ABSTRACT
Nazareth itself is like many other puroks. As you sit on the verandah under the portico of Inday and Dee’s bungalow and look out, slender palm trees shoot up from the surrounding compound only to burst into jagged spikes of green against a hard, cerulean sky. The leaves of mango trees, gnarled like claws, reach up above houses of coconut-wood and concrete, only to be beaten down by the sun. And the clouds, vast spires of etched crystal which form unnoticed during the mornings around the mountains to the southwest, seem permanent, immovable, changing their shape only when your eyes look elsewhere.
