The sun was about 45 minutes away from its daily dunk into the Pacific when Hobbs and I ventured to the east part of San Pancho to poke around the village’s only cemetery. Hobbs had discovered the site on a run earlier in the week, perched on a mosquito-infested hill rife with overgrown sticker bushes and hitchhiker weeds.
The tender sentimentality and painstaking construction found among these graves is evidence enough that this culture honors and reveres the dead in a major way. But liberally peppered among the tombs are stray styrofoam cups, food wrappers and plastic bags; one of rural Mexico’s disappointing realities that suggests no ground is too sacred.
Here's what I captured of the cemetery before the sun went down.