I like riding in buses. Time like scenery passes by, familiar light and color fusing past memories with ones not yet made. I see new things, I see familiar things in new ways. 
White mist hovers over deep mountains green, forming the background of a sensational tapestry woven with the vibrant color of huipil, the aroma of freshly baked bread and tortillas mingled with the fragrance of pine smoke and newly fallen mist on earthen paths.
The gentle pat, pat, pat of corn dough between small moist hands, joy-filled greetings of water and wind incarnated in human voice – Ixil – greets my ears, accompanied by the warmth and acceptance of familial embrace.
Three years have past, not a moment has passed. “Progress” has paved smooth the road, and the bus continues ahead, oblivious to the hunger suffered by those who blur past the window…food security sacrificed to the gods of free trade.
Pat, pat, pat, their hunger calls out, four of ten children cry out of their malnutrition…pat, pat, pat. Can you hear them? Apathy and ignorance drown out their cries. Where will the bus take them? Down the familiar road toward past revolution, violent repression? Toward the empty promises of CAFTA’s affluence?
Shiny American chains blur past the window…a tapestry of cultural invasion and dominance…or progress?
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