Leymebamba lurches into life shortly before 6 am. The bass note is laid down by the minivan outside our hotel revving its engine while its passengers are woken, goaded and loaded. Layered above this is the local cockerel morning chorus. The first to start is a croaky, panicked and rather chopped cry - think John Inman in a half-nelson. Next to join is a distinctly Gallic voice, fruity with lovely rolled r's. This shuts John Inman up but encourages further contestants to the game. Next the local combi van hoves into the square tooting its horn to drum up business for its meandering journey to the destination of its choice. Possibly affronted by the combi's raspy tooting, John rejoins the fray, the minivan slams an unfeasible number of doors nearly simultaneously and exits stage left. The combi too has better places to be, leaving John triumphant, but increasingly hoarse and panicked.
Now all that is left is the sound of a small town gearing up for whatever a Saturday brings - local traffic, neighbour's conversations, maybe a market stall or two trundling by and now the sound of our breakfasts being prepared ...