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Continued from Many Cities Did She Visit…
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I don’t really know how to share everything there is to share about my experience with Selvin. There is so much that I encountered with him, so much that I learned from him. He’s unspeakably complex and compelling.

I had left Lago de Atitlan reluctantly. Nostalgia was creeping into my heart before I had even boarded the olancha that would mark the beginning of my trip back to Antigua. But, I had promised friends of my return and a possible trip to the beach that weekend was in the works. It was time for me to go. Leaving wasn’t all that melancholy though. I was eagerly anticipating meeting “the boy with the smile” further up North in Guatemala in a few days. Turns out, I didn’t have to wait very long at all to meet up with Selvin.

The trip to the beach didn’t happen. Instead, it was a fun night out with Sofia’s friends in Guatemala City. The next day, when I called Selvin as I promised I would, we discovered we were both in Antigua. Perfect! We could head up north together. The day we planned to leave was the day I first began to glimpse and discover just how multi-faceted were the allure and spirit Selvin possessed. So quickly he was proving to be much more than “the boy with the smile.”

I had bought many souvenirs for Christmas gifts. I figured there was no way I could come back from this wonderfully artisan city full of goods colored by the Guatemalan rainbow empty-handed… especially for Christmas. Normally, I don’t do the souvenir thing because I’m traveling for long periods and there’s just no way I could lug it all around on my journey. Since I had the opportunity to bring home souvenirs this time, I had decided to go all out and simply ship most of it back. Ha! The whole “try-to-ship-it” process was quite the ordeal – an ordeal that Selvin, rather than I, mostly dealt with. As soon as I explained my plans to Selvin he jumped into action tracking down boxes, packing the boxes and taping the boxes with the utmost care for security and sturdiness. He invested a good couple hours into the completing the task thoroughly and without hesitation or complaint. The easy manner with which he embraced the task even before being asked to help, without a hint of gripe or complaint, revealed much… at least to me. It was quite evident that Selvin was a hard worker that tackled his duties with reverence and pride. That’s a quality that, I think, isn’t so easily found.

Unfortunately, once the packages were all packed up and taped ten times over, the woman at the post office who watched us labor over the entire process informed as we presented her the packages that she needed to look over every item within them. You’ve got to be kidding. What a doll. Thanks for saying NOT a word as we taped and packaged those suckers so tight they could have withstood WWII, right in front of your face ma’am. You are truly a doll. Yet, without hesitation, Selvin started ripping away his handiwork. He was far from impressed by the woman’s oh so blatant kindness, but what good would come of wasting more time by making a fuss? Patience. Another rather rare quality. At the end of it all we didn’t even ship the boxes. The cost was ridiculous. Even with new airline baggage fees it would be cheaper to buy a new bag and pay to bring them on the airplane. All that jazz… for nothing. Selvin’s response? He got to spend the day with me. He was happy. Appreciative and gracious… gracious for doing my packaging. The “boy with the smile” was really getting on my good side.

The next day we finally boarded the chicken bus and headed up North… I was ready for even chillier weather than Antigua thanks to my new Guatemalan hoodie that Selvin had bought me as a gift before he left the lake. And, we didn’t leave without first filling our tummies at his aunts small bar/cafe just outside the city. MMmmm… the food was good! Turns out, it had been more than four years since Selvin had been to the town where he grew up. He didn’t tell me that until we were already on our way. It was then that Selvin admitted that his reason for “going home” was me. Before we had agreed to meet up north, he had already decided to go just for the “chance” that he might get to see me “walking in the street” as I made my trek to Semuc Champey. But, turns out, he didn’t have to wait for chance. Hmmm… traveling to a city just to get a “glimpse” of the girl that captured you? So sweet!

