After much separation anxiety, I decided to leave my computer in my small apartment in Phoenix. For lack of a better term, I call Phoenix home. 

As a woman living alone, and just becoming more aware of her addiction to devices, I am in a long-term relationship with my computer. It is my TV, my friend, my colleague and my sleek companion.

In Peace Corps, we were required to take a shuttle: not everywhere, just between the city and a place called Los Encuentros. Peace Corps Security deemed it necessary due to safety concerns, but they rarely embellished on what safety concerns. 

So this time, five years later, I went to Guatemala without the protection of Peace Corps. For this reason I decided not to take my computer. This left me to write on my heart, pen and notebook. 

But let me tell you something: after driving 7 hours from Phoenix, converting dollars to pesos, miles to kilometers (am I driving too fast?), gallons to liters (gas), and crossing the Mexico-US border, locating the AirBnB in Hermosillo, then sneaking into a gym because I didn’t know when I’d see the next treadmill, I scheduled an Uber for 5:55am, failed to sleep, and stepped foot in the airport. “Hablas bien el español” me comentó el taxista. And then I made a mistake. I explained “Soy maestra de español.” And he went “ooh, aah” like I had just shown off, like I had told him I made good money, was respected by children and adults alike, and maintained a professional pedigree regarded by other professionals. I thanked him and left for the airport. After five short minutes in the security line, the only thing between me and Guatemala was two flights and the air that would carry me there. After five years, I would return to the pueblo. 

This pueblo taught me Spanish, and K’iche’, this pueblo taught me that 5:30am is a standard time to wake up because the sun is in charge. This pueblo taught me how to greet people no matter the relationship or time of die, how to listen intently, eat slowly, and hand-wash my clothes. This pueblo taught me how to break my heart and wake up the next day to find it just as broken. This pueblo taught me that people die randomly, without reason, and that it is a part of life to visit the dead. This pueblo taught me that women should expect to be treated as less-than. This pueblo taught me that food is not a guarantee (nor water). This pueblo taught me most things that I still know, now, but often forget, that life is a torrential downpour sometimes and I don’t exactly know why that is, except that the rain starts in April or May and doesn’t let up until August, maybe September. 

But first, I had to get there without the Peace Corps shuttle. 

A friend dropped me in the central market of Antigua.
In Antigua, I might as well be another missionary, or an Aussie with a travel pack, or a stranger passing through.
I mean one thing in Antigua, and that is money.
I bought a single banana and turned to face the buses. I could do this: backpack, purse, small suitcase with wheels (no use for wheels in prehistoric Antigua with either dirt or bumpy Colonial era cobblestone).

“Para Xela” I said. The ayudantes (ride recruiters, for lack of a better direct translation) pointed further down until I found the right bus. I felt all the emotions rush back as I stepped onto the familiar, rickety, velociraptor of a machine that would take me across the countryside.
I asked “how much?” before I stepped on. One must do this, always.
I leave my suitcase on the empty bus (my eye is on it) and furnish my first quetzales to pay with cash.
I buy a water bottle. I call the vendor an angel. She laughs. I am already absurd, but in Spanish, I simply reek of it.

After two hours in the refurbished US elementary school bus of many colors en route from Antigua (turistas) to Chimaltenango (el interior), I got off the bus and quickly felt pulled between two extremes: the tourists waiting for the next bus and the women wearing traje típico. It hadn’t been a dream, all those years I watched the women pass by in their Mayan clothing, woven guipiles and cortes secured with a faja. No. Here they were, living just like I’d never left. This traje típico is history in present day, just like the Mayan kitchen. And then there were the tourists. I asked them where they were headed to ensure they knew the buses. “Okay you want to go to Xela” and then I remembered, only locals call it Xela “Quetzaltenango” I corrected. When the bus arrived, I nodded, and they got on with their big Aussie backpacks. 

Then they got on the bus. I tried to make friends with the older woman in traje by testing out some words in K’iche’. There are so many Mayan languages spoken in such a small circumference, that one can take offense naturally if you speak to them in K’iche’ (a lesson I had to learn and learn again) if they speak Mam for example.

“Saqirik, Nan” and I saw her eyes dance in that way I had seen many times, a mixed baptism of her pupils in half surprise and half delight and 100% curiosity. “Ah, habla la lengua” she said “Je Nan” I responded. And she smiled. We felt instant friends (this was probably me grasping for security in the unfamiliar more than it was friendship).

But just as soon as I glistened in the abundance that is a shared language in a land I had just returned to, I saw another woman walk out of her store on a mission. She carried a stick, walking quickly toward the bus, and she was angry. She was shouting at the ayudante and I saw him take the stick. The next thing I know, there was commotion on the bus, people were getting pushed back and the tourists jumped off the bus through the back emergency door. Then, a man was also pushed off. He appeared to be from Guatemala, and he was bleeding from his nose and two small cuts beneath his eyes. I looked at the blood, happy maroon, raining from his face to the pavement inches in front of me. My K’iche’ friend grabbed at my arm and hastened me back, but we were still paying witness to this fight just the same. 

Let me be clear: I have never seen such a thing in this country. 

I lived there three years (well, 2 and a half but I think I earned the other half-year in emotional disturbance after leaving). 

I never felt unsafe, not even for a moment in that country. 

I’d never seen blood from a fight. 

The bleeding man presented his ID almost as if begging “Yo soy de San Antonio ____________ (Name I don’t know)” 

Then, the gringos immediately got back on the bus. I stepped to the bus window and asked “are you okay?” and they gave thumbs ups. Bless them, I would have waited for the next bus, but they were unafraid. 

Then the bleeding man stepped to the woman who had brandished the stick. He spoke in low tones, but she did not. 

“Es que estamos organizando porque vos quieres robar a los gringuitos.” 

Ay Díos Mío… the woman was protecting the tourists from getting robbed. And her response was to pass off a stick to beat a man on a bus. 

I was instantly moved by her defensiveness and a bit disheveled by the three drips of blood on the sidewalk. 

For the first time, I respected the Peace Corps rules. Just when they were gone.