The mountains of Guatemala rise and fall like resting giants and our bus navigates the lengths of their bodies, winding masterfully along narrow roads. I am caked in dried mud from my shins down – it’s gathered between my toes, on my shoes, my ankles, and the bottoms of my pant legs. As the mud cracks and dries, it lets go of my clothing and my skin, collecting in small piles beneath my seat. 

A few hours ago, I woke up in the middle of the jungle before the break of dawn. I stretched the sleep out of my body from the top bunk in a small wooden cabin as dim light streamed into the space through screened windows, accompanied by croaking frogs, singing birds, and chattering insects. A nearby rushing river acted as the backdrop for it all, full and powerful from recent rainfall. 

I climbed down from my bunk quietly, careful not to wake the Dutch traveler who slept below me and silently, began to pack my things. It was time to untuck myself from this peaceful corner of the world, to emerge from the depths of this jungle, and to return home. 

Upon gathering my belongings, I stepped outside. The air enveloped me, warm and heavy with moisture from clouds that hung close to the treetops. I began descending the one-hundred steps between my cabin and the outdoor sink where I would brush my teeth, but about halfway through, I found myself at a halt. 

As far as the eye could see, there were no homes, no villages, no roads. It was just me, the animals, the trees, and the cabin. One dirt footpath brought each visitor here from a paved road that lay several miles away. Apart from braving the jungle with a machete, this humble path was the only way here, and the only way back. 

There I was, standing in the middle of nature, untamed. For miles around me, in every direction, plants shot out of the Earth with strong determination, contorting their bodies in every imaginable shape in a desperate attempt to find enough sunlight to survive. Insects, birds, reptiles, and mammals filled the spaces in between, building homes, raising young, and completing lives beneath the canopy of this rainforest. 

Underground, veiled by layers of earth, an even more complex scene unraveled. Roots were intertwined, creating a network of support that helped all flora survive fierce storms. Attached to those roots was a vast web of mycelium upon which every plant in this rainforest was tapped into. Chemical and electrical signals traveled these fungus webs, dispersing information across the entirety of the forest. 

It was clear. This thing I was standing in, made up of a million tiny parts, was one single being – living, breathing, moving. 

By about 6:30 a.m., I was ready to begin the trek back to civilization. My travel companion and best friend, Jamie, met me in the common area, and together, we waited for the man who was to guide us out of this untouched part of the world. When he arrived, we were swinging back and forth in hammocks, our bags littering the ground around us. 

He was in his late twenties and dressed in a simple blue T-shirt, jeans, and large rubber boots that went up to his knees. Immediately upon introducing himself, he made a disapproving comment about my choice in shoes. Both of our gazes fell on the leopard-print Havianna flip-flops adorning my feet. “No tengo otros zapatos,” I don’t have other shoes, I told him. 

The man in rubber boots shrugged his shoulders in a sort of “oh well,” and calmly began leading us out of the jungle. We didn’t talk much, he walked and we followed. 

Due to recent rainfall, the path was not in good shape. We moved slowly, stepping carefully to avoid well-fed puddles that grew to fit the entire width of the path. Sometimes, the path veered close to the river and the river swallowed it completely, forcing us into the jungle to carve out a new route. Needless to say, the terrain was not simple nor forgiving, and my choice in shoes, unsurprisingly, proved to be a particularly bad one. 

I had no traction whatsoever. Slick mud gathered between my feet and the sole of my shoes and with every step, I slid out of them. I’d find myself barefoot on the ground, my rubber soles twisted completely out of place. 

Climbing hills was next to impossible. Not only did I not have traction between my feet and my shoes, but I also had no traction between my shoes and the ground. Everything was covered in slippery, orange, muck that grabbed at my shoes with every step, sometimes refusing to let go and forcing me to plunge barefoot to my next step. I’d look back to find my shoe stuck in the mud a step behind me, the toe post pulled out through its hole. 

I fought with my shoes for about ten minutes, shoving the toe post back into the hole over and over and washing mud off at every opportunity in an attempt to gain back some traction – it never lasted long. But finally, I decided it was more trouble than it was worth. I stepped out of my leopard-print flip-flops, so caked in mud that the design disappeared completely, and carried them in my hands instead. I’d brave the rest of this journey barefoot. 

