I have developed a wonderful friendship with Mario Rodriguez Saníc, who works with the parish’s water project. Saturday, August 23 was the first of several times I accompanied Mario to his coffee field, which is nestled in the saddle between volcanoes Atitlán and Tolimán.

     I woke to my alarm at 4:50 a.m., an hour I have mostly only heard about, physically not at all wanting to get out of bed. In spite of my body telling me to go back to sleep, I knew that this was going to be a great day. I slowly stumbled through my morning chores and swallowed a quick breakfast.

     I walked across town and arrived at our meeting spot, Casa Spencer, at least ten minutes late. Mario was already there, looking mostly awake, or at least trying to convince me that he was. We greeted each other, and I apologized for being late, feeling bad for letting him stand there alone at six o’clock in the morning. Mario laughed and told me he had just arrived himself. He related how tired he was; I am sure he hadn’t had more than his usual five hours of sleep.

     We headed up the path that leads up to the volcanoes and towards Mario’s field. I knew it was an hour and a half walking quickly and two hours slowly; I wondered which pace Mario, an experienced volcano guide, would set for us.

     We walked in silence, stepping up stone stairs set into narrow water channels. We ascended quickly, soon several hundred feet above San Lucas. After a while, we came across Gino, a driver for the parish, cutting firewood and lumber. Gino is a tall, warm, outgoing, jovial man; as always, he greeted us with a smile and had a few friendly words to share. After a few minutes, we took our leave and continued our ascent, steadily climbing over rocks, sandy ash-soil, and slick stone.

     Mario stopped at one point and deftly used his machete to cut a common, tall, thick, sturdy plant growing at the side of the road. He quickly cleared all but the topmost leaves from its trunk, placed the plant across one shoulder, and continued to walk. I did not know what the plant was for, but I did not ask, preferring to wait and see.

     About an hour into the climb, we came to an area forested with tall, old cypress. We sat for a while, sharing bread and water. Mario told me how he would love to live at this spot and would if not for one small problem: there is no water. I looked around and agreed that this would be a beautiful place to live. The trees were not overly dense, allowing a breathtaking view of the surrounding mountains. It teemed with tranquility and peace, two qualities I have always associated with Mario himself. It made perfect sense that he wanted to live here.

     Somewhat rested, we donned our backpacks again and headed up through coffee fields, narrow and cragged pathways, and corn fields. The corn, as always, amazed me. It grows very high here, with thick, sturdy stalks, three-foot leaves and ears a foot and a half long. With this size, it is no wonder the stalks can be tied together and used to construct the walls of a house.

     As we ascended, the strong sun began to affect both of us, slowing our steps. We walked through a tall corn field in which Mario had considerably picked up the pace when he suddenly stopped and noted what was happening to the corn. An animal had been eating at the ends of a few of the ears, leaving them open to dry. Mario bent the stalks of the damaged plants over in order to mark them. He told me that this is the field of his brother-in-law and repeatedly said that what was happening to this corn was very bad, very angering.

     We continued our walk and passed the end of the corn, and I quickly realized why Mario had begun moving faster. We had arrived at his field, his twenty-five by fifty meters of young coffee trees.

     We went to approximately the center of his unevenly sloped field, bordered above and below by corn and on the sides by trees and brush. In the shade of a large tree, we spread out a tarp to rest on. My knees and feet thanked me. Soon my stomach also thanked me as we shared tortillas, bread, and water. We rested for almost thirty minutes, eating slowly and talking about this land and how Mario had received it as a gift from a generous friend. Generous indeed! This land, without coffee or any other crop, would cost five hundred quetzales, a considerable amount of money.

     Eventually we knew we had rested enough from the two-hour hike. (Yes, Mario had gone easy on me, taking it slower than normal, though I had a hard time convincing my legs of that.) We put our food away and hung our packs on a tree. Now I would finally find out what this seven- or eight-foot pant that Mario had cut and carried all this way was for: to protect his field against soil erosion. Cut at an angle just below the leafy top and planted straight into the soil, it will quickly root itself and grow again. From this, Mario will take a cutting and plant another, eventually creating a natural fence to shield his coffee grove against a potential rush of rain water from above, which could swiftly ruin his young coffee.

