Tales of a Female Nomad by Rita Golden Gelman Page B

malformed
tortilla
appears.
    “Rita!” she calls. “
Esta
es tuya.
” This is yours. More laughter.
    By the time she finishes, I have six
tortillas
in front of me. But more important than the
tortillas
is the sense we all have that I am becoming a part of them.
    I study weaving with Mamá (after five hours of classes, my tablecloth is six inches long and two feet wide). I help María and some of the teenagers improve their selling-English. I play with the kids (María’s daughter and her nieces and nephews).
    I discover that the family, and many others in the village, have benefited from the Christian Children’s Foundation. One of María’s sisters is taking sewing lessons paid for by the foundation. She brings me a skirt she has made. A younger sister shows me letters from her sponsor. They are carefully pasted into an album with a
quetzal
bird on the cover, its long tailfeathers nearly hanging over the edge. Then she runs to show me some of the new clothes she’s been able to buy. CCF is real, more than just an ad in a magazine.
    One morning I arrive in the village to work on my weaving. Before I am down the steps of the bus, four teenagers are all over me.
    “Tienes que acompañarnos a la playa.” You have to come with us to the beach.
“No puedes decir
no!”
You can’t say no!
    Several families have rented a bus for a weekend holiday at the beach. They want me to join them. I am honored by the invitation and excited by the prospect of spending three days on a family vacation.
    A week later, the loaded bus picks me up in the plaza at seven in the morning. María has saved me a seat. Three hours out of Antigua we have our first flat tire. The second flat tire comes an hour later. We arrive at the beach community just before dark.
    One of the men (there are four) goes off to find us a hotel room and the women spread colorful but threadbare “tablecloths” on the sidewalk. Some of us sit on the sidewalk, others sit on the curb, feet in the street, and we open up the food that was packed that morning. There are fourteen of us in the family group; we take up most of the sidewalk. Other tourists, forced to walk around us, make comments that I cannot translate, but I know what they are saying.
    As we sit on the ground, cars blowing exhaust in our faces, we eat, tossing the papers and wrappings into the street. It is hard for me to throw garbage into the street; I can feel the years of conditioning pulling on my arm as I toss. I think about picking up our trash and finding a garbage pail; but I think again. I am a friend, not a teacher. If I pick up after them, I am making a judgment that says I know better than they. Even if I walk with my own garbage to a pail, I am making a statement.
    I am an invited guest. I do as they do.
    Before we are finished, two girls in braids and white embroidered blouses stained with dirt come by selling drinks in plastic bags. Everyone except me buys a drink. I don’t like sweet, sugary drinks, so I’m carrying bottled water.
    Sitting on the curb and spilling over into the street, we are taking up a parking space. Cars drive by looking for parking spaces and honk. No one moves. Then suddenly a car swoops in and nearly amputates five pairs of legs. We jump up, spilling things all over the street. The driver screams something unpleasant at us as he steps out of the car and crosses the street. No one in our group says anything. This is not a country where indigenous people confront the Hispanic population.
    Finally José comes back from his hotel search. There are no rooms. His brother-in-law joins him and the search continues. We wait on the sidewalk. An hour later, the men come back. They have found a room . . . one room for fourteen of us.
    After a walk on the beach and some splashing in the water, we go to our room. It has one double bed that sleeps five and floor space for six more. Three of us sleep in the hall outside the room.
    I am in the hall when the procession begins in the