Perched above deep volcanic valleys and ravines sits the sleepy, whitewashed town of Moya, where time has seemingly stood still. Children play in the small plazas and old women guard the town from their intricately carved wooden balconies. Church bells ring and old men stop to chat about the weather or yesterday’s match. There’s something timeless about an afternoon in Moya, as if this is what’s always been and what always will be.