People in the colonias are mad resourceful. The gardens are amazing, rows of plastic buckets overflowing with plants. One woman had a system where her sink water was piped to water the garden. Tire retaining walls texture the hillsides. The houses are patchworks of whatever hard, flat surfaces people can find, a garage door, a whitewashed sign with faded red letters. Wood pallet fences reminicent of the American west. Houses are delicately linked across the hill by two thin wires, one black, one white. At night a soft glowing orb at each house blinks on, blues and yellows, a humbler reflection of the city lights below.
Thought the city is industrialized, at night it becomes less harsh than the American urban areas I’ve seen. Like the ramshackle community on the hill above, the lights are soft, blue, green, yellow. The lights don’t follow a grid, more a field of wildflowers than a matrix.
