Honduran woman waits at a clinic for a checkup.
When I enter the tiled galleries, the bells turn out to be empty oxygen tanks clanging together as they are taken to be filled. It is gray and overcast for the first time since we arrived, and the week already has taken on the surreal nature of the dreams brought on by malaria pills. There, to my left, as I write in my notebook, are the vultures waiting to see what medical waste they might find for breakfast. I remember another zopilote riding the currents high above a thatched hut mountain town where far below, Mayan ruins peaked out of the forest top. I see campesinos entering the city with their horses and ancient faces, passing stylish businesswomen with cell phones pressed to their ears.