Imagine If You Had to Hide Your Footprints

In the foothills of the Cuchumatanes Mountains rests the bustling town of Nebaj. A town where car horns sound like fire alarms at 430 in the morning and young voices laugh at the dream-sleepers who cannot figure out just what is going on. We are in the heart of the Western Highlands, home to the Ixil-speaking people, location of heavy fighting during the civil w ar, destroyed by black hearts and bullets during the 1970s and 80s. According to Moon Handbook to Guatemala , 25,000 Ixil were murdered or displaced during these years.

Rachel and I walk up the muddy road that leads out of town into the evergreens and clouds. We pass the cemetery where loved ones pay their respects in flowers and pigs feed on roadside weeds. To the left, two giggling boys eye these two light-eyed, light-skinned women; to the right, a monument. ¨Fueron hombres, mujeres, niños.¨ ¨They were men, women, children.¨ Two columns of names. Los desaparicidos. The disappeared. Juana Rivera. She whispers to me through the stone. ¨I am cold.¨ She was 14, I think. 14 years old with laughter as joyful as castanets, as fresh as a marigold in the morning dew. As I walk through the mountainside, I hear her breathing beside me. I can feel her pulse without touching her skin. She is running. She is barefoot, running fast. We pass a rushing roadside stream. A mountain drainage winding its way through forest, cornfield , eroded path and down to town. This poem comes to me -- bubbling up. Juana speaks through me:

Imagine if you had to hide your footprints.
Imagine if you had to hide your footrprints in the riverbed.
In the riverbed because they were following you.
Following you with sharp teeth and remorseless hearts.
With sharp teeth and remorseless hearts looking for you.
Looking for your footprints.

We walk on. Up the mountainside. Passing men, women and children carrying firewood. Large bundles. They bend over so their torso is nearly parallel to the ground and then support the weight of th ewood with their backs. A strap taut across their forehead holds the bundle in place. Slip-slide. Mudslide territory. One man has three horses. They are better equipped to carry heavy loads of firewood. They stop to munch on roadside greens. Slip-slide.

After a winding, muddy mountainside adventure, we come to the outskirts of Acul, a small town originally established as one of the ¨model villages¨under the rule of Efrain Rios Montt. The mainstreet of the town is eerie. A wide street separated by an unkempt median of zig-zagging grass with a strange barbed-wire decoration running all the way through. Where is everyone? There are children running about. They lighten the strange air of Absence. Especially a sweet-faced toddler who smiles at us and calls out, ¨Hola!¨ over and over again until we are completely out of sight. I honor how shameless children are. They are not afraid to stare. Not afraid to smile at these strangers and chase us down with a combination of delight and curiosity. It feels more comfortable to be acknowledged as ¨other¨than it does to be ignored all together. Wouldn´t I ask the same question. What are these two young gringos doing so far up in the mountains. But then again ...

¨Perhaps travel cannot prevent bigotry, but by demonstrating that all people cry, laugh, eat, worry and die, it can introduce the idea that if we try and understand each other, we may even become friends.¨ -- Maya Angelou

We kick the mud off our shoes and step into Pablo´s . A small cement building painted purple, yellow and green. Washers and dryers, a topographic map of the area, two wooden chairs, a black and white list of Pablo´s services-- horseback rides, day hikes, overnight hikes, waterfall excursions. ¨Buenas tardes,¨we call to the back door where we hear soft, familial voices. ¨Buenas tardes,¨answers a beautiful young woman, her five year-old daughter peeking out from behind her skirt. Manuela. ¨If we try and understand each other, we may even become friends.¨ We smile at each other. Chat. Share the joy of being women. She tells us of the other foreign sisters who have stayed in Nebaj and says she misses them when they are gone. ¨How long will you stay?¨There is a part of me that wants to say, ¨Long enough to become friends, neighbors, share laughter.¨ ¨A couple of days,¨I say in the end. Manuela is generous with the information she offers us on the camino toward Acul. She does not mind that we will no give our funds to her guide service. She wants to help us on our way. We bathe in kindness. Raindrops running down our cheeks and into our fertile hearts. Flowers bloom. Thank you, Manuela. Thank you, sister. Suerte.