Untitled
by Jane Fillmore
The chickens cooed and chirruped in their wicker baskets. Red cowls, black blinking eyes, chicken limbs and feet all were smothered flat on the top of the top of the basket with rope holding them down flat as a drum. One yolk colored claw broke the smoothness of the surface. A man in red pants - thick like denim - hoisted and tossed the chicken-pile-basket. It landed on the top of the bus with a bone cracking thud, a deeper sound than the higher pitched shouts of the man on top of the bus telling everyone to hurry. He was securing the basket to a wire rack. I boarded the kelly green painted bus which used to be a school bus in the USA. We were on our way. As the bus careened and bounced over potholes, I prayed to the only God I knew that I had had intuition to choose not to ride on top of the bus. I’d believed the driver, I guess, when I’d asked him if I could go on top of the bus. He’d shook his head slightly and I believed him. This was in sit of the fact that the guidebook, which felt like a comfortable weight in my hands, stated I could deepen my adventures by a ride on the top of a chicken bus in Guatemela.
Firmly over my thankfulness to God, and now angry and blaming the army green plastic seat I was sitting on, I arrived in Todos Santas. Wearing red pants, thick like denim, and dirty white shrits, Mayan men played the high wooden Marimba. They also lay sprawling in the outdoor plaza, too drunk to stand up. I cursed God and somehow found my way to the wooden house where I would stay as I learned Spanish.
Part of my travel plan was to go to language schools and stay with families. Other travelers did not want to stay with the family I had been assigned to, because they weren’t Mayan – Mam. They didn’t wear the red pants. They were dressed in t shirts and jeans. The kids had long black hair that hung down their back stood on the balcony outside the studio sized room that would be mine. Chani’s lazy eye looked off to one side. Marisol, the youngest, about four, had braids looped on the side of her head and a wore red dress that had a row of white lace at the bottom. Iris had deep creases on the sides of her mouth that made her look serious. She ahd a big nose. They showed me a plastic picture book of them looking a year or two younger and fresher. In the pictures they were dressed in lavender colored leotards and also wore silver winged buttefly costumes. I wondered where this was or had taken place and who had taken the pictures. I bribed them to stay by laying my out my colored pencils and art notebook on the wool bedspread. Iris, Iris, Iris she wrote her name. She now glued the art notebook pages on the wall of my studio sized bedroom. A white cowboy hat and grave face met mine at the window. I got ready to tear down Iris’ wallpaper with my fingernails and I also felt the slowness of being in a strange place and getting caught doing wrong. It had been a long day.
“Esta bien,” I knew the phrase. It’s okay. “Ora usted?” It sounded like he was saying whore. Was I a whore? Oh…wait…. Did I know the time, the hora?
Si, CInco. Five. I was confident I could answer his question and also panicked. I’d been going on approximate times for the last week. How was I supposed to know the time without a clock nearby. Was it really five o,clock.
“Hace oraciones?”
The new verb broke apart in my mind. Ora, oraciones, ora, hora. Those were the words for pray. I’d believed in this part of my trip and right now myself. Wasn’t that kind of like a prayer? I didn’t really pray though. Church in the USA seemed condescending and male oriented. I answered. “Si, ora. Oro esta bien.” I prays. Gold seems well. “Esta bein,” was the response to the lie.
The kids and I drank watery coffee in the cold mornings. I felt like a giant with white short hair. Marisol would then sometimes play with a her collection of bottle tops outside the door.
The adults spent more time in the kitchen than in the coffee room. There was a bowl of corn ready to be made into tortillas. Light. Light from the lit up the stove. I saw boys in red pants playing soccer on the dark field. “I don’t believe in God,” said Maris. My Spanish understands her. “My husband left to Georgia and now he is has another woman.”
“I don’t believe in him either,” I state. I look down at the wooden table. I picture rows of peach trees and dark skinner immigrants picking the peaches.
