There remain only a handfull of thin spots on this world- hidden junctions where contrary to physical laws and hallowed conventions there appears to flourish a singular benign mayhem that reveals itself only fleetingly and without ceremony.
In antiquity this corner was a thriving center of Taino culture.
Digging a posthole will often as not reveal ancient potsherds.
Infamous buccaneering business was transacted after the ships arrived. The natives who survived the pirates and the spanish fled to melt into the mountains.
The B*zone languished, it's remoteness from the clamor enveloping the island discouraged incursions of civilization, and those who would seek to stifle the madness pervasive in all things B*zonian. The world turns though- does it not? -Always with indifference regarding what is already there, determining alternative and often undesirable objectives seemingly by chance, at random.
Concrete trucks regularly rumble past the plaza nowadays on roads originally engineered for horsemen and oxcarts.
Municipal ordinances have appeared as suddenly as summer rain, requiring a curious mandatory code of behavior upon all who visit and live here.
Many places would buckle and crumble under this crass and disrespectful imposiition.
But zone lurkers know eternal verities can be pranged but never killed and carry on.
The insistant ones have yet to get past the odor of the antique sewage system.
There will always be coconuts hereabouts- but a Coconut Grove?... hardly likely.
Boqueron is a place where your ancestors brought their ancestors, who brought your grandparents, who came to this corner with the instinctive knowledge borne by countless generations of pilgrims- that down in the b'zone, no matter how much concrete gets floated out over the mangroves- all bets are off cause anything can happen.
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