It had been raining for days. Successive waves of storms rolled over and through us, lightning alternating between turning nighttime into day with sheets of light and sudden bolts cleaving the sky into halves for nanoseconds before engulfing us in darkness again. Incessant rolling thunder rattled the panes and the nerves as everything that breathed ran for cover. The sky played mind games with our heads as the gray clouds broke up in bright promise and then reformed darker than ever. As another soggy night descended upon us, the posadas of the village looked every bit the outposts of civilization that they were.

As the downpours continued day after night, the manicured lawns became ponds and lakes. Even the most raucous birds grew quiet.

The special native mud became deeper and more treacherous than ever, sucking at your boots and slowing your pace as the rain pelted harder. Running for cover was impossible for those caught unawares. At least one tourist that ventured out that week, beguiled by a break in the rain, fell and broke a bone in the mud streets. On one occasion I saw a handful of bored and determined tourists leave the safety of their posada, only to turn back in frustration after taking less than a dozen steps.