I told my host family on Monday night: I have a mission, and that is to buy tamales for Abby. They must be a specific tamale, not just any tamale, and they must be in abundance. Market days in Santa Clara are Tuesdays and Saturdays, and I feel more excited on those days because there is action going on somewhere.

Market days are busy, and on one Saturday Abby asked me to bring her tamales from Santa Clara. I went to the market at 8:11am and there weren’t any tamales. An older woman looked at me, shook her fingers and said, “No hay.” I had failed them.

So I set my alarm and scooted down to the market to arrive before 8 (err, not that much earlier than before) and thankfully there was a full basket of tamales. I bought 6 of the Q3 size. I think because it was a Tuesday, they didn’t sell out as fast.

I was unabashedly pajamed and walked with a mission through the center of the market, dodging chuchos, wheelie carts with cargo and orange peels, managing the normal call and response from the street: loud “NAN”s mostly.. and some “PATZAPIK A WI”s. And I made it to the uncrowded mouth of the market once again to take my steady incline upward and home, with my 6 hot tamales. Yep: I said it, hot tamales.

I made it home, boiled my hot water for coffee, and waited for it to brew in my Bodum French-press traveler which is singlehandedly responsible for getting me through service. At 9:50 my host sister popped up and asked: “Nos vamos o ya no?” and I said: “Disculpe se me había olvidado” and I jumped up to put my coffee-cuttin’ clothes on. In 8 minutes we left the house and walked 12 minutes to my favorite place to cut coffee. It’s a side street off of the main drag between Santa Clara and it’s neighboring villages, and it’s the quaintest freakin’ thing. I took my parents and my sister briefly so they could see where the coffee magic begins.

But cutting coffee isn’t magical. It is calm, it is quiet, it is perfectly lovely but it’s a patient sport. You have to be comfortable with getting juicy palms which turn into dirty palms and get grime up your fingernails. At first you begin to pluck the pieces of fruit from the plants but you must pull the sticks which often stay attached to the fruit. They change the weight of the coffee so it is best to pull them off. This is an extra step. It encourages the dirt to enter your nails and the sticks to callous your finger pads. But you can’t pluck more than one fruit at a time. It’s poco a poco. I only cut for about 2.5 hours before it was time to make lunch with Abuelita. Once I got to town I bought some snacks for Abby’s visit. I decided to buy chicken at my favorite comedor instead of cooking. Once I finished, I was pendiente for Abby’s arrival.

I could have sat inside all morning, but I was sad: processing lots of things. And I have learned that when the host family is going to cut coffee, and my work partners don’t have anything scheduled for me, I go with them.

The coffee doesn’t have any answers and the earth doesn’t whisper to me, and the leaves don’t wipe my tears or even listen. Do they listen? I’m not sure, but I know when I am there that I am being productive and I am directly connected to the process that gives me my favorite beverage. And the sun beams down on us and the mountains ring out around me (quietly) and I feel their provision. I think that’s the power of nature and work.

When Abby arrived, she brought me peanut butter as requested and, mostly, she brought friendship. We walked to Santa María and entered a bonified salon de belleza where we both got hair cuts! I haven’t gotten a haircut ever in Guatemala, just always done it myself. But it felt like a moment for a change (to externalize all the changes going on inside me). And I happily paid her my Q18 for my haircut. The dead chucha on the street was sobering, which we had to see coming and going. Dead chuchos don’t make a habit of disappearing fast. Realities of the campo, realities of life: coffee grows and dogs die. Is that the saddest thing you’ve ever heard?

And she ate her tamale for dinner and we watched Boy Meets World. We are on Season 4 and it’s a tradition.

Maybe my Bodum French Press Coffee Thermos is responsible for getting me through service, or maybe it’s unexpected friendships like Abby’s, my former sitemate and my friend.