We eat meals at the wooden table where I talk to the adults. Each meal, except for a slimy banana leaf filled with both goo and bone, consist of black beans, and egg and a few scorched tortillas. “Why do they say you eat like a pig?” asks the plump youngest. His hair is like a bristle brush and his smile is still friendly and curious. I feel the sides of the empty plate between my hands and think about my chewing. The other adults breathe a little heavier, then ease. The wooden floorboards and kitchen are dark. The towel for dishes – a blue Mayan cloth - hands on the rung.
The bathing space was downstairs in the dark where the family keeps chickens in a coop. The ground is muddy and packed. My tevas stared up at me from the ground, protecting my feet. The bathing space was enclosed by wooden boards. I crouched on a plank, a half foot above the ground. I stripped down to my underwear in the cool, dark privacy. I revitalized my arms, my elbows, my legs with the water that Maris had just heated for me on a fire. I felt richer than I had than in spa I had gone to in the US.
The thin dirt road Iris and I walked on lead through last year’s harvest of dry, husky, half cornstalks. In the hills around town, people would plant, but she and I were alone. She was eight. A small plastic water bottle that I held caught the sun.
“I’m so thirsty,” said Iris.
“I’m so, so, so thirsty.”
“I’m so thirsty,” said Iris.
I tipped the bottle to pour a little trickle from it’s spout to her head.
The water flew threw the air and hit her like a soft nudge.
“Hey,” her tiny voice said.
On the day I left the Montenegro family, I had to catch a bus at 6 am. I navigated the wood stairs to the basement to say goodbye to the family. 8 heads- including the grandfather - were lined up in a row in one queen sized bed. 16 eyes stared back at me from the bed without a headboard. They looked at me like I had caught them doing something suspicious. My hand move towards my camera, but I blinked my eyes instead; thankful to the only God I knew I had some sense not to snap a picture. I got on the bus in the dawn, the Mayan men wearing the red pants passed out in the cobblestone street. The bus wound down the mountain and I thought about the faces in the bed.
by Jane Fillmore
The chickens cooed and chirruped in their wicker baskets. Red cowls, black blinking eyes, chicken limbs and feet all were smothered flat on the top of the top of the basket with rope holding them down flat as a drum. One yolk colored claw broke the smoothness of the surface. A man in red pants - thick like denim - hoisted and tossed the chicken-pile-basket. It landed on the top of the bus with a bone cracking thud, a deeper sound than the higher pitched shouts of the man on top of the bus telling everyone to hurry. He was securing the basket to a wire rack. I boarded the kelly green painted bus which used to be a school bus in the USA. We were on our way. As the bus careened and bounced over potholes, I prayed to the only God I knew that I had had intuition to choose not to ride on top of the bus. I’d believed the driver, I guess, when I’d asked him if I could go on top of the bus. He’d shook his head slightly and I believed him. This was in sit of the fact that the guidebook, which felt like a comfortable weight in my hands, stated I could deepen my adventures by a ride on the top of a chicken bus in Guatemela.
Firmly over my thankfulness to God, and now angry and blaming the army green plastic seat I was sitting on, I arrived in Todos Santas. Wearing red pants, thick like denim, and dirty white shrits, Mayan men played the high wooden Marimba. They also lay sprawling in the outdoor plaza, too drunk to stand up. I cursed God and somehow found my way to the wooden house where I would stay as I learned Spanish.
Part of my travel plan was to go to language schools and stay with families. Other travelers did not want to stay with the family I had been assigned to, because they weren’t Mayan – Mam. They didn’t wear the red pants. They were dressed in t shirts and jeans. The kids had long black hair that hung down their back stood on the balcony outside the studio sized room that would be mine. Chani’s lazy eye looked off to one side. Marisol, the youngest, about four, had braids looped on the side of her head and a wore red dress that had a row of white lace at the bottom. Iris had deep creases on the sides of her mouth that made her look serious. She ahd a big nose. They showed me a plastic picture book of them looking a year or two younger and fresher. In the pictures they were dressed in lavender colored leotards and also wore silver winged buttefly costumes. I wondered where this was or had taken place and who had taken the pictures. I bribed them to stay by laying my out my colored pencils and art notebook on the wool bedspread. Iris, Iris, Iris she wrote her name. She now glued the art notebook pages on the wall of my studio sized bedroom. A white cowboy hat and grave face met mine at the window. I got ready to tear down Iris’ wallpaper with my fingernails and I also felt the slowness of being in a strange place and getting caught doing wrong. It had been a long day.
