Things Work Out

I’d never seen this driver before; standing next to his truck, shirt half-way unbuttoned and front teeth outlined in gold. There is a fleet, maybe four trucks and two vans that run from Chirijox to Nahuala, and I am familiar with this fleet but this guy was new. He must know me though (not that I’m hard to miss in a crowd of 5 1/2 foot tall black-haired people), watching me and calling out “Chirijox” as I walk down the street in Nahuala, my arms full of produce.

I get in the back. We stop and pick up two more women near the entrance of Nahuala. The view of the road is out the back only as there is a canvas tarp draped over the metal cage on the bed of the truck in case of rain. The ride was tranquil enough but before I know it we zoom past Chirijox. I start banging on the side of the truck, as is the customary signal if one wants the driver to stop; and the two other women start banging as well. But the driver doesn’t stop. I figure he can’t be headed too far, maybe to Ixtauacan Nueva at the furthest. I ask the women where they are going and they tell me to Ixtauacan Vieja; the next stop. They cheerful assure me that there will be other cars to take me to where I need to go. I know Ixtauacan Vieja as I have just started working with a women’s group there, and know that it’s only a 15 minute walk through some corn fields to get to Chirijox from there.

The driver stops. The other women and I get out and I ask the driver ,”What happened?” Remember, you told me Chirijox? The driver’s eyes got shifty and his shoulders lifted in a shrug and a small chuckle leaked out of his mouth.. My eyes rolled. I told him don’t worry about it, I can walk from here but I’m not paying.

So I started on my way through the corn.

I am fond of this path. Like I said I am familiar with it. I walk it now at least twice a week as I head to and from Ixtauacan Vieja. It is well established and wider than most paths and currently has tall corn stalks on both sides, guiding the way.

I enjoy my walk and decide to take the back way to my house. I nearly reach the juncture where I turn from the road to the path when I see a woman walk out of her house. She is old and small and I see that her eyes are damaged. I assume she is blind. She carefully inches her way from her front door and as I pass I say “je’ba”; good bye. She responds the same but continues to speak in K’iche to me. I don’t understand what she is saying but she is making motions with her hands. So I take her hand. Just in front of her door is a ditch with water streaming through it. I help her over the ditch and we begin to walk together down the hill.

She is so small, maybe 5 feet. Her hair is white, wrapped around the back and tied in a knot at the crown of her head as is typical in this area. She has a walking stick in one hand, also small. Maybe 2 1/2 feet long and well polished on both ends from use. In her other hand is my hand, feeling the paper-thinness of the skin of a woman her age. She has a good grip and is surprisingly sure on her feet, which makes me think she has some vision. She continues to chat with me in K’iche and I tell her I don’t understand. She nods. We continue to walk and I begin to wonder how long we will walk together. How will I ask her where we are going? How do I tell her I have to go home? Before I can ask another question she begins to put steady pressure on my right arm, holding her left hand, gently guiding me that way. I help her over the ditch again and onto a path. I say “good bye, talk to you later” in K’iche and she responds with the same.