I watched the driver reach for the machete with his free hand as we careened across the InterAmerican Highway. 
With his hand clasping the wheel, he used the machete to push something unstuck. 
There we were, all the souls cast as involuntary dancers to the massive bumps and dips and momentum thrusting you clean against the hips of a stranger, all while the exhaust pumped through the air and we chugged across the countryside, heavy-handed corners in an otherwise patient culture.  
I hadn’t forgotten about picking coffee with the pinch of my thumb and index finger, the dirt sticking under my nails.
I hadn’t forgotten the sound of tortillas being molded by knowing palms, a pleasant clapping sound that I could hear from the street.
I hadn’t forgotten the damn roosters.
I hadn’t forgotten the laughter of my host family. 

But I had forgotten the machetes. 

What else had I forgotten? 

He set the machete down as we angled toward my final bus stop. 

The bus spit me onto the sharp corner of the careening buses. There I steadied in the wake of exhaust: my backpack, my suitcase, and the 5 years of memories that I had revisited while I anticipated this great return. 

If you’re going to Santa Clara La Laguna, you have to turn at Kilometer 148, but locals call it “48.” Ayudantes shout cuarentayochocuarentayocho like auctioneers. They hurry passengers on, the door slams shut and we accelerate in an orchestra of metal and flesh, money and speed, load and unload, hurry up and wait. It costs 10Q ($1.25) for a 35-minute trip into the mountains. I remember the clouds were so thick that sometimes I could watch them shift through the street. Well, the ride cost 10Q when I lived there. I wondered what it would cost now, after a pandemic. 

Between these rides from city to country, I learned Spanish and K’iche’. I learned so much more, but language sustained me.  

I was a bit scared to witness how the pueblo had changed. Well, yes, change is inevitable, but I feared the kind of change that turns a home into a museum. 

A stranger asked me where I was headed as I heaved my suitcase up and over the walkway. “Con finanzas” was his next question, this man I’d never met was asking me to fund a project. I hadn’t forgotten those pesky questions, sponsored by the assumption that I had money. I tried to explain that I did not have money, but.. I had a passport and a flight to get to Guatemala, and those things cost money. Oh, well. 

Then I braced myself for the first taste of homecoming: the bus stop. 
“Saqirik” I chimed with bags in hand, waiting for a smile. 
The two men at the edge of the highway where death meets life, faces unfamiliar, looked up at me and blinked. 
Okay, I switched gears. 
“¿Em, Dónde está la parada para Santa Clara la Laguna?” Where is the stop for Santa Clara La Laguna? (I knew where the bus stop was). 
And they directed me politely. I took my things and walked away.

There was a time when everyone at the stop recognized me, the big gringa who joked in K’iche’ about finding a husband. But me and these two men, we didn’t recognize each other. I tucked away the fear that this was a preview.

When I lived in Santa Clara, this bus was home. I could shout in K’iche’ and everyone smiled and laughed, and turned to ask me more questions. On other buses, this was not charming. This wasn’t even off-putting. It was simply strange. But the bus from 48 to Santa Clara was home. At least, before. 

To my surprise, the first bus to arrive was mine. I handed my suitcase to the ayudante shouting cuarentayochocuarentayocho and I stooped low and climbed to a seat in the back. The bus was mostly full of women, and no faces did I recognize. 

This was my chance.
-Xe’q ij- I chimed (Good afternoon).
I saw some heads shift (is that the Gringa speaking K’iche’?) 
-Jo pa Santa Kara’r- (Let’s go to Santa Clara). 
I saw some smiles and heard some whispers. 
An old woman turned around. 
-Jawi kat ewi? (Where are you going?)- she asked. 
-Kin epa Santa Kara’r- (I am going to Santa Clara). 
And you would think I was telling the best jokes you’d ever heard because with every syllable, the bus was in stitches. 

The problem of course, is when the K’iche’ continues and my knowledge ends. 
I say “No comprendo, nan” and they translate to Spanish for me. 
Then, I could tell it was now or never.
“Tengo oxib’ novios: xibinal, xarakot y ajluta” and the bus exploded with laughter. Some women shook their heads like “how can that be?” 
I just said “I have three boyfriends, ghost, ghost and other ghost” in words that perhaps only this very town of 14,000 would understand. 

My fears had disintegrated. This was why I came back, this feeling. I wanted to speak K’iche’ with the pueblo that left me better than it found me (like the opposite of a library book). 

But I did notice that this bus was full of people I did not know. Would the whole town feel like that? 

In a few minutes, a woman and her son got on. 
“Pazapik Awi” she gasped as she saw me. 
The whole bus laughed. (She had just called me by my K’iche’ nickname messy head). 
She asked me where my sweater was (because of course I had my nickname monogrammed on the back). 
-It’s at home!- I explained (you know.. wherever home was). 
I felt a rush of emotion: she remembered the sweater and to be honest, I had forgotten about it. 
We chatted and laughed for the next 20 minutes and I imagined that these women would probably be talking about me at dinner.
The K’iche’ came back slowly, then all at once: school.. market.. house.. Kayib’al, tijob’al, rachoch. 
There had been days where this 35-minute ride felt like a lifetime, but this time it flew by. There was so much to remember, and so much to feel. 

(She had asked to take my picture, then we took some selfis with my phone. Because that’s what you do).

The bus driver did not drop me at my house like I asked, but took me down to the bus stop. 
So I lifted up my suitcase (no use rolling it over the cement pavers) and I cradled it like a baby up the hill to my host family. 

Just that morning I had woken up, made the most of a bumpy 30-minute run around my friend’s neighborhood by Antigua, then showered, packed and taken three buses across the country. I was officially all the way back now.

I was back in Santa Clara.