There’s another really important bit about the time I spent in Itzapa : the sounds. The senses, really. Waking up early enough means you can look out over an ocean that forms every night and fades away as the sun rises high enough to burn away a settlement of mist. Then you listen – roosters crow all hours, day and night. The dogs across the street are barking, someone in town is having a birthday and cohetes are bursting (fire crackers – it’s a tradition on birthdays and most other occasions. After cohetes are lit and thrown into the room where you’re standing, you stop jumping when they explode right outside your front door), and maybe a goat is tied outside. One morning, the ah-ya-ya of Iron & Wine mixes with the slow clip-clop-clop of a horse’s hooves on its descent outside our doors. I’m drinking tea at the kitchen table.