BY: SOPHIE BONOMI

​

MI OTRA CASA, SAYULITA, MEXICO —

 

We must had arrived to Sayulita during a religious ceremony in early December because every morning, like clock work, loud bursts of fireworks (or maybe dynamite) would jolt us awake long before dawn.

 

The first night, I sprang from bed thinking we were under attack. Slightly jet-legged and tired from a long day of travel, we held each other closer and tried to fall back asleep.
We’d assess the situation tomorrow. 

 

Awakening came too early as the hot morning sun gleamed through the windows and began baking the cobblestone streets. It wasn’t the light or the emerging village folk below the hill from our beds at ‘Mi Otra Casa’, but the loud, deep echoing voice of some one shouting. 

 

“Boliiiillllllo!” It rang through the town and caught my ear. 

 

I sat up and listened. 

 

“Bolillio!! “Boliillllo!” The voice repeated over and over again, each time a little louder, longer and with more intention. 

 

“Boliiiillillllllo!”

 

Awakening my husband in a frantic, I could only assume the worst.

 

“Basti!” He jolted.

 

“Remember last night with those explosions?! Listen!! I think some man has lost his son, Bolillo. He keeps shouting for him. Gosh I hope he’s ok…”

 

My husband, quite used to my antics after five years of marriage; grunted and rolled over. 

 

“There was nothing we could do anyway, was there?’ I wondered. I fell back asleep, hoping for the best.

 

The next morning, following the explosions was another trip to the Twilight Zone. 

 

“Boliiiillllllo!”

 

‘Fuck, can’t we get a little peace here?’ I thought. But again, clearly whatever that man was looking for, he still hasn’t found.

 

‘It wasn’t his son,’ I deduced in true Sherlock Holmes fashion. ‘But maybe it’s his dog. It probably was his damn dog. Ol’ Bolillo, got loose again…”

 

By the third and fourth day, we didn’t notice it. Maybe the man finally found what he was looking for, or maybe because Basti and I both fell violently ill with food poisoning for 72-hours, we were too dehydrated and weak to care. 

 

It wasn’t until day before we left for home that we caught notice of a familiar sound. 

 

There, while on a sunrise walk around the village we saw her — 

The Bolillo lady — was a lady — Trudging up the hills with her basket each morning, she called out to the people. 

 

“Bolillo!” she yelled. Reaching for a bread roll out of her basket.

 

[Bolillo = Bread Roll]