chicken lady, and after that, the three chickens in an uproar, dangling from the string. My grandparents seemed to be the only ones with clear heads. Soon the bus driver and the other passengers followed their lead. Within moments, at every window people were lowering babies and children, old women and men, and animals, until finally everyone was out, including Abuelita.
We stood together in the rain, goose-bumped, shivering, watching the bus barely holding on to the edge.
“No problem,” the bus driver said, shielding his eyes from the rain and smoothing his dripping mustache. “In one hour the sun will rise and another bus will come. Don’t worry.” All of us passengers huddled together under damp blankets underneath the trees. The chicken lady sat on one side of me, and Abuelita on the other, with Abuelo on the other side of her. It felt kind of cozy, and I didn’t mind the smell of wet wool and chickens.
I dozed until the rain let up and the sky turned lilac. People were starting to stand up and stretch, ready for the next bus. I dug my shiny black shoes out of my suitcase. I slipped them on and tied the ribbons carefully around my ankles. I hoped they wouldn’t get too muddy.
The chicken lady looked at my shoes and smiled. She seemed to like them. She pulled a bunch of little reddish purple bananas out of her sack and offered some to me and my grandparents. When I said
gracias
—thank you—Abuelita translated into another language so that the lady could understand—
nku ta’a vini.
It sounded nothing like Spanish—more like Chinese. The words were choppy, some high-toned, some low. Abuelo explained that Mixteco was the language people here spoke before the Spanish explorers arrived, hundreds of years ago.
I tried to repeat.
“Nku ta’a vini,”
I said slowly, a little embarrassed.
The chicken lady threw back her head and laughed. She patted my shoulder and offered me another banana.
I took it. These red bananas tasted better than regular bananas. Or maybe I was just very hungry.
“Nku ta’a vini,”
I repeated. My mouth was full of banana mush.
She shrieked with joy and piled banana after banana onto my lap, while I smiled and chewed and wondered what other things I would encounter—besides the Mixteco language and red bananas—that I’d never imagined existed.
The next bus came along about an hour after sunrise. I had to leave my sandals behind in the other bus, since it was still stuck in the mud, waiting for a tow truck to pull it out. I climbed into the next bus in my ribboned shoes, which were giving me blisters on my heels after only a few minutes. Passengers already filled the seats, but they let people from our bus stand in the aisles. At the curves I shifted from one foot to the other, trying to keep my balance as people fell against me. My feet ached.
After an hour on that bus, the chicken lady got off. I was sad to see her go. Abuelo grew talkative, explaining the names of the villages we passed. The Hill That Flew. The Land of Hornets. The Place of Glowworms. Finally, with a huge grin, he announced, “We have reached Yucuyoo! The Hill of the Moon!”
It
could
have been the moon, for all I knew. There was nothing that looked like a town. Not a single house. Only hills thick with trees, and patches of fields and meadows in the distance. We were smack in the middle of a huge valley of light that fell through millions of moving leaves. Sounds of birds and insects nearly drowned out the bus engine’s rumble. On all sides, green mountains surrounded us, and far above, at the peaks, clouds drifted slowly. It was like a dream that leaves you breathless but makes your heart pound once you realize there’s nothing familiar to hang on to.
I swallowed hard. “Where is it?”
“We must walk a bit,” Abuelo said brightly. He slung his bag over his shoulder and jumped up.
I hoped we wouldn’t have to walk far. I wished I’d brought my tennis shoes. I’d been able to fit only one
We stood together in the rain, goose-bumped, shivering, watching the bus barely holding on to the edge.
“No problem,” the bus driver said, shielding his eyes from the rain and smoothing his dripping mustache. “In one hour the sun will rise and another bus will come. Don’t worry.” All of us passengers huddled together under damp blankets underneath the trees. The chicken lady sat on one side of me, and Abuelita on the other, with Abuelo on the other side of her. It felt kind of cozy, and I didn’t mind the smell of wet wool and chickens.
I dozed until the rain let up and the sky turned lilac. People were starting to stand up and stretch, ready for the next bus. I dug my shiny black shoes out of my suitcase. I slipped them on and tied the ribbons carefully around my ankles. I hoped they wouldn’t get too muddy.
The chicken lady looked at my shoes and smiled. She seemed to like them. She pulled a bunch of little reddish purple bananas out of her sack and offered some to me and my grandparents. When I said
gracias
—thank you—Abuelita translated into another language so that the lady could understand—
nku ta’a vini.
It sounded nothing like Spanish—more like Chinese. The words were choppy, some high-toned, some low. Abuelo explained that Mixteco was the language people here spoke before the Spanish explorers arrived, hundreds of years ago.
I tried to repeat.
“Nku ta’a vini,”
I said slowly, a little embarrassed.
The chicken lady threw back her head and laughed. She patted my shoulder and offered me another banana.
I took it. These red bananas tasted better than regular bananas. Or maybe I was just very hungry.
“Nku ta’a vini,”
I repeated. My mouth was full of banana mush.
She shrieked with joy and piled banana after banana onto my lap, while I smiled and chewed and wondered what other things I would encounter—besides the Mixteco language and red bananas—that I’d never imagined existed.
The next bus came along about an hour after sunrise. I had to leave my sandals behind in the other bus, since it was still stuck in the mud, waiting for a tow truck to pull it out. I climbed into the next bus in my ribboned shoes, which were giving me blisters on my heels after only a few minutes. Passengers already filled the seats, but they let people from our bus stand in the aisles. At the curves I shifted from one foot to the other, trying to keep my balance as people fell against me. My feet ached.
After an hour on that bus, the chicken lady got off. I was sad to see her go. Abuelo grew talkative, explaining the names of the villages we passed. The Hill That Flew. The Land of Hornets. The Place of Glowworms. Finally, with a huge grin, he announced, “We have reached Yucuyoo! The Hill of the Moon!”
It
could
have been the moon, for all I knew. There was nothing that looked like a town. Not a single house. Only hills thick with trees, and patches of fields and meadows in the distance. We were smack in the middle of a huge valley of light that fell through millions of moving leaves. Sounds of birds and insects nearly drowned out the bus engine’s rumble. On all sides, green mountains surrounded us, and far above, at the peaks, clouds drifted slowly. It was like a dream that leaves you breathless but makes your heart pound once you realize there’s nothing familiar to hang on to.
I swallowed hard. “Where is it?”
“We must walk a bit,” Abuelo said brightly. He slung his bag over his shoulder and jumped up.
I hoped we wouldn’t have to walk far. I wished I’d brought my tennis shoes. I’d been able to fit only one
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