The Little Houses of Mérida

I sometimes think about the little houses in Mérida. Not so much the inner-city ones – as beautiful and bright as they were – but the ones further out. I saw them from the coach window as we drove out to the cenotes to swim. Washing lines hung across the front of some, little tricycles abandoned, maybe as a child leapt off and ran inside to heed a mother’s call. Some sold ice cream, or other wares; tiny convenience stores in the heat, dried leaf litter, and trees around them. The colours, naturalised by the sun, knew no bounds.

When I think of them I wonder what life is like out there, in these Yucatan villages, what the community is like, and what kind of creativity happens in them.

Of course, I visualise myself shuffling about in knee socks and long shorts, or light trousers to minimise my bite risk, working on either side of the hottest time of day. Interestingly, I’m not writing, coaching, or illustrating here. I’m painting. I take my time, applying loose strokes and stepping back for minutes at a time to consider what it means, whether it’s successful in some way. Or not.