Floating, Free Falling, and a Beautiful Finish

The clock first started ticking in mid August. The more tourists I talked to, the more I realized that despite spending over half the year in Guatemala, I had barely seen the country. I had visited Lake Atitlan twice, and nowhere else. That would be like... like living in San Francisco and never going to Yosemite, or living in Florida and never visiting Disneyworld, because on weekends you always just go to the same beach. I was having a wonderful time in Antigua and Guate City, but I wasn't seeing new places. And my time was beginning to run out.

I immediately grabbed a co-worker and made plans to see the beach that weekend. The closest and most popular beach to Antigua is Monterrico, a 2.5-hour drive away on the Pacific Coast. It's known for its black volcanic sands and unruly undertow in the surf (you can't really swim there, you'll get pulled under before you can blink). We booked a shuttle to go just for an afternoon. On the way, our driver pointed out signature sights of the coastal lifestyle: farms growing loofah and papaya, others culturing shrimp, and my favorite of all, the home of a family who raised crocodiles in their backyard. Oh, what a business to be in.

The rest of our beach day was spent strolling the hot, grey-black beach, and taking a tour of the mangrove swamp nearby. It was a quiet day outside peak season, so my friend and I were the only ones on the tour. Our original tour guide decided at the very last minute to have lunch at our scheduled time, so he sent his 13-year-old son, Carlos, to guide us instead. We walked behind the family home where they kept their "lanchas" (little dugout canoes), and Carlos led us into the swamp, piloting the boat with a long stick. He showed us through the tunnels formed by the mangrove trees' tangled roots, pointed out birds' nests, lizards, different types of cranes, and flying fish, all the while navigating through a sort of magical network of sunny waters and lily pad fields. It had such a peaceful effect; we were happy to feel lost there, but very glad that Carlos knew the way. It was his backyard, after all.

Where the year went after that, I have yet to comprehend. Suddenly, it was December 6th, and Safe Passage had closed its doors for the year. I didn't want to let them go, but the silver lining in saying good-bye to so many special people was the whirlwind end-of-year tour that began the very next day. With a group of ten colleagues, I boarded a bus to Rio Dulce. Then from bus, we hopped to boat and stayed one beautiful, warm sunset and one cloudy sunrise at a resort on Lake Izabal. Next, another boat down the river to Livingston, where we emerged from towering, tropical green cliffs on either side of the waterway into the open blue Caribbean waters beyond. The same route had once been taken by (real live!) pirates in the 16th century, a fact contributing to many an entertaining daydream during our little cruise. We stayed two nights in Livingston, long enough for me and a few friends to explore Siete Altares (a series of rounded-edged waterfalls attached to the Rio) and spend an afternoon beach bumming and sipping Coco Locos (a coconut sliced open, plus rum) on Playa Blanca. It was the quintessential paradise we had all dreamed of on so many dreary, rainy work days. We saw the sunrise every morning, and we ended the nights with seafood feasts and hammock pow wows.

With my time limited and my bucket list still beckoning, I and a couple friends broke off from the group early to see one more "must." We shuttled our way inland to Semuc Champey, a national park and yet another land of enchanted wonders. We stayed at an eco-lodge that overlooked the park's main attraction: a series of naturally turquoise spring-fed waterfalls and pools, wedged in a thickly forested valley of vines and trees older than history. It was gorgeous. Despite clouds and rain, we went on the full tour of the park, which began with a hike up the cliffs overlooking the pools for a stunning first view. Then, our guide, Toto, took us down to the water, where we followed him (with a great deal of blind trust) on series of short cliff jumps and natural rock slides in and out of the falls and pools themselves. At one point, Toto dove into the water, under a rock ledge, and disappeared, until he emerged a minute later from the other end of the same cliff some twenty feet away. Then, he instructed me to do the same: "Your nose, up! For the air. You go only one second under water." I followed him into the depths and out of sight, under the rock where he revealed a small inner crevice that allowed us to breathe just above the surface. We were walking along the underbelly of the cliff that, from the outside, had appeared completely submerged. That was the first moment in which I thought I was doing the craziest thing I would do all day. But the tour carried on to even more insanity after lunch.

Crossing the iron bridge that hung some 30-40 feet over the river at the foot of the falls, we next entered a cave. Toto turned us over to a cave guide, who handed us each a tall white candle and led us into the darkness. With the candles as our only light, we slowly navigated the freezing underground waters, wading and even swimming when necessary, stopping here and there to take in the dim sight of the beautiful rock formations and massive inner caverns. Then, we stopped. The guide told us to stay put and wait for him to light the way. He scampered ahead, extra candles in hand, into the darkness. You could tell by the way he moved that he was so familiar with every inch of that cave, he probably didn't even need the light. When he finally came back to lead us on, we could see why it took such time. The tunnel ahead rose abruptly, and in order to keep going, we would have to climb, one by one, straight up the middle of a roaring, gushing white waterfall. When my turn came, caveman handed me the rope that was attached somewhere invisibly above, counted to three, and thrust me into the pounding rapids that immediately engulfed me at the base of the fall. Talk about blind trust - all I had was the rope in front of me, and this guy's word that I would make it to the top before I drowned in the rush. Well, okay. Finding my footing and following the rope's trajectory, I climbed into the cascade, and in four careful hoists, miraculously made my way over the top of the waterfall. My friend who had gone ahead of me laughed. "So crazy, right?!" Not much farther along after that, one more pool and one more cliff jump awaited, this one about a 15-foot drop. After the waterfall, that seemed easy. "Jump right in the middle," the guide says. "Otherwise, you hit rocks." Splash, we survived.

