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It was a balmy winter morning when we walked down the dusty streets of the old pueblo to the songs of crowing roosters. A line of women stood in front of the tortillería, each patiently waiting to buy a kilo of warm corn tortillas. Children laughed and played in the small church plaza. And a burro ambled by, packed with a load of firewood, led along by an old campesino. My friend Julio Reza Díaz and I had come to visit his friend, a caretaker at an ex-hacienda nearby. But I first wanted to stop and look inside the small church across the road.