La Selva, Part V

Eyes Beyond Her Years

Hi everyone. I figured I would start communicating. Cause I like this relationship. And communication is the key to relationships. Right? For all these words I am writing, I haven’t really been communicating with YOU. As my friend Craig would say: “Pete. Use your words.” So here goes.

Hey.

This whole write and share with the world thing has me all jazzed up. I get squirmy on Saturday night. I suppose I will always be the little brother tugging on my sister’s shirt, pointing. Trying to show her something. Trying to show you something. Because maybe you will also find value or enjoyment in the observation.

Anywho. Your support and kind words and continuous encouragement has meant the world to me. In a big way. Really truly. Thank you so much for reading along… I freaking love having you here.

This week’s Selva is one I have been most excited to write, and now that it is written I am most excited to share. I hope you enjoy it too.

If you are overwhelmed by what has become a quasi-novella, I hear you. If you don’t feel like catching up with past installments then good news. This week does not need any context. Jump right in and enjoy.

If you do want to catch up here are the links to the previous installments:

La Selva, Part I: The Lost City Awaits.

La Selva, Part II: The Observation of Suffering

La Selva Part III: The Process of Discovery

La Selva, Part IV: El Mirador

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November 14, 2023 El Petén, Guatemala

I held a plate of soggy broccoli and bits of chicken in my hand. The kind you could probably eat but don’t really want to. Or maybe shouldn’t. Not that the street vendor was exceptionally sketchy, but. You know. Sometimes you have to throw caution to the wind to avoid explosive diarrhea.

Nonetheless, Carlie-Anne refused to let the food go to waste.

In front of me, sitting patiently, was a skinny street dog with a crooked tail and one floppy ear. He licked his lips.

“Okay. This time, let’s build some trust. Let’s start with the chicken and work up to the broccoli.” Carlie’s eyes were wide with innocent mischief. She carefully selected a small piece of chicken from the plate and tossed it to the dog. It was gone in a second. In a rapid shuffling of feet he moved closer and his gaze was fixed upon the plate. He licked his lips again.

I looked at Carlie, doubt written all over my face. She smiled dubiously and picked a very large piece of broccoli off the plate. Broccoli that should not be that large. Nor that… wet. She tossed the piece of broccoli to the dog. The dog caught the broccoli mid-air but, this time, before his mouth closed around it he stuck out his tongue and expelled the vegetable onto the ground. The broccoli splattered on the road like a soaking wet sock. The dog’s eyes met mine.

Never. In. My. Life. Have I seen such a look of betrayal. He held his gaze long enough for Carlie and I to understand his disdain. His scowl was riddled with deep contempt. This would be a core memory for this dog. The time he learned not to trust. To be weary of broccoli-slinging witchcraft.

Carlie-Anne and I held our breath, flabbergasted at the sudden and unexpected reproach. The dog turned and sprinted away. He wanted nothing to do with people like us. Lying, traitorous, heathens of the night.

We burst into laughter.

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That is what I think of first when I think about Carlie-Anne. It felt as though it had been weeks since I had been goofy. But that night we spent walking around Panajachel was coated in a thick goo of silly laughter.

Carlie-Anne had eyes that glowed with life beyond her years. Her fire red hair was thick and wild and free and bounced as she moved. Her smile was quick and sharp, and it told you she made a habit of being up to no good. She was wrapped in a labyrinth of flowing cloth that, even after watching her dress, I could never quite understand. Her backpack was a chaotic symphony of surprises. She was never more than an arms length away from a homemade balm and had a thousand tiny packets of spices tucked away in nooks and crannies that she used liberally on everything. In her pack you would find a stack of homemade tortillas that she would slather in honey and tahini and share with the most random of strangers; like the man in the closet-sized electronics store that sold her a phone charger. Her kindness and generosity was second-nature. She gave as easily as she received. Her soul spoke fluently the language of the coming and going of things.

