I once lived in an informal city. No maps, no street signs. The street names are known by word of mouth. They have multiple names, nicknames, certain stretches are named one thing and down the road, something else.

The roads are paved, badly paved, gravel and dust. Depends on whether neighbors have alot, some, a little, no money. Sometimes a road starts as a path, and widens with with feet, hooves, more feet, and maybe wheels.

The neighbors who have houses also have walls. They are tall, thick, made of stone. When you finish building a wall, you add little shards of glass in cement at the top. But people don't lock doors, and the gates are kept open.

I was lost most of the time I lived there. But only in the sense that I had no map, just my feet, my eyes, and my voice. You learn to look carefully, and remember how things look. You learn to ask all along the way. You get where you are going.

Elizabeth Chaney grew up around ex-tobacco farmers, pentecostals, moonshiners, and folklorists in Southside Virginia. She now lives and works around Southern California/Baja.