No so sweet for him, however, was my worsening cough. As a kid, I used to get these horrible pneumonia-like coughs that started as deep colds in my chest several times a year. As I’ve grown, I’ve managed to more or less grow out of these coughs. Rarely do I get them anymore. But, over a month of little more than a few hours of sleep a night, lots of outdoor, on-the-go-adventure and a chilly climate was enough to induce my body’s old habits of youth. By the time Selvin and I arrived in his hometown, Coban (still several hours out from Semuc Champey – our ultimate destination), I was developing my infamous “childhood pneumonia-like cough.” It ain’t pretty. It doesn’t sound pretty when you’re coughing up a lung and it sure doesn’t look pretty either. But for Selvin, it was a chance to “take care of me.” We spent two days just laying low in Coban while I tried to get a quick fix to this cold with some rest. Selvin was ever the enthusiastic caretaker, making sure I had everything I needed: water, cough-drops, alka seltzer, food… whatever I wanted/needed. By the end of the second day, I was feeling a little better from rest, but I wasn’t really better by any means. Nonetheless, I decided I needed to get a move on because, as I mentioned before, my remaining days in Central America were few. The hitch was: Selvin had planned to sell the goods he makes – intricate hemp, jade and steel jewelry and leather purses, pouches, wallets and notebooks – to make money for the trip. Instead, he had taken care of me. He didn’t have enough cash to support the trip. I didn’t have any more days to wait. I thought a silly thing like money should NOT be a reason to miss out on enjoying a trip with someone who was genuinely turning out to be rather special. At first, Selvin would have none of it. He didn’t want me to pick up his entire tab for the trip. He offered to stay, sell and meet me later when he could. I reminded him how few days I had left and I explained that spending those few days with him would be far more valuable then the dollars it would actually cost to include him in the trip (not to mention my American dollar went far in Guatemala). I think it was the reality of what little time I had left that swayed him. He humbly accepted. The next day we traveled to Semuc Champey. How beautiful! The small lodge we arrived at that evening was rustic and relaxing; just a stone’s throw away from the river, surrounded by wilderness – a mix of forest and jungle, the mountain highlands of the tropics. Selvin and I were in wonderfully playful mood when we arrived, excited and inspired by the raw, natural beauty that surrounded us. That night though, would be the first of more than a handful of battles we would have. Turns out, Selvin may be wonderful, but he’s not perfect. And neither am I.

I have yet failed to mention a particularly significant detail about “the boy with the smile.” Selvin smokes ganja, marijuana… and, if so inclined, he smokes it a lot. While I don’t want to judge, and I’m honestly not convinced that smoking pot in moderation, if it tickles your fancy, is all that bad – I do think being high all the time is lame. Selvin knows that and because of that didn’t really smoke much around me. And that worked well for us. Sober to moderately-high Selvin is sharp, intelligent, attentive and intuitive. The Selvin that I found to be “a gem.” But when Selvin gets sufficiently high… he’s, well, not. Not so sharp and attentive, not so “gem-like.” But who am I to say what a man should or shouldn’t do. I had told him my feelings and he more or less respected them most of the time. But when Selvin wanted to feel and meditate – I guess – he liked to get high. Surrounded by all this beauty, Selvin wanted to get high. He asked. I didn’t feel I held any position to say no. I didn’t want to be a woman who told men what to do. I had learned that mistake with Michael. While I hadn’t flat out told Michael to quit smoking (cigs), exactly, I did keep buggin him about it. Did I mention Michael smokes (cigs). No? Well, he does. And since we’re on the topic of all this smoke. It’s probably pretty clinically accurate to say that all this buildup of cig and pot smoke exposure was probably a big factor in my recent childhood cough revival. I used to be quite allergic to cigarette smoke as a kid… I would have an instant hacking cough the second I would get a whiff. Now, I had a horrible hacking cough. Imagine that.

As I said, once I had voiced my feelings (just saying that I “wasn’t a big fan.”), Selvin more or less laid off the weed around me. But, he went ahead and got blitzed this night. So it was our first true experience with high-as-a-kite-Selvin and trying-not-to-be-a-woman-who-imposes-her-opinions-on-men-Laura. Plus, there was one thing I couldn’t argue: Selvin claimed that when he got high, he felt most creative and most attentive to his work (making jewelry and leather goods.) And, to be honest, it’s true. During our time back at the lake, I had been around Selvin when he was rather high once before. He was a creative, working machine when he was high and he sat down to design. I saw that. I couldn’t argue it. He’s certainly not the first artist to discover as such by any means. Of course, I think he should be able to tap into that determination and creativity without relying on weed to get him there, but how could I tell him to stop something that could influence him to be seriously productive?