“Esta bien,” I knew the phrase. It’s okay. “Ora usted?” It sounded like he was saying whore. Was I a whore? Oh…wait…. Did I know the time, the hora?
Si, CInco. Five. I was confident I could answer his question and also panicked. I’d been going on approximate times for the last week. How was I supposed to know the time without a clock nearby. Was it really five o,clock.
“Hace oraciones?”
The new verb broke apart in my mind. Ora, oraciones, ora, hora. Those were the words for pray. I’d believed in this part of my trip and right now myself. Wasn’t that kind of like a prayer? I didn’t really pray though. Church in the USA seemed condescending and male oriented. I answered. “Si, ora. Oro esta bien.” I prays. Gold seems well. “Esta bein,” was the response to the lie.
The kids and I drank watery coffee in the cold mornings. I felt like a giant with white short hair. Marisol would then sometimes play with a her collection of bottle tops outside the door.
The adults spent more time in the kitchen than in the coffee room. There was a bowl of corn ready to be made into tortillas. Light. Light from the lit up the stove. I saw boys in red pants playing soccer on the dark field. “I don’t believe in God,” said Maris. My Spanish understands her. “My husband left to Georgia and now he is has another woman.”
“I don’t believe in him either,” I state. I look down at the wooden table. I picture rows of peach trees and dark skinner immigrants picking the peaches.
We eat meals at the wooden table where I talk to the adults. Each meal, except for a slimy banana leaf filled with both goo and bone, consist of black beans, and egg and a few scorched tortillas. “Why do they say you eat like a pig?” asks the plump youngest. His hair is like a bristle brush and his smile is still friendly and curious. I feel the sides of the empty plate between my hands and think about my chewing. The other adults breathe a little heavier, then ease. The wooden floorboards and kitchen are dark. The towel for dishes – a blue Mayan cloth - hands on the rung.
The bathing space was downstairs in the dark where the family keeps chickens in a coop. The ground is muddy and packed. My tevas stared up at me from the ground, protecting my feet. The bathing space was enclosed by wooden boards. I crouched on a plank, a half foot above the ground. I stripped down to my underwear in the cool, dark privacy. I revitalized my arms, my elbows, my legs with the water that Maris had just heated for me on a fire. I felt richer than I had than in spa I had gone to in the US.
The thin dirt road Iris and I walked on lead through last year’s harvest of dry, husky, half cornstalks. In the hills around town, people would plant, but she and I were alone. She was eight. A small plastic water bottle that I held caught the sun.
“I’m so thirsty,” said Iris.
“I’m so, so, so thirsty.”
“I’m so thirsty,” said Iris.
I tipped the bottle to pour a little trickle from it’s spout to her head.
The water flew threw the air and hit her like a soft nudge.
“Hey,” her tiny voice said.
On the day I left the Montenegro family, I had to catch a bus at 6 am. I navigated the wood stairs to the basement to say goodbye to the family. 8 heads- including the grandfather - were lined up in a row in one queen sized bed. 16 eyes stared back at me from the bed without a headboard. They looked at me like I had caught them doing something suspicious. My hand move towards my camera, but I blinked my eyes instead; thankful to the only God I knew I had some sense not to snap a picture. I got on the bus in the dawn, the Mayan men wearing the red pants passed out in the cobblestone street. The bus wound down the mountain and I thought about the faces in the bed.