Email: Celeste Mason

Hola Amigos,

I never quite know how to prepare myself for the day each morning. Will I need my umbrella? When is the next time I´m going to be able to eat something (Should I have seconds now just in case)? Will I have time to freshen up before my little sister’s kindergarten graduation ceremony? Should I take a moment to mentally prepare for a bombardment of questions in Kakchiquel, or can I let my mind tune out for a bit? These are the types of questions I ask myself throughout the day to prepare myself for the next activity, if I remember, or if I happen to know what the next activity might be. Otherwise, I just rely on my resiliency.

The other night at the dinner table, as I was finishing my last tortilla for the day, my host father said to me while pointing out the window over the wood burning stove, “You see that mountain? Tomorrow morning we are going to climb it.” So I went to bed that night looking forward to my adventure the next morning.

When I awoke, overcompensating for the unknown factors of our trip, I put on two pairs of pants, two shirts, two jackets, a shawl, and packed a winter hat just in case. I ate a hearty breakfast to avoid hunger later on—Who knew when I would eat next?—and off we went carrying a backpack that contained some styrofoam cups, tortillas, a Coca-Cola bottle filled with water, and some homemade hot sauce. Good thing I ate that extra tortilla for breakfast, I thought to myself. Unaware of how exactly we would get to the mountain to begin climbing it (it looked pretty far away!), we headed down the street. Soon we were split up into two groups, and I was with my host mother and littlest sister in the market buying beef, cut off the leg as ordered. Meanwhile my host father and other sister were off buying candles. They obviously had the more pleasant smelling task. After completing these errands, we met up again and continued walking. As we walked through town, I began to realize that there was no vehicle picking us up to take us to the mountain. We were not hailing any TukTuks, or moto-taxis. No, this was a by foot operation.

As we reached the edge of Comalapa proper, the road began to incline a bit. And at this moment, we had begun our assent up the mountain. “Run ahead, Girls, enjoy yourselves!,” my host father encouraged his daughters. As we walked slowly behind the girls who had found sticks to “ride,” galloping up the path, my host parents began pointing out different plants to me. “This is a (so-and-so),” they’d tell me. “It is good for headaches.” Or “It is delicious when cooked with chuchitos.”

And they collected samples. We passed corn field after corn field. Many of the stalks had blown over and broken in the wind, a year´s loss of wages for those families. Walking ahead to avoid suspicious glances, my host father stopped at a pasture full of ripe helotes, or ears of corn, to “borrow” a few ears. We waited up a ways, enjoying fat freshly picked bananas and a gorgeous view of the Comalapa skyline from above.

Eventually all signs of civilization ended and we were climbing through a forest. The tree trunks were my hand railings as I tried hard to avoid falling (wasn´t always possible) and wondered where in the world we would eat this beef we bought in the market. Before I could find out, we were breaking to suck the sweet nutrients out of broken corn stalks that never got a chance to produce their “fruit.” The land was providing. “This is what the children who work the fields drink instead of water,” my host father informed me. “By the way, I forgot to ask you if you wanted to climb the mountain,” he said with a chuckle. “If you´d like, I can show you a special rock that is like a church,” my host mother added. And so we continued.

About 30 minutes of slipping, falling, and generally just being lost, we found the rock. It was cliff-like and hovered over a clearing perfect for eating lunch. First, I watched as my host father taught his daughters where north, south, east, west, and central coordinate points were. They placed candles at each point and lit them. Then, touching the rock, they said a prayer of thanks to the Earth and their ancestors. My host father kissed the ground, leaving a bit of dirt of his lip, and we went to look for firewood. Soon a fire was roaring and my host parents gathered the plants they had collected along the way. The ears of corn placed standing in the fire to cook, stems sharpened to stab the meat, sticks used to hold the sharpened stems up, husks used as plates, and some leaves that would be saved for dinner that night at home. Alas!

A feast was provided. And feast we did. When we were finished we left a tortilla and an ear of corn in the fire for the Earth. It was truly a meal of thanksgiving. The earth gave, and we thanked it. That day on the mountain I was reminded of God´s promise to provide. And I hope to take that promise with me each day as I become overwhelmed with life here and my lack of preparedness for what comes my way whether it is rain, hunger, unsuitable dress, or a feeling of being saturated.

On the way back, I collected pine cones to adorn the table when I attempt to prepare my first U.S.-style Thanksgiving feast for my host family. I hope to incorporate the graciousness of Mayan spirituality, to make it a true thanksgiving, into our North American holiday this year, and every year forward. 

Paz y Amor,