We quickly found out though, that when Selvin gets high, it brings both of our weaknesses out. Selvin gets goofy, and to the sober, seemingly lame. Laura gets pompous, and to the high, seemingly high and mighty herself… in a lofty, judgmental kind of way. Try as I might to reign in negative thoughts and remain open-minded, Selvin picked up on what I was thinking and we wound up in an argument. Selvin wasn’t making much sense… because he was high. And I wasn’t being very open-minded… at all. We fought. He stormed off. I shrugged and thought ‘suit yourself silly one’… and read my book. When Selvin eventually sobered, he came back and apologized. I accepted. He went back to taking good care of me… and my cough. I went back to enjoying sober Selvin.

The next morning we both woke in festive spirits, having totally put the argument from the night before past us. We were going on a water cave tour… by candlelight! I’ve been in many a cave – in the U.S. Thailand, Vietnam, Laos and Honduras. I had even been in a huge, beautiful water cave – in Vietnam by boat. Also a cave with hoards of bats swirling around your head – on Utila, one of the Bay Islands off the coast of in Honduras. But, I had never done a water cave, with bats, walking through the dark waters… by candlelight. There’s something eerie and alluring about exploring the strange mutant-formations of the underground, listening to the alien drops, drips and shrieks echoing confusedly throughout the earth’s deep and resonating caverns. Sound bounces off the cave’s sharp spikes – springing from above and below – and disappears through the dark, bottomless cracks in a frenzied confusion like dozens of bouncy balls haphazardly let loose, flying every which way. The sounds from the deep, in the deep, were frantic, confused and lost. Lost amidst the earth’s surreal, natural art that wowed us with unique and strange formations, some of which softly sparkled and shimmered as we waved our candles up, down, left and right.

We tubed down the icy river to get back to where we were staying. Along the way, I joined the guide in launching myself off a bridge. He leaped from the 20 ft point. I hurtled myself off from the 18… The chilly water didn’t help ease my coughing that night in the least bit.

We woke the next day unprepared for what we were to encounter. I had heard Semuc Champey was remarkable and fellow travelers had raved that it was not to be missed. But that’s about all I had heard. We didn’t really know what we were going to see. We knew it was a national ecological park on the river… that’s it. We entered the park and we were in the same beautiful forest that had so invitingly welcomed us the day we arrived. But now, there was a well-kept, picturesque path. When we came upon the first fork in the fern forest track, we opted for EL Mirador – “The Lookout” – first. We were up for a healthy, steep hike. We wound around and up rock-hewn stairs cut from a cupped cliff, stopping here and there to take in the treasures around us. Near the crest of the trail I could here the crackle of objects crashing through the trees and nuts would randomly come plummeting down upon us. I looked up expecting to find parrots. I had encountered their treacherous target practice once before in Copan Ruinas, Honduras. When I tilted my head back to see what was making all the ruckus, though, I didn’t find parrots but monkeys. Those retched monkeys were trying to knock us out! After trying out a few hoot ‘n howls and oo-oo-ah-ah-ah’s of our own – and after I tried being a mono loco (crazy monkey) myself by climbing a tree or two to get closer – Selvin and I finally left our little furry friends to torture the next unsuspecting visitor/victim.

