On the central plateau of Mexico lies a dusty town of small adobe houses scattered between a new dirt road and some railroad tracks. If the volcanoes, Popacatepetl and Ixtaccihuatl, are not too distant, then maybe you've arrived in Vicente Guerrero.

Don Calixto comes out to greet you, pink shirt fastened up to his chin, sombrero pushed back over his white hair, eyes watery and honored guest, friend, to our humble town. Pardon me, forgive me--I cannot express myself well--we are humble. But you are welcome. We are glad that you have come to visit with us." He pumps his right hand in the air, accentuating his oratory with a dwarfed index finger, injured in the Revolution.

If it's summer, you can't see the snow-capped peaks of the volcanoes unless it's early morning, for then the sky is not yet preparing its afternoon torrent. So it's best not to arrive after noon, unless you're wearing a sweater or two and a raincoat, and boots for the thick mud that dries to dust again over night. If you arrive in August, the pink and white plastic streamers from the July first saint's day fiesta still flicker against the sky above the hard, dusty, goat-trodden roads.

And the many children--perhaps a third of the 400 inhabitants--come out to shake your hand, curiosity and warmth in their eyes.

If it's winter, the burros move across the field, instinctively following the course to the spring in the canyon two miles away; they return with castanas full for the day's cooking and washing and drinking. The husbands, wives, sons or daughters prod them on with a stick.

Summers, the castanas and other barrels are left out to catch the rain and the burros dot the countryside only once or twice a month when the rain fails to come. Then the man of the house guides them in case they fall under the weight of their load as they come up the steep incline, slippery from a season's wetness.

If it's Sunday, the men gather to discuss the events and concerns of past and future weeks at the new school, with its thick plastic windows that flick open and closed and its concrete floor. Brought in from the state capital, it stands next to the ghost of the old adobe school. And it's here that the women, veiled and scrubbed and in their city shoes, stand in the dust outside the brick church next door with its store-bought statuary and its school benches, and wait for the padre to arrive. And it's here, also, that the two sides of town meet at the slight ridge on which the schools and church sit. So it's here that the music from the only two record players with loudspeakers meets at 6:00 a.m. and merges with the grunting, clucking and bellowing of the village animals in a cacophony of modern and rustic.

If it's the first Sunday of the month, the padre drives in with his toothless organist and holds the service whenever he arrives. The other Sundays the padre does not come, but the women and girls dress up in their veils anyway and say a few more "God willing's" than usual. The men--and maybe the rich Senora from the nearby ranch--stand about in a circle and discuss the work on the road or the unlikely prospect of raising sufficient funds to pipe water into the town. Don Leonardo is their selected leader--with his tall stature, good looks, blue eyes, eloquence, and strong stance.

For a long time they've been meaning to rebuild and enlarge the old school for use as a meeting hall and recreation center. So sometimes after the meeting the men haul adobes up the hill on backs or burros or bicycles or a broken-down car from Don Francisco's house by the railroad tracks. But usually, on their day of rest from work in the fields, they sit on the railroad tracks, talking among themselves and watching the soccer game.

The soccer team, which organized itself about eight months ago, compensates for its amateur style with flashy red and white striped jerseys. Sometimes a few boys from nearby towns straggle in to challenge Vincente Guerrero.

If many of the doors of the houses are closed, then maybe it's Tuesday or Friday and their owners have gone to the market in San Martin for the week's supplies. They begin their wait at the road at 8:30 when the bus is due, but sometimes it does not arrive until 11:00; other times they must run from their houses at 8:00, colorful shopping bags in hand, money close to breast, as they hear the honking coming down the road. In the afternoon the stuffed buses return at 3:00--or much later if it rains early and the river that needs to be crossed has risen--and disgorge the homecomers with their squawking foot-cuffed chickens, their onions, tomatoes, chiles, and their new levis and sombreros, or perhaps with just a little money in their pockets from selling some extra corn that their families did not need to eat.

But usually you meet the men heading out to the corn fields with their mules and wooden plows, and the older men and older boys, picks and shovels slung over their shoulders, setting out to work on the road. The boys or girls guide their sheep out to pasture, or bring in the hay for the animals, and Don Margorito or his neighbor moves from one maguey plant to the next, extracting the sweet agua miel that soon ferments into pulche, an alcoholic drink. Or, later, you pass the very small children, laden with Pepsi bottles and tortillas for their fathers' early lunch, scampering through the dust.

The men work hard on the road that they completed just over a year ago. Paid by the government, they are digging ditches alongside it to drain off the daily load of water that would quickly ruin it. Before, their only means of transportation was the unscheduled train. And, for many youths, this, or work on the railroad or in a factory in Mexico City, are the only alternatives to working the plots of land, which are not large enough to be subdivided among the many children.

Back in the village, the doors of the houses stand open, and as you walk past, Senora Clara comes out to finish hanging up her laundry.

"Good morning, Senora."