Her aunt, kneeling by her side, speaks quickly in Tzotzil. Her husband remains silent. He can do nothing for Zenaida. Not even tea. When the sun rises in the camps, no women can be found under the palapas.
Smoke comes out of all the chimneys.
Every house is a collective kitchen. There are hundreds of hands that cooperate to stir up the fire in the hearths, chop wood, cook maize, grind it, and make tortillas. Two or three for each person. For the entire day until tomorrow. At midday everyone has finished a task.