And WOW… there it was, just a little further on around the bend. El Mirador: a bird’s eye vista of large cascading steps of glowing lagoons. Greens melting into turquoise, melting into to deeper blue. One lagoon spilling into the next and the next. El Mirador was an incredible view of Semuc Champey. Again, WOW. I had seen beautiful green-blue lagoons in Laos, but I had never seen anything like this. I was as if God had splattered his blue water-color right there in the middle of the Guatemalan forest. After OOOOoooo and ahhhhing and taking pictures, we finally tore ourselves away from the tree-top view so we could hike back down and have a more personal encounter with God’s water-color masterpiece. Unfortunately, on the way down, Selvin and I got into another battle. Selvin, as his way of more fully appreciating this jewel in the forest, had been smoking… again… and getting more dopey… again. Finally, he came to the point where he couldn’t even recollect what he had just said three, five minutes before. I threw that in his face and said “Look at you. Why do you do this to yourself? You dumb yourself down so much that you can’t even have a five-minute conversation before you forget what you’re even talking about.” He fought me for the next five minutes about it.. and then, I don’t know, something clicked and he did remember… and he saw how absurd his refusal against the truth just moments before had been. He was incredulous. He said he felt like he was reliving the mistakes of his father – in his own way.

Here’s where I’ll diverge and give a bit more background on Selvin. But, I’m just going to give the bare facts as he told me, nothing more. It’s his story. But, sharing the bare bones of it sheds more light on, well, everything. It’s a story that came to me in hesitant pieces. He danced around his past because he didn’t like talking about it. He didn’t like people judging him for it, treating him different for it, changing who they were with him for knowing a bit of what he went through to become the ever-evolving gem he is today:

Growing up, Selvin’s dad was a drunk that beat his mother. They lived in what’s basically a cement shack. At age 11, Selvin couldn’t handle the domestic ill at home and left to go live on the street in Guatemala City – a particularly dangerous city in Latin America. At age 11, Selvin lives alone… on the streets in third world Guatemala. It’s another reality that has circled close to me, but one I just don’t fully grasp – just like the murder of Michael’s uncle. I just can’t fully comprehend what, exactly these truths mean to the people who they touch and meddle with so intimately. Anyways, Selvin is 11 living on some bad streets. As Selvin enters adolescence he learns not algebra but what it’s like to be roughed up by gangs and to lose friends to murder. He gets tutored in the world of drugs, not in mathematics. Eventually, he becomes a crack addict, a kid on the street just living for his next hit. He swears he’s never hurt anyone or ever even stolen for more drugs. He says he was always working and selling his wares to get his money.

I believe it whole-heartedly when he says he’s never harmed anyone. I couldn’t count the number of times when I’ve seen Selvin give the last of his money in his pocket to someone else who’s begging for it. I told him my philosophy on that. I don’t want to teach “entitlement,” so I don’t typically give unless the person is offering a service… playing music or something. But Selvin responded, nearly verbatim: “I can’t not give it to them. I see my grandpa, my grandma, my dad and my mom, and my sister and my brothers in those people. Maybe they’ll go buy alcohol with the change I give them. Maybe something worse. Maybe they really are just trying to feed themselves or they’re children, they’re family. But they’re all just struggling to survive. I’ve been there on the streets… I know. I’ll give them what I’ve got.” And he always did. He always did. He stopped me in my tracks. He confused me. I don’t want to contribute to more despondency and poor habits. But, can my giving have stipulations? I’m still confused about this one: what is the right approach, what isn’t? Every time I turn to look at this one lesson from just a slightly different perspective, I change my mind. I go back and forth. I’m wishy-washy. I can’t figure it out. It’s so gray. But in the grand scheme of things, If you honestly believe God is in control, which I do, how could you ever have faith in anything other than we were called to give what we can from the heart and it’s up to God to see to it how that generosity is played out. We can give. We can’t always control how our gift is received or used, but we can always give. Maybe that’s the only part I should ever worry myself with… because the truth is, we can never control something once we’ve given it away. That’s what giving is… giving up control… over whatever your generosity might include. But then you think of the gypsies in Italy, for example, and how they live richly off conning people and purposely distorting their babies to get more sympathy as beggars. And then I’m back at square one, unsure of what to do. But, the lesson was not lost. One thing I know for sure, which Selvin’s attitude taught me… giving change to open-palmed beggars is not always used for ill intentions as I had so decisively determined. There is every possibility that it will be used for food, for basic survival as much as any possibility it would be used for booze. And these people are, truthfully, living a reality more cruel than I’ll ever know. Who am I to judge how they’re coping with that reality? If I can’t spare a minute to invite the starving person to share in my next meal for example, I can give them money and they can do with it what they will. It’s all shades of gray. I am no expert on gray.

