, still warm from the local bakery.

Later I may walk along the beach or on rough cobblestone streets into town. Stores cluster around the central plaza, a large grassy square with benches, a raised bandstand, a fountain decorated with a frieze of dolphins. Next to it is the Church of San Patricio. Most of the small stores are family run and there are always children around - a baby in someone's lap, a child running in and out from the street, children are everywhere.

Despite the fact that this is the tourist season, the town is still comparatively slow paced. At the corner grocery, a young couple nestle against each other behind the cash register, as they watch a TV novella. The woman rises from her husband's lap to help me look for candles. In the tiny one-room post office with its home-made curtains, the postmaster waves away my consternation when I realize I don't have enough money for the postage stamps.

"Bring the money next time," he says.