The Little Engine that Could

We made our ascent into Quetzaltenango (more commonly called Xela—pronounced “Shey-la”), my dwelling place for the next six months, that evening. All fifteen of us, twelve students and three directors, crammed into a “microbus,” which essentially is a regular sized van with a few extra seats. The trip itself was about four and a half hours, and given our cozy accommodations, we were thrust into a situation I like to call “power-bonding”—it’s getting to know your neighbors, very, very closely. All of our luggage, all twelve suitcases, were placed on the roof and tied down (expertly, I might add) by our driver. Quite a sight we were—I’ll have to let the pictures do the talking here. Given the weight of our persons and our luggage, I can’t even imagine the strain on that poor microbus’s engine as we climbed the several thousand feet up into Xela. We probably turned that old thing into the first ever low-rider van. And all the while all I could think was “I think I can, I think I can.”