The aroma of moist dirt and wildflowers enter my lungs. Never before have I inhaled such a fresh breath. My lungs feel as if they are being purified of all the smog from living in the city. I take in the scenery that expands around me as I walk along the rocky, dirt path that makes up the main road of a bantam community in Mexico. Being close to the border poses a lot of danger and crime, yet this town is undisturbed with villainy. It’s serene with beauty and peacefulness.

To the right of the road, fields of crops lay across the land making a lush blanket of green. A tall volcano interrupts the majestic layout of the land. Grass and foliage creep up it’s sides making a brilliant burst of vibrant greens that stand high in the sky. Like a sleeping giant, it lays there casting a shadow over the fields, making a triangle of shade. Towering over the makeshift shelters and fields, it is the focal point of this small neighborhood.

In between the road and field runs a minuscule creek. Murky with soil and leaves, this brook serves as the community laundromat and bathing area. I notice two adolescent girls washing clothes. With braided hair cascading down their backs, they stand in the middle of the creek, hunched over their laundry diligently scrubbing away the grime. Light brown water swirls past them. Sweat cascades down their faces as the sun scorches the girls. Clothing lines the bank on the plush grass, basking in the sun to dry. I continue walking down the street into the heart of the neighborhood.

Meager huts clump together forming a camp. The shelters are composed of cardboard or sheets of metal held by clay or rope. Drab brown covers the homes making them camouflage with their surroundings. The structure reminds me of pillow tunnels I would make as a child that collapsed at any given moment. A fear that the shelter would face the same fate as my tunnel. With no real foundation laid to support or ground the edifice architecturally, was not safe. Rock and dust form the front yard where little children entertain themselves by drawing hopscotch squares into the dust. Imagination turns the yard into the Sahara desert where a wild cat is on the prowl for it’s next victim. A walkway of rocks lead up to the front of the home.

A gaping hole serves as the front door with a thin sheet veiled over to keep the bugs out as best as it can. My eyes adjust as I step into the dark abode. There is no lighting in the shack, only slits in the walls that serve as windows. As I proceed into the front entrance, I notice the dirt floors. I come to the realization that dirt is the flooring throughout the entire home. I notice a broom propped up against a leaning wall. I think of how frustrating it would be to try to sweep a dirt floor. No pictures hang on the walls.

Off to my left is the main room that serves as a bedroom, dining room, and living room. No furnishings decorate the multipurpose room except for a worn,rickety, wooden table. Sunshine comes through in rows making the room a little brighter. I see imprints in the dirt of where the three children sleep. The room to my right is a humble kitchen. Brown, dirty walls surround the lone old black stove that is pushed up against the far left wall. The stove contains layers of grease splatters and black stains. Hanging from the ceiling are rows of dried chiles. A faint scent of oil and cornmeal wisps through the air on a light breeze.

As I walk through to the backyard a burst of laughter splits through the air. The residents of the home sit around laughing and joking around with each other. Merry squeals escape three girls as their father wraps them up in a bear hug. Their clothing is just as humble as their homes, it hangs on their bodies like an old coat on a rack. The apparel of this family doesn’t bother them, neither does the conditions of which they live in. The joy that they find in the company of each other is all that they have in this small community in Mexico.