Selvin is also such a star and a gentleman with all the women who relentlessly hawk their goods. Now, he doesn’t always buy, but he never ignores, never brushes them off. All day you can witness people dismiss these women as if they can see right through them. But Selvin will always address the lady with reverence. Sometimes he buys if wants it, other times he respectfully declines, always using words of endearment like mama, prima (mother, cousin)… words you use with your family. Soft, gentle, kind, respectful, gracious. Model behavior. He is absolutely and admittedly leaps and bounds ahead of me when it comes to treating every stranger on the street with reverence. Witnessing this behavior and the way he was so joyfully caring after me, had me more than convinced, he could never have hurt anyone. Every stranger on the street is mother or grandpa!

And back to the bare bones of Selvin’s past. He was a such young crack addict living on the streets and… he… got… out. I need to look up the exact statistics on this, but I’m certain that they’re not favorable. Defeating a crack addiction is, well, geez, I have not the slightest idea how truly challenging that would be. We’ve all got our vicious cycles we’re struggling to overcome… imagine the allure, the addiction magnified 100, 1,000 times… that’s how hard I imagine it is to overcome crack addiction. Many never do. Selvin is 26 and has been clean for six years.

And that brings us back to… oh right, arguing in the midst of the Enchanted Forest… back to Selvin being in a complete ganja haze, yet suddenly seeing himself from a new perspective. Seeing the resemblance of his ganja-use to his father’s alcohol-use. Finally seeing, how he wasn’t even seeing how he was behaving while he was lit on marijuana. Right then and there, he chucked his pipe into the woods – an amending gesture that I graciously accepted. We continued on our downward trek to the alluring pools of Semuc Champey, the swampy, knotted and gnarly forest quickly luring us to forget our tense exchange just moments ago. As the swamp water laced with snake-like roots slowly transformed into pooled lagoons of agua azul, we could hear the roaring of the water grow louder. But where was the roaring coming from? And there they were, just beyond the lip of one of the sparkling lagoons, a cliff with raging white water, swirling below – diving with fury into the underground. The roaring foam was mesmerizing. I just stared at it. I couldn’t help but think just how mangled you would be by that white fury slamming you into the sharp rocks and the jagged cliff… if you fell in. Of course, I got daringly close to the edge and peered over, just watching, Watching. Shiver…

Then a local quietly ruffled me out of my trance, scolding me in Spanish for getting so close, too close. He urged me away from the edge. I obliged and turned my attention to the calmer, agua azul lagoons. What a contrast.! Roaring fury delving into the underground and tranquil, blue waters throwing glitters of sunlight onto the cliff walls above. The blue-green waters reflected like a disco-ball on the rocks. The lagoon-clearing was warmed by the sun and locals and tourists alike were sun-bathing and dipping into the warm, inviting green-blue forest paradise. A good metaphor for the relationship between Selvin and I, I think. Rough and forceful when we disagreed. Yet, as compelling, warm and inviting as the lagoon-paradise when we weren’t arguing.

The utterly unique and dynamic beauty of Semuc Champey is forever locked within my mind’s eye. It should be a wonder of the world.

El Retiro in Lanquin was our next stop as it was on the way back to Coban. In route to Semuc Champey, we had glimpsed the small, palm-roofed huts nestled among the lush river banks, bright green slopes rolling into the river below. Our brief glimpse left us with the impression that El Retiro was the bohemian backpacker’s dream hangout and we promised each other to check it out on the way back. When we got there, we quickly discovered we should have stayed there the entire time. For the simple traveler who’s content living with whatever he/she can carry in his/her backpack… it’s paradise. And, unbeknownst to us before, you could schedule day trips to Semuc Champey and the candle cave tours from there.

