The rock art in El Valle is limited to a single boulder on the NW edge of town known as La Pintada. You can take a bus from town for .15 or a taxi.

The hike leading to La Pinta's petroglyphs is as worthwhile as the art. The rocky path follows a creek through an emerald green forest lush from daily rain. It climbs past ferns, shocking pink flowers and creamy orchids hanging from mossy trees.

A young Guaymi Indian boy eating a popsicle came up to us and appointed himself as our guide when our taxi pulled away. Although the trail was evident and we couldn't understand a lick of his Spanish, he was entertaining to have around. His grandmother, who sold potted plants at the roadside, lagged behind as we climbed the forested trail.

Ten minutes into our hike we crossed a footbridge and came to a large overhang. I didn't notice the petroglyphs until the boy stopped and waited for his students to sit before he proceeded with his lesson. Behind him were squiggly lines in black and white, curled into snails, Q's, and spokeless bicycle wheels. I didn't see any animal or human figures, and if the boy attempted to enlighten me otherwise I didn't know it.

He was adorable as our teacher. He took his job so seriously, pointing to various squiggles in an organized fashion, his voice loud and confident throughout his memorized speech. He paused to ask if we understood Spanish–then despite our answer–carried on, accenting every 7th or 8th word dramatically. We stifled giggles listening to the pattern of punctuated words that he practically shouted. As if yelling them would help push them into our comprehension.

Just like I see at the rehab hospital when nurses and family members try to speak to stroke patients with aphasia. They ineffectively raise their voices to help patients comprehend when it's a language problem, not hearing loss. Ordinary words sound jumbled, like these foreign words to us. Funny how the impulse to speak loudly to people who don't get what you're saying is universally common.

I did understand some of what he said. Certain drawings represented three waterfalls in the area and a cleft in the rock makes howling noises–but exactly why I didn't comprehend. Was it the crying Indian maiden, angry gods or simply the wind? Local legend claims that the rolling hills beyond outline Dormida, Sleeping Indian Woman, who killed herself tormented over love. The waterfalls are her tears. Or so the story goes.

Any connection to the petroglyphs is anybody's guess. No one really knows what the befuddled images fully suggest.