It’s a cloudy day at the end of May. My spine crashes against the wooden rods that frame the back of a pick-up truck that takes us up the bumpy road into the mountains of Micoahumado. I have yet to learn that the more relaxed you are, the fewer bruises you get. On my left, one of the campesines* who is chatting away with my teammate, is getting uncomfortably close. I scoot a bit to the right but can’t go too far because a young man is sitting there. After 10 minutes or so I decide to say something and ask the man to move a bit to the left, which he does, although not without complaining.