Selvin and I claimed a room in one of the cozy little huts. The huts were either dorm style or divided into four rooms, two on the bottom and two on top – lofts whose curtained cubby holes you entered by bamboo ladder. I was absolutely enchanted with the little, tropical style huts that were nestled into the sloping green hills. Each hut had it’s own porch, complete with a string of hammocks, facing the river and the rising river bluffs beyond. Charming, stone-cobbled footpaths connected each hut to the next. The bohemian paradise had a main lodge with large picnic tables under an open-aired roof. Lush, tropical landscaping, the occasional hammock or two and a small café table set with its own palm fronds umbrella surrounded the main lodge. The lodge had an upstairs loft as well with a TV, cushy pillows and a DVD player to watch movies. The food they served was fresh, tasty and hearty. Plus, each night they hosted a themed, buffet dinner. The main office hosted a book exchange library and a set of computers wired to the internet. The bathrooms were creatively decorated; water spilling out of shells or sculpted frogs into bright mosaic basins, for example. The lodge was also environmentally conscious and used bio toilet paper and a lime mixture to naturally decompose the waste instead of letting the earth absorb it and funnel it into the clear river that lulled us to sleep every night. Signs reminded guests to switch off the lights to save energy – reminding each traveler that Guatemala unfortunately burns gas to produce all of its electricity (bad!!). Near the river bank was the communal bonfire that lodge workers would light each night so we oh-so-weary travelers could share stories, experiences, music and laughs to the soft accompaniment of the hot, crackling logs that cast a magic, orange glow. The entire ambiance of the place seemed to be letting out one eternal breath of relaxation and utter contentment. It was an inspiring locale. El Retiro will definitely influence my all-encompassing model for my Latin American project (I know I keep referring to that without sharing more, but I’m still researching and I’m just not ready to share yet!).

The people Selvin and I met there were just as alluring. And they seemed to enjoy having us around too, especially Selvin. Here, it seemed everyone recognized the gem that was Selvin. Fellow backpackers would continually come up and comment about our “spirit,” our “magic.” A dynamic duo, they would say, that would spread an excited zeal for living to everyone who stumbled into their path. I’ve had people comment on my passion for life before, but NEVER to the extent as those here, while I was sharing the experience with Selvin. He’s not perfect, but it’s simply true: his spirit is magic. Selvin and I spent four days there soaking in the pure, good vibes of simple life in paradise. We even organized a friendly futbol (soccer) match.

One afternoon Selvin came up to me all excited. He had sold some of his handiwork to fellow travelers and he had some cash… he could buy us dinner! I thought that was super sweet: the only cash he’d earned since we started this little trip and he wanted to use to treat me. I saw how much it meant to him, so I obliged even though I preferred for him to save it. Come dinner time though, Selvin came up to me apologetic. He explained he had paid for a bed for a traveling Honduran boy who was out of cash and looking for a place to crash. I felt there was no better use for the money and, yet again, Selvin’s spirit was shining bright – blatant evidence that generosity has an ever-extending ripple affect. You just never know how far a kind act will go; just how much power it possess. Selvin really connected with some other travelers there – travelers from Western countries. They were people he might not have connected with if he had never been given the chance to simply be among them, instead of serving them all the time. Selvin’s spirit always shines, but now he wasn’t being regarded as the local bar tender but just as a fellow traveler. And, I hate to say it, but even among travelers, that often means a big difference. I was sincerely gladdened to watch him connecting with so many, so robustly.

Selvin also taught me yet another lesson during our El Retiro stay. I don’t always have to be engaging in a personal fight with the big, nasty multi-nationals. Selvin asked for some change to buy these horribly cheap and sugary Coca-cola suckers. I couldn’t help but let a comment slip that more or less said, you want to spend money on that unhealthy crap when you could have a deliciously healthy and hearty meal at the lodge. “That’s the problem,” I said. “Locals get a few spare centavos and they are influenced by these multi-nationals to always spend it on sugary sodas and bon bons and they end up with bad health and rotting teeth. They’re often starving and they buy this shit.” Said I with a huff. Selvin promptly threw the Coca-cola bon bon into the dusty shoulder of the rock-strewn, dirt road. Then he told me how those suckers reminded him of being a small child, walking with his grandma, listening to her stories and her wisdom. She would always buy him one of these specific suckers when he visited and they would go for long walks and talk. She has since passed. Whenever sees one, he remembers her… and tasting the sugary “crap” always brings those warm memories of her to mind. Right then I wanted to insert-foot-into-mouth.

