Travels with my Family by Marie-Louise Gay, David Homel Page B

to take back the land.”
    â€œIt looks like they put a different religion inside that church,” I said.
    â€œIt was spooky,” my brother decided. “Nobody even looked at us.”
    We sat down on a fountain in front of the church to figure out what to do next. We still felt the spookiness from the church, even my parents. The fountain was dry, as if there hadn’t been any water in it for ages.
    In no time at all, we were surrounded by a dozen little girls from the village. They were pointing at my brother and laughing.
    â€œRubio! Rubio!”
they cried.
    â€œWhat are they saying?” my brother wanted to know.
    â€œSomething about rubies?” my mother wondered.
    I pulled out my pocket dictionary. Along with the guidebook, it was really very useful.
    â€œ
Rubio
… That means blond. I guess they don’t see blond kids very often.”
    My brother took his Astros cap out of his backpack and put it on. He pulled it down as far as he could.
    â€œI don’t like this place,” he said. “Not at all. Everything’s too strange here.”
    All of a sudden a soccer ball came sailing in our direction. I jumped up and knocked it down with my chest so that it fell at my feet, the way my coach at home taught us to do. The ball was old and held together with tape. I looked up and saw a group of boys standing and watching me. I kicked the ball back to them.
    â€œ
Gracias,
” they said.
    You can meet people anywhere in the world if you know how to play soccer.
    Then one of the little girls who was braver than the rest of them ran up to my mother, reached up and touched her hair. My mother smiled and shook her blond curly hair. The little girl dashed back to her friends. All of them were giggling. Our hair sure made a big impression on them.
    Two women came out of the church. One was wearing a long purple scarf on her head, and the other had a brightly colored bag over her shoulder. They were no taller than my little brother. The women clapped their hands and shouted something at the girls, and they laughed one last time before scattering off in all directions.
    I never expected the women would walk right up to us. They certainly weren’t shy, not like the girls. One of them reached into her bag and took out four cloth bracelets. She put a bracelet around each of our wrists.
    We were too surprised to move, except for my mother, who held out her arm. Suddenly Chamula didn’t seem so strange and scary anymore.
    â€œFriendship bracelets,” she said. “Aren’t they beautiful?”
    My father reached into his pocket to give them some money, but the women shook their heads.
    Just then, I saw something flying toward us out of the corner of my eye. It was the soccer ball again. I leaped up and headed it straight into the air. When it came down, I gave it a bicycle kick back to the group of boys.
    They applauded — it was a pretty fancy move. Maybe my brother didn’t like Chamula, but it was all right with me.
    When the day was over, we left the town and drove out of the mountains, back down to where the air was warmer. That night we stayed in a big hotel that even had a television set. My father said we’d earned it.
    The news came on the TV. We couldn’t understand what the announcer was saying, and I didn’t have time to look up all the words in my pocket dictionary. The announcer sounded very serious, as if something very important had happened. Pictures of men with guns standing by the side of a road came on the screen. They were wearing scarves over their faces.
    â€œHey, I know those guys!” my brother said.
    Then we saw the church at Chamula. A man with a scarf over his face was standing on the edge of the fountain where we had sat, holding a very mean-looking rifle, and giving a speech.
    â€œIt’s the revolution,” my father said. “Imagine that, we just missed it.”
    We’ll remember Chamula for