After the cave tour, Toto took over again, bought us beer, and handed us inner tubes for a quick but relaxing float down the river. Our adrenaline settled. We thought the tour was over. But after coming ashore, as we walked back up toward the lodge, we crossed the big bridge again. Three quarters of the way across, Toto came to a halt and began collecting our tubes. He pointed to a spot in the murky river waaaaaaaay down below: "You can jump here." As if it were obvious. My eyes widened as I leaned over to look. There? No. No f***ing way, Toto. This time, he had to be joking. This was no baby cliff jump, this was a method of suicide. I waited for a smile and a "just kidding!" but as I waited, two guys from our tour group hoisted themselves up and over the iron rails and off the edge, just like that. Falling, falling, falling, splash....... and they surfaced. Well, I couldn't let them be the only ones. If your friend jumped off a bridge, would you jump, too? Yes, apparently I would. THAT was the craziest thing I did that day.

I returned home from Semuc the next day with four days left in Guatemala and one more bucket list feat to accomplish: hiking to the peak of Acatenango, the volcano that dominates Antigua's western skyline. And it was to be an unforgettable finale. With a group of eleven friends, I climbed through steep farmland and forest trails, past the treeline and above the clouds, five and a half strenuous hours to our campsite just 200 meters below the summit. From the site, we could see two active volcanoes (Fuego and Pacaya) erupting in the night, the silhouettes of countless distant mountains, the bright lights of the capital, the faint Pacific coastline, and the streaks of shooting stars above. It was the most indescribably beautiful sight I have ever seen. No one wanted to sleep, no matter our fatigue. We sat around the campfire for hours, sharing jokes and favorite memories, and quietly absorbing the dreamlike scene around us. We were awestruck, weary, happy, filthy and exhausted, and on top of the world. I could not have asked for a more perfect ending to the year.

That night, as I looked out over the country, I could see the places I had explored. I thought of the people I had grown to understand, and this little world I had become part of. Or rather, the places and people that had become my world. I felt overwhelmingly grateful for it all. Grateful, and unsure of how it would feel to leave that world behind. But I've come and gone enough times to know that you never fully leave a place once you are part of it. You keep pieces - images, feelings, lessons learned and relationships forged - with you forever. That's how our little worlds evolve, and in turn, how we do. So I head now for the next adventure, knowing Guatemala will be with me for a long time to come.

This year, when I give thanks...

My volunteers often comment that their experience with our communities helps them remember to be grateful for what they have. They talk about what they have learned about our students: the rough conditions in which they live, their varying and often volatile family dynamics, the disheartening odds they face, and their resilient spirits. In reflecting on these realities, the volunteers make comparisons to their own background. Many times they realize aspects of their lives that mark them as privileged, advantages they never knew they had in life.

I have experienced many moments here that evoke similar reflections, the most resonating of which usually result from interactions with the mothers we work with. A few weeks ago, for example, we hosted a "Family Day" at Safe Passage, where we invited the students and their parents to come in for a day of games, prizes, fun, and food. One main event was a raffle where parents who had won tickets over the course of the day could win small prizes. As they were getting ready to call ticket numbers, one of the moms, Juana, turned to me and said, "Could you help my mother?" (She gestured toward the grandmother next to her.) "She can't read." I looked at the tickets. Each had a 3- or 4-digit number printed on it, in numerals. I looked at the older woman. From my experience with our families, I could guess that she had never been to school. As they called numbers and I scanned through her tickets looking for winners, I thought about what her life could have been like. I cannot fathom growing up and raising a family without this skill that I have always considered so basic. I cannot imagine looking at a printed "203" and viewing it only as figures on a paper, with no decipherable meaning. Her grandson is in our preschool program. He is three years old and probably not far from surpassing her in what we consider education and academic skill. But the knowledge she must possess that has no relation to academics... I can't imagine that either.

That woman's daughter, our Safe Passage mom Juana, graduated this past weekend. She officially passed the equivalent of sixth grade in our adult literacy program, meaning that she has completed elementary school for the first time in her life. I don't know how old Juana is, but I would guess she is not all that much older than I am. I know she has at least three children. Before this weekend, she had never had a graduation before. She had never felt the support of family and friends gathering to celebrate this kind of personal achievement. She beamed. And she was not the only one. Five mothers passed the grade alongside her, and another eight parents graduated the same day from the middle school level. Their parents, including the woman from the raffle, watched them with what I saw as a calm, content form of joy. Maybe the same joy my Grandpa once expressed when he looked around at our Thanksgiving celebration and saw his great-grandchildren running around so happily. Feeling the assurance that you have left a mark on the world, and that your mark is beautiful and ever-growing. That your children will have better opportunities than you did.

I have always known that I was lucky and privileged, relative to most people in the world. And I have always understood that my wealth extends beyond the material (we give thanks for good health, for loving relationships, for simple happiness). But this year, I am thankful more than anything for the opportunities I have had in my life to learn. I have learned from my parents, my teachers, and now, from the families I have worked with. And by all of their lessons, I am better able to work on my own beautiful mark on the world.