The relief was immediate. I no longer avoided puddles, or deep mud, or hills. I moved at a normal pace, happy to have ended the war between me and my shoes. My journey transformed from an argument between myself and an inanimate object, into a sensory exploration of the ground beneath me. 

Each step offered a new experience, I found myself deeply interested in what wonders I’d find below the murky cover of puddles: small pebbles, or soft ground. I placed my feet thoughtfully on exposed tree roots, a sort of handshake between myself and the creatures that loomed above me. 

About halfway through the journey, local Mayan people began appearing on the path behind us. I couldn’t tell where they were coming from. I didn’t notice any connecting paths to the one we were on, and there were no homes or structures built along the path. Nevertheless, men, women, and children appeared. Women wore traditional Mayan dresses of expressive and colorful patterns – patterns that have been passed down for hundreds of generations. Men wore work clothes – jeans, shirts. The outfits of the children seemed to perfectly mimic those of their parents. 

The men that passed us all wore large rubber boots, very similar to the ones our guide was wearing. They walked through the mud with confidence, their feet well protected by a thick layer of rubber, impenetrable to mud and water. There was no concern for a stubbed toe or scraped heel as they walked sure-footed to their destination. 

The women, however, carried their sandals in their hands and stepped thoughtfully through the wet jungle, barefoot. Though I hadn’t planned to be barefoot myself, I felt a deep sense of appreciation for my situation. There was something profound in what was happening in these moments. Bare skin on Earth, nature touching nature. I realized I was connecting with the jungle in a way that has been done for thousands of years. As the women passed me by, they offered kind and knowing smiles, acknowledging that we were sharing in something meaningful. 

As we neared the end of our journey, it came time to cross the Rio Grande. We approached a long, rope bridge with thick cables that supported a series of aged wooden planks. The entire structure was worn by the passage of time and each plank held scars from years of use. Some planks were cracked, others bent inwards. Many were missing altogether, leaving gaping holes along the bridge that exposed tumultuous brown currents below. The railings, made of chain-link fence, were uneven and battered, and in some places the fence peeled back entirely, offering no protection at all from a 30-foot fall to raging currents below.

Barefoot, I chose my steps carefully but, still, weathered wood creaked and groaned beneath my weight. Women with their children crossed comfortably ahead of us. The movement from so many people crossing simultaneously caused the bridge to come to life, swaying back and forth in long sweeping motions, daring us to trust it. We did. 

I thought about the people we had seen along the path. For many of them, this bridge served as a crucial structure in their everyday lives, their connection to school, work, groceries, clothes. Despite its weathered state, it served its purpose well. I chose gratitude over fear as I made my way carefully across the structure. 

The paved road was just after the bridge. Everyone who had passed us along the path stood together on the side of the road, and we joined them. I noticed that all the barefoot women now had clean shoes on their clean feet, the men had changed out of their rubber boots and into working shoes and boots. 

I tossed my muddy sandals on the ground and stepped into them with muddy feet. I looked around for a nearby hose or creek to wash my feet but saw none. Just as I was about to ask for help, a red pickup truck arrived and everyone began boarding. I ran out of time. 

The women and children climbed into the backseat of the truck, but Jamie and I were instructed to ride in the bed of the truck – maybe they saw my muddy feet. The men climbed aboard after us. The truck bed had a sort of metal scaffolding built around it so people had something to hold on to when they stood. Jamie and I tossed our bags into a corner and sat on top of them. The men stood around us, holding onto the scaffolding to maintain balance. 

I noticed the people around me. Everyone seemed well-put-together wearing jeans and collared shirts. The man standing nearest to me wore classic blue jeans. There was a small hole above his right pocket, and his blue collared shirt had small holes along the sleeves, they were all almost unnoticeable. Another man further back in the truck wore shiny leather shoes, pants, and a collared shirt with few wrinkles and no holes. A third man hung off the back of the truck in a bright pink polo. 

We wound through small villages for about 20 minutes before arriving at the bus station. Jamie and I disembarked and gathered our things. It was here we boarded the bus I am currently on. 

I’ve been sitting in this seat for a couple of hours now, looking out as Guatemala passes by. Every now and then an itch reminds me of the dried mud still caked on my feet, my shoes, and my pants, and I am reminded of this morning’s journey.