by Maya Michel

Created on: May 24, 2009

Mi Madre es Mexico. She calls my name often and leaves me aching for more.

I have done the public transport traveling thing there many times. I love the open-air buses filled with busy people. It's amazing to sit on a seat and watch chickens and goats, families with doe-eyed children and other travelers get on board.

Faith is the basis for any travel to any Third-World country. We become humbled by the goodness of people who have so little by Developed World county standards. As the tourists zip by in their air conditioned RVs with their music playing, we sit back, sweltering in the tropical heat and hear the sounds of the world. We buy a bag of peanuts from the street vendor. We sip a warm orange soda among our peers. As a crowded former USA yellow school bus comes creaking to a stop to pick me up, I am invited onboard. My bags, my banjo ~ all disappear into the back of the bus along with everyone else's personal items. Eyes look me over and when I meet them with my own eyes, shy smiles and someone moves over to make room for me to sit. Three adults and livestock on one old bench seat. In my mind's eye I can see the bus in its past live filled with children so full of themselves that they refuse to move over so someone else could sit beside them.

The bus starts up again, shuddering under the weight. There are people on the roof with their goats and chickens, people hanging on to the back. The dashboard is decorated with St Christopher statues and puffball braiding encircles the windshield. There may even be flickering Christmas tree lights, it feels like a party.

I am humbled by the hands of the people who are able to make a taco on a bouncing bus, even more grateful when one is offered to me with the smile of a toothless woman who is probably half my age but her hard life has aged her. The people watch the gringa as she accepts the gift and relishes the taste. I wonder why anyone would choose to travel in any other way through this magnificent country.

I go to the tiny villages, off of the beaten track. I become their 'gringa' and I am safe and well. I have to have faith because some times I feel threatened by ominous sensations but then I think back to my own town in my own country, and am aware of those same symptoms that come from anywhere.

I have been told that my mother spirit is Mexico and maybe that is why I feel so right there. Me, in all of my 5 foot 3 glory, standing taller than most of the people in the village. Me, accepted and attended to as a guest among family in a world vastly different from my own. I am a gringa in Mexico and I am home.

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