I’m so sleepy, but this is such a treat. That’s Orion, almost directly overhead, and the Milky Way is pouring down its blessings on me. I’m snug under my sleeping bag, cushioned by other people’s baggage, the hood of my nylon shell shielding my head from the wind. The darkness is obscuring some great scenery, I’m sure, but I’ve got the sky. Near my feet, a couple of teenagers are keeping each other warm, and my left hip is butted against a sleeping someone’s cowboy boot. Below us, almost a hundred people are crammed into this old schoolbus, as we bounce along a remote mountain road; our only choice of transport requires getting up at 2 a.m. and jamming in, three to a seat, not counting kids. Then it’s standing room only. Except on top, where I’m lying on my back watching the Guatemalan stars and the wandering of my memory.

I have a bit of a cold, and my nose closes up as the bus heads downhill, twisting and turning, then clears as the road turns upward. The driver negotiates the switchbacks carefully, the eye of his single headlight searching our ruts, stones, the edge of the road. The repression in this part of the country was very severe, and there are still people hiding out in the hills. Tonight, shadows of those mountains sail by. A tree appears over my head then disappears in the distance. Sometimes I can hardly hear the engine as we coast along, the driver saving on gas and oil which the bus seems to be consuming in equal quantities. This sure beats the bed where I spent the first half of the night, desperately trying to sleep. The South American Handbook describes the only hotel in Uspantán as “basic, … fleas,” and it is right on both counts, though it’s not the “basic” aspect that I minded. Now I doze off for an hour or so, and dream that I am talking to my mother, and her face has become brown, shiny and wrinkled as those of the old Mayan peasant women who keep working until they drop dead.

I awaken again, and see that the sky is lightening. Over my head to the east, cloud-mountain-light-scapes in yellow, white, peach and blue compete for attention with my dreams and memories. I can see the sunrise off and on as the bus twists and turns. The bus stops and the driver appears on the roof, searching with his flashlight for some particular piece of baggage. “So here’s the gringita,” he says with surprise as he spots me, which amuses me.

I discovered rooftop riding yesterday morning as I caught the noon bus out of Sacapulas, a hot, sheltered crossroads town at the foot of the Cuchumatanes, the highest mountain range in a very hilly country. The bus had come from Huehuetenango, and was already full, so I joined about thirty men and boys in straw Bonanza hats on top with the baggage, pulled out a scarf, sunglasses and sunblock, and thought about how crazy this was. I shared my concern with the man beside me, who responded philosophically that death was always close by.

My fears were somewhat calmed partway up the mountain when we were all asked to get down while the bus negotiated a curve where water erosion had created ruts. At least they were taking what precautions they could to keep us all alive.

I think about my own security up here on top of the bus. What holds me on anyway? Just gravity. They don’t tie down the baggage either, just pack it in the space formed by the guardrails. No one in this country is really tied down securely. I guess I’m as safe as any other piece of baggage.