She often offered unsolicited advice I felt inclined to listen to. Like not to eat fruit before a hearty meal as it digests poorly. I hated this rule. Especially in a part of the world where endless fresh fruit markets surround stalls of street food. On our last day together I confessed that I would break this rule as long as I lived and she threw her head back in wooping laughter and swallowed me up in an embrace as if I could do no wrong.

Carlie-Anne is overflowing with curiosity and wonder but is no stranger to hardship. She persisted through trauma that would turn the best of us bitter. Yet, she is playful and silly. Alive and vibrant. This sense of positivity isn’t forced. It is not a false persona in an attempt to ignore difficulties. It is a way of life as natural as a bird’s song.

She is by every definition an old soul. An old soul is no stranger to the tragedy of humankind. Anger, hate, jealousy, violence, loss. They too live the human experience. It is Carlie’s constant, everyday decision to choose kindness, patience and love that guides her path and shows the true nature of her unbroken spirit. Old souls are not immune to the darkness that surrounds us. They know the depth and tragedy of the human experience more viscerally than anyone. They know this to their core whilst living in humor and curiosity. They burden the world on their shoulders like a patient grandmother, yet play like a child on a big ol’ pile of dirt.

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The hostel owner slid a large key into the keyhole. Warped glass doors stood in front of black wooden doors with chipping paint. He swung open the inner doors to expose a grand piano at the foot of a bed piled with old blankets. The room didn’t necessarily meet the standards of the Grand Budapest Hotel, but it was exceptionally cozy. Over the next few days Carlie-Anne and I would explore the rainy Mayan town of Xela (shay-la). In between adventures we would return to our room and Carlie would play the piano. The room was dark and the hostel was quiet enough to listen to the rain softly fall upon the leaves of the countless plants in the atrium. With the glass doors swung wide open, she would play for the entire hostel. I would lay on my back on the bed and daydream and listen to her explore music passing through her, as if she was simply a vessel used by the universe to express itself. Her music sounded like ginger tea. An aliment you didn’t know you needed until the steam was upon your face and the chords were dancing in your mind.

We met the day after my morning with Life and her last day after a month of teaching children in Jaibalito. She is from the suburbs of Philly (the place of my family’s roots), lived in Taos, NM (just a hop, skip and a jump from my home in Durango), yet we met in a tiny out-of-the-way-town in Guatemala. Our first night together was spent in endless conversation. The kind of conversation that has substance. The kind that matters. Along with her friend Zoey, we drank the home brews of the famous German, Hans, and eventually skinny dipped in Lake Atitlán.

Carlie-Anne had found her stride and was moving effortlessly through her travels. I met her at a crossroads in her journey, but she was unbothered. Patiently, she dismissed opportunities that didn’t serve her for she was so clear as to what would. She was not stubborn nor closed. Just clear. This grace has allowed her to travel far and wide, working and intimately exploring life wherever she went.

After my experience with Life, I was ripe for a transition. Ready for adventure. Still, I had not found my stride. I felt like a sail, ready on the mast, yet without a breeze. Carlie-Anne came in a gust of flowing clothes.

Our time was short, we knew it was fleeting. But I am not sure I would have it any other way. We napped below volcanoes in a field of grass with a street dog companion we met along the way. We snuck into the fanciest hotel we could find and peed on the roof. We learned every single name of every single family member of a six year old boy playing in a dinosaur park. We ate questionable lo mein, topped with beans for breakfast, shared a cozy blanket on a not-so-cozy Chicken bus , and laughed and giggled like little kids first discovering the immensely fulfilling experience of friendship.

The more time I spent with her, the more clear the signs of the universe became to me. Her simple clarity was contagious. Soon enough I was pulled in to the flow like a gravitational force. This is her superpower. People like Carlie are gifts of the universe, and I have learned to accept gifts graciously. Our world is lucky to have her.

In Xela, through easy conversation, she nudged me towards my true direction in Guatemala. Within a few days I was ready. I had no real plan, and I still felt a bit anxious. But I had a strong bearing and a full heart. I was to head north. Towards adventure. To the state of El Petén. To La Selva.