Lemon trees, chickens and the shoulders of strangers

The smell of wet asphalt looms above the road and stale dust lingers in the air. Clumps of bitumen make delirious patterns all around me. In the creases of my knees, sweat has matted my locks. The tuk-tuk wrangles multiple abysses as if it has been here before. Mexico fades into the chipped rear-view mirror and the stench of Guatemala beckons.

A chicken bus plumes unnerving smog, rattling atop turned gravel, waiting for my tardy patronage. I squat next to a woman with an abundance of gum gleaning through chafed lips and rest my legs on the aching bench that has carried many bodies before mine. She sleeps amidst the chaos and I hold my body rigid so as not to wake her. Sun has ravaged her skin; deep crevices whisper stories of family, of clan, of community. Her body is cloaked in browns and maroons, reds and blues; the weaving is tight. She clutches a plastic bag in skeletal digits with learned ferocity. Inside her bag are lemon trees, saplings and seedlings. The smell of the leaves, crushed and sweating, waft up my nostrils. Citrus fills the bus. In front a woman is breastfeeding priceless cargo, wedged between mountains of immigration and her sleeping husband huddled close. Behind a man is cackling into a phone in croaky, lazy Spanish. Chickens sit perched on proud laps unknowing of the recipes and sacrificial rituals that will befall them. Bare feet fill the aisles.

A tapping on my leg interrupts slumber. The toothless woman is nudging me. Bubbles of saliva have made intricate patterns on her woven dress. Speckles of light start to dissipate as I realise I have drooled all over her shoulder. She lifts the corner of her sleeve to wipe the edges of my mouth. The residue of Guatemalan earth rests on week-old whiskers on my top lip. I exhale much longer than usual. Her gaze reaches inside my retinas, burning with gratitude. Lemon trees in hand, her vertebrae creak as she steps over me; another chapter in a life spent walking. She smiles once more and leaves.