The ladies start making their tortillas across the street, slapping the mushed corn quickly into rounded flat patties and toasting them on a fire.
Every day. All day.
The first night I wondered if Marta was making some next to my bed. Then I wondered if the largest rain drop in the world was plunking into a bucket next to my bed.
Hours later, annoyed by it, I decided to join them and asked what was going on. A ngot up and asked them what they were doing and how many they make every day.
that explains it.
I also asked them to teach me how to make them.
Here's the two I made that seemed "OK" by gringa standards.