It seems like a promising quiet and peaceful evening in Arenas. Unmissable to the observant eye is the unusual gathering of bright flickering stars in the slowly darkening sky, in the yet young of the night. The alluring moon, previously content behind the darkly glistening clouds suddenly stepped out of her hiding, which she hasn't done for the past few nights. There is an occasional gush of wind from the eastern quadrant, and the playful bamboo trees seem to enjoy the gentle whip, as if caressing each other under theamorous flooding of moonlight.

It is only about six o'clock after the noon, just before The Angelus, but the darkening blanket of dusk has already quickly wrapped itself around the weakening daylight.

Arenas is a tiny village in the middle of a farmland. Its inhabitants retire quickly to their homes at the sign of darkness. As steadfast their rising in the early of the dawn to rush to their plantations is also their faithfulness with which they sped home before the sun reached the upper-middle part of the sky towards the north, at an altitude of roughly 46 degrees above the horizon. This is the time to do something around the house for the men, and prepare the lunch for the women.