On the first part of our journey, when we were in the highlands, Manuel, Maria and I saw only each other and Papa. Now we see other people all the time. We saw buses in the town of the blue door, but Manuel, Maria and I have never ridden in one. Papa explains, "On a bus we will reach la frontera more quickly," We trudge back up an embankment to the road and walk along it. Papa speaks to a man who is not dressed for work in the fields. "I am going to the bus now," the man says. "Come with me." We follow him and wait in a place where others are gathered. The fingernails of the woman standing next to me flash red like the chest of a quetzal. Maria stiffens when the bus bounces, wheezes and shouts its way towards us. The bus squeals to a stop near where we stand and the door slaps open with a clush sound. Maria hides her head and cries. "We are going to ride to rest our feet," I tell her. She squeezes me as if her hand could stop me from taking her up the steps. "She thinks this bus is a monster," Manuel says. "Ah, but wait until she sees how fast we go," Papa says. "Then I don't think she will mind too much. Her legs will get some rest." Then even Manuel laughs because we know Maria hardly walks at all when we are traveling. But the bus does look like a green, yellow, and orange monster. When all the people have climbed into the bus, we follow. Papa pays the driver and the door closes. The seats are full and people stand in the aisle. The engine roars and grinds. We jerk back and forth. I lose my balance and fall against a woman sitting with two chickens in a cage on her lap. The birds squawk and flap their wings uselessly. Small feathers fly. One rests on my lips. One escapes up my nose. The boy in front of me pulls me back up. I do not have time to tell him gracias before the chicken woman nods her head to the back of her seat. "Hold on there." "Move back!" the driver shouts. I hold on to the seat of the old woman and take a step towards the back where the boy stands. Row by row, I reach for the back of the next seat. When I can go no farther I stop. A white man and a woman with yellow hair sit in the seat next to where I stand. Even sitting, they are taller than I am standing. These are probably the first white people Manuel has ever seen. He was young when the missionaries visited our village. Maria does not seem to notice. Her sobbing has slowed down. She turns and stops crying. Her face looks surprised and unhappy. "Está bien." I say as if my telling her that it is good will make it so. But it is not good. Maria retches. She throws up on me and on the floor. The people around me do not seem to notice. The smell makes my stomach churns. I hear retching behind me and feel the splatter of Manuel's vomit on my ankle. I think I would rather have walked. I swallow hard and risk looking out the widow. We pass another bus on the side of the road. What I see makes my stomach feel even worse. The empty bus faces towards the border. People stand on the side of the road. Soldiers cluster at the head of the line like flies around a latrine. I look back at Papa and Manuel who are staring straight ahead as if they did not see the stopped bus, as ours continues to bump along towards Mama and Carlos, carrying us towards a safer place. When we finally get off the bus, Maria grizzles, then falls asleep. Papa is carrying Manuel. As sleep pulls Manuel farther away, he jerks awake, half opens his eyes and then closes them again, his head wobbling on Papa's shoulder. My legs tremble as they reach for the ground, which seems to be rocking. I am glad my feet did not have to walk the distance we travelled today, but I am happy to be off the bus. Papa finds us a place to camp close to a stream, so that we can clean ourselves up. I dream of vomit, empty buses and of the boy on the bus who helped steady me when I lost my balance. Excerpted from Journey of Dreams by Marge Pellegrino All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
