A rusted school bus drove us down a winding dirt path into endless vegetation towards El Triunfo, Guatemala. The lush greenery was like a flood spilling over onto the road. Cows and pigs strolled alongside the bus as we passed through village after village of homes made out of scrap metal and old wood. A bus packed full of high school students, obliging adults, and endless luggage pulled up to a deteriorating building known as the town’s one schoolhouse. Dozens of children surrounded the bus making it difficult for the driver to pull up onto the oddly flourishing grass patches in front of the school. Guilt overwhelmed me as we piled off the bus in our traveling attire, our hands hauling suitcases and food. The children stared at us in wonder as we started to greet them. They formed a seal of bodies around the bus as we stood up to take in our first glances of the town where we would be staying for the next eight days. There were one hundred of us, and we had signed up for a mission trip to this tiny city in Guatemala to build homes for people whose own were destroyed by natural disasters, or could not afford to build one.
We piled off the bus and were immediately bombarded with hugs of gratitude from the many children that had come to greet us. One child’s grubby hands grabbed my cheeks and brought my face down to hers. Her eyes filled with tears as she cooed at me in Spanish in a dialect that I couldn’t really understand. I started to pull away but then it hit me that I wasn’t just there to build houses. Other children started to come over to me, pulling on my t-shirt and opening up their arms for an embrace. The love they poured out was overwhelming. It took us hours to move the ten yards from the bus to our sleeping quarters in the schoolhouse. They were honored to show us where we would be staying, and as guests we were put in the most impressive building in the town. Once we put down our luggage in the twenty by twenty feet cement classrooms, we set off on a tour of El Triunfo and to meet the rest of the residents of this uncharted community.
The next few days were a blur of sweat, tears, and overpowering fulfillment. The people in this community were unlike any I had ever seen. It looked like something out of National Geographic. The village was filled with thick jungle-like brush that was impossible to tear through without a machete. People bathed naked, unashamed, in the streets; in the tiny dribble of water they called their canal. Chickens, cows, roosters, and massive pigs walked freely around the dirt roads, only to be slaughtered later right in front of our eyes, and fed to us soon after. They even saved their fattest swine for our arrival. Families constantly came up to us, throwing their arms around us saying “Te amo, te amo!” and smothering us with kisses. We had worship every night in a building in the center of town, which everyone attended. We sang songs in Spanish and English, and the love and tenderness in that room was tangible every night.
On one of the hottest nights I can remember, a little girl who couldn’t have been any older than two or three was sitting on my lap during our worship time. Out of nowhere she started to weep uncontrollably and cry out “Mama! Mama!” I did not know who her mother was, but it was after ten o’clock in the evening, and I was sure that she was tired and needed her mother to take her home. I asked the little girl in my broken Spanish if she wanted me to take her home, and she responded with action. She got up and sprinted into the pitch black night alone, without warning. I was sure that she had walked home hundreds of times alone, but it was late and extremely dark so I was afraid to let her go. I knew she lived in the middle of the thick jungle, so I grabbed the machete which was leaning against the wall- I was petrified and I didn’t know what was living out in the brush this time of night. With no flashlight to my name I ran after her, saying “Niña, Niña!” at the top of my lungs. I caught up to her and she grabbed my hand leading the way into the woods.
She was barefoot, and even in my sneakers I was falling all over myself as she stayed steady, still gripping my hand like a vice, pulling me deeper and deeper into the tangle. The fear was palpable. I felt like insects were crawling all over me. As I used my machete to chop down the brush in our path I heard dogs, or what I hoped were dogs howling in the distance. I heard other noises that to this day I cannot identify. The young girls hand was gripping mine so tightly that it felt as if my fingers were swelling up. It was nighttime, but sweat was still dripping off my face rapidly as the fear ran all throughout my body. Every step we took brought us further and further into the brush. I started to panic; What if I couldn’t find this little girls home and we had to sleep in the jungle? If I did, how was I going to get back to the schoolhouse where I slept? My breath became shallow and short. We started to walk a little slower as the little girl started to call out for her mother; “Mama! Mama!”
Out of nowhere, a dim glow started to materialize in the distance. I could barely make out whether it was a light or a firefly. When the little girl noticed it, she let go of my pruned hand and sprinted towards it. I chased after her, anxious that she would get lost in the wilderness. I lost sight of her, but I heard a door slam ahead of me. I followed the sound until I saw a house with a hazily lit lamp hanging above the door. I thought that was the home of this young girl, but I wasn’t completely sure. I was alone now, and beyond horrified. The howling growls of unnamed animals were growing louder and more distinct. I ran back in the direction in which I came from, desperate to find a way out of the obscurity, using the machete to clear a path. When I emerged from the wooded area I found myself right behind the schoolhouse where my group of volunteers slept. I was out of breath, and tears were welling up in my eyes. I was relieved to be out of the woods, but still worried about that little girl finding her mother. I ran around to the front of the schoolhouse where some of the Guatemalan mothers were slapping tortillas in their hands back and forth for the next day of meals. Panting, I tried to tell them in my broken down Spanish what happened, and when they realized what I was trying to say, they started to giggle and extend their arms out to me. A flood of emotion washed over me as I started to cry. I kept saying over and over again, “Tengo miedo, lo siento,” because I didn’t know what else to say. Still hugging me, they looked me in the eye, and started to speak to me calmly and quietly in their native Spanish dialect. I didn’t know what they were telling me, but as they grinned and pulled me closer I knew they were comforting me; telling me that everything was okay, that she was okay, and that they were grateful for my compassion.
On the last night in Guatemala we were served the most remarkable and expensive feast that was ever served in El Triunfo. It was only ever made for weddings. It was pork cooked from the pig I had seen gutted earlier that day. As we sat down on painted picnic tables with the ones who had prepared it, and the rest of the neighborhood to enjoy this incomparable meal, I felt safe.
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