     My friend showed me what he was there to do this day. He needed to find at least two hundred sticks shaped like a check mark. Demonstrating on one of his little coffee trees, he took one such stick and pressed the long end into the ground about five or six inches from the tree. Next, he bent the tree over and under the upside-down crook in the stick, thus forcing the tree to stay bent. In the spot where the yet-narrow trunk emerged from the soil, there was a clear space in which a new shoot, a new trunk, will eventually emerge. When this second one grows to ten or twelve inches, it too will be bent over to allow a third trunk to emerge. Each tree needs three trunks to allow maximum coffee yield.

     Coffee is a slow process. Mario grew each of these trees in his house from seeds and transported them to the field, carried on his back, when they were one year old. They have been in this campo for just three months now, and they will not produce coffee beans for three more years.

     Before beginning his search for perfectly shaped branches to hew off of nearby trees with his machete, Mario showed me what would be my work. He unburied a hoe cleverly hidden in the field and showed me how to clear grass and other growth, starting from the bottom of the hill and working my way up. I was to scrape the top layer of the ground and pull out everything except the trees, turning the grass and weeds into the soil. I began my job, and Mario set out on his stick hunt.

     Grateful for my sun-sheltering sombrero, I tackled my work, carefully clearing the unwanted growth while keeping a watchful eye on the tender coffee trees, so instrumental to the future livelihood of Mario and his family. We both worked in silence. Before long, I had a small portion of the land cleared, and Mario had accumulated what appeared to be a large pile of sticks.

     At 10:20, we took a break, eating bread and tortillas and drinking water, talking about the land, about life, and about our families. After ten minutes, we got up for our last stretch of work; Mario had only planned to work a half-day. My back, unaccustomed to doing anything at all in this terrain and altitude, was grateful to be finishing soon.

     I let the hoe continue its break and walked from coffee tree to coffee tree with bundles of Mario’s cut sticks, dropping one at each tree. My friend followed behind, putting the sticks in the ground and bending the young trees over and into their crooks. Finishing the pile of sticks and seeing how many more trees there were to be bent over, I realized that so far Mario’s hunt had not been as successful as he had hoped.

     I left him to finish his work and returned to my hoeing. In those last twenty or so minutes I worked as quickly as I could, trying to be as productive as possible. In the end, I probably cleared about fifteen to twenty percent of the land, all that could be done in this earlier, cooler part of the day. I had hoped to clear more, but Mario was grateful for how much I had done.

     At 11:00, we sat again and prepared to descend back to San Lucas. We spoke again about land and about families. Mario had already known that I have a sister and that I have a brother who has passed away. I had not know that in addition to his living siblings Mario had three brothers and a sister who died at the ages of twelve, eight, two, and one. Once again, I was reminded of how different and how similar our lives are. Mario has experienced hardships and conditions and oppressions and violence and loss that I can not imagine and that I am quite sure I will never personally encounter. At the same time, we are about the same age and both spend much time pondering life, wanting a better world, and trying to keep a proper focus on our faith and on our values.

     Well rested, we readied our packs and headed for the path leading down the mountain. Mario stopped to pack a few of the damaged ears of corn from his brother-in-law’s field to show him what was happening. Not fifteen minutes down the trail, we passed this brother-in-law on his way up. Mario showed him the corn, and after talking about the situation, it was a very displeased young man who quickly continued up to his field.

     The trek down the mountain could be considered uneventful if not for the beautiful landscape. The view of the mountains, volcanoes, and Lake Atitlán was spectacular and ever changing as we followed the same pathways that were so exhausting coming up but now seemed so simple. The descent took an hour and a half. We took only one break for water.

     At Casa Spencer, where we met seven hours earlier, we took our leave of each other. Mario wanted to thank me for my work, but I smiled and told him what where there is friendship, there is no work. We said good-bye, both glad for what we had accomplished in the field but even more so for the friendship we had shared and built in our time together.