The village of Guacayvo. Morning. The scent of woodsmoke. The sound of hooves pawing at the earth. I stretch out inside my sleeping bag. Through the window I can see sunlight just touching down on the opposite wall of the canyon. I step outside to find the source of the pawing hooves: two burros with ropes swinging loosely from their necks, their soft muzzles tearing at the grass. They smell of crushed herbs and dust, and I am instantly in love with them, all sweet eyes and expressive ears.