Much to my surprise, I am working as a medical registration clerk again. This time in a makeshift clinic in a Mixteco village high in the mountains. Yesterday, I sat in the yard with two nurses. They checked everyone's vital signs; I recorded the information, directed the patient to a place to wait for the doctor, and gave each patient a copy of the gospels of Matthew and John. There was a doctor in a concrete room and another doctor working on the porch.
The Mixteco villagers gathered under a shade tree to wait. They are quiet people. The men wear straw hats and button-up shirts with slacks. Most of the women wear cotton dresses or skirts and blouses, many with embroidered aprons and shawls. Nobody is over five feet tall.
At lunch time, some women from the village prepared rice, beans, and corn tortillas for us. Everything was cooked in big clay pots over a fire in the yard. I don't know if it was because we had been working all day, but those were the best black beans I ever tasted! Rod told me the clay pots give them that flavor.
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