Goobye, Guate

San Juan la Laguna, Guatemala, March 2025

Today is March 5th. I arrived in Central America (El Salvador, to be exact) on January 4th. It’s been about 2 months, exactly, but I feel like I’ve lived 7 lives in this time, so much has happened. I’ve had some high highs and low lows — from feeling the healthiest I have in ages while at the farm in Chicacao, to feeling betrayed by my own body, sick for weeks in Xela.

I’ve made some lovely friends, forming lasting relationships with some and being grateful for the short season with others. I led a week-long business retreat in El Salvador, diving deep into professional growth and goal-setting, then I also removed myself completely from work-related things while on a light dose of mushrooms out in the middle of the jungle. I’ve climbed four volcanoes, traveled between 8 major destinations in 2 countries, visited lakes, mountains, the ocean and the jungle.

I’ve learned about permaculture design, fermentation, astral symbols, plant medicine, Salvadoran and Guatemalan politics, local cuisine, and history. I learned how to open a coconut with a machete, how to successfully barter at the markets, how to drive a bad rental car up the worst dirt road I’ve ever been on, how to backstrap weave, and how to salsa dance at an almost intermediate level. I cooked delicious vegan meals for lots of people, hiked in the middle of the night, jumped in waterfalls, battled days of vicious fevers, sang karaoke duets, ate countless perfect zapotes and absurd amounts of miniature bananas and avocados, walked at a snails pace through various food and textile markets, ate street pupusas and tamales despite the risks to my stomach, befriended the natural foods store owner who equipped me with propóleo and kombucha, explored traditional weaving patterns in various villages and bought many hundreds of dollars worth of vibrant textiles.

I created videos and website updates for the women’s weaving cooperative, I rode in the back of pickup trucks, on motorbikes, and on noisy chicken buses around hairpin turns, I washed my laundry all by hand, I bathed in the river, swam in the ocean, took boats across the lakes, drank award winning coffee in the mornings and pure cacao in the evenings. I worked a lot, some days more productively than others.

I interviewed impoverished families in a small village to see if we could help build them new houses. I saw into their homes, where they basically all shared one bedroom between entire families. I met a 3 day old baby in one of those families. I learned that some of the children hadn’t seen their fathers in years, as they had moved to the US to look for work and were struggling now more than ever before. I was transported to another dimension during a breathwork ceremony, I danced for hours and hours in reggaeton bars, techno bars, and a miniature jungle rave, I went thrift shopping, painted my nails, hosted Spanish meetups, traded a marketing consultation for a dinner and a yoga class. 

I ate papaya seeds by the spoonful, grimacing at the spicy bitterness but relishing in the knowledge of how it was fortalizing my stomach. I watched volcanos explode, from above and below. I played trivia, dice, and card games with my friends. I met many wonderful Guatemalans as well as interesting people from all over the great wide world. I ran, walked, and hiked various trails and streets. I enjoyed a traditional temezcal sauna experience, toured coffee farms, ate cookies and pastries and tortillas and the best sourdough bread I’ve ever had.

I spent a week freaking out about the antibiotics I was given, but took them nonetheless. I spoke with weavers about their artistry, watched them spin the Trama, create dyes using various plants, and weave the most incredible designs so deftly. I sprouted lentils and chickpeas in my kitchen and cooked with my roommates. I shared liters of local beer with friends. I enjoyed bonfires and starry nights. I was sometimes ridiculously sweaty and hot, while other times freezing beyond belief. I was learning every day to grow more comfortable with discomfort. 

Now, I am sitting alone on the patio of a coffee cooperative, sipping a coffee that’s quickly turning cold while I scribble away. The drying decks spread out in front of me, teenage boys raking the rows of coffee beans back and forth under the hot sun. Birds are singing, the Rostro Maya mountain stands tall beyond the farm, and the local workers speak Quiché all around me, a Mayan language that I can’t even begin to understand, and I smell the sourness of fermenting coffee wafting through the air from the processing side of the farm.

Soon, I’ll take a boat across the lake and head on a long bus ride to the airport. I am grateful, although tired, congested, and a bit weak, for these final moments. This life, this world, this country, has been giving me so much. I have been overwhelmed with colors, flavors, sights, sounds and smells that I wish I could fully capture. If there’s anything I’ve come to learn and accept along my journey though, it’s that these things can’t ever be fully captured, and that’s just the way it should be.