So yeah. Relax Laura. Not everything, always has to be a battle for the “all-encompassing good cause.” Sometimes, forget the lecture, just be and let be… even a sugary “crap” sucker from a multi-national that essentially bans milk from schools in Honduras can have a positive effect… and not only be an evil tool for dooming locals to brown, rotting teeth. I got the lesson, loud and clear. Though I’m still working on remembering it…

We wound up having to spend another night in Coban before going back to Antigua because of the bus schedule. That last night ushered in a final, big battle between Selvin and I. Selvin alluded to his rough, drug-ridden past again and I quickly urged him to tell me more through journalistically inspired questions and side-comments of not understanding all the logic. He was explaining how a former crack supplier was encouraging Selvin to leave the crack house after he had become clean, but went back to visit. He said this guy was a brother because he did that. He urged Selvin away, when he saw he had beaten the crack… but that was after he had been a key player in corrupting him when he was younger and more vulnerable. And, that was while he was still corrupting others… supplying desperate people on the street with the very crack shit he refused to use himself. I didn’t get it. He’s a brother? Just because once he told you to leave when countless times before he fed you crack? All I said was I didn’t get it. I just didn’t get it. Then Selvin got in my face, accusing me of judging him and everyone. That I thought of him less because I knew more about his past. That I wouldn’t be the same with him. I felt exasperated. After this whole trip you still think that? How unfair! I thought. It was clear Selvin’s past was haunting him. I was not judging him for it. Rather, the surviving, brilliant spirit he was and was still becoming in spite of everything he’d been through fascinated me. It made me wonder again and again, Am I that strong? What if I had had Selvin’s life? Would I have survived it? And it made me think how much I did not want to find out. No Selvin’s fear that I was judging him was completely self-propelled. His past was still haunting him. No true friend would think any less than wow of someone who beat crack, beat watching friends get mowed down with murder, beat the street. Others might judge, yes. But, I felt Selvin had the wisdom to know that anyone who did treat him differently simply wasn’t a true friend and wasn’t anyone worth spending time or energy over either. Yet, he was still letting his past, greatly impact his current relationships – with family, friends and whoever else. So Selvin got in my face about a judgment of him and his past that didn’t exist with me. I was feeling really sick that night… and exhausted. Exhausted from all the battles with Selvin. So I just said, “no more,” and turned a deaf ear. Selvin thought that meant I didn’t care about him anymore. I just wanted to sleep. Then Selvin tested my care by pouring out everything he felt… and I couldn’t return the same feelings in the same way. I couldn’t. I couldn’t say certain things he wanted to hear from me. I couldn’t promise what he wanted me to promise. I cared. Oh how I cared so deeply and immensely for him. I loved him. I told him that over and over. But not that way. And, what I couldn’t say wounded Selvin. He ended up storming out in the middle of night when we had booked a take a 4 in the am bus to Guatemala. By 4 am I had found my own, cough-exhausted way to the bus in the eerie, dark city of twilight Coban. I didn’t know Selvin had made it onto the bus (hiding out in the shadowy back) until we arrived hours later in Guatemala City. Oooo I was not happy… or impressed… and I let Selvin know it. But he sincerely and desperately wanted to reconcile, knowing we’d be parting for good soon. Witnessing his sincerity, I decided that everything this local Guatemalan – who has a life so utterly different from my own, privileged one – and I had shared was too much to leave it on such a sour note. We both had much to learn still. Plus, the thought that maybe I let others get too close to quickly kept nagging me. It’s one thing to let yourself get too close (as in me with Michael). It’s another to let others get too close. I know, if I get too close and ultimately learn I’m more into it than the other, or even if I get burned… bad… I’ll get over it. I’ll wallow in poignantly painful pity-party for about a week… two tops. It can be intense for that week or two, I’ll admit. But, invariably, I bounce back. And life’s enchanting ways slowly ease me out of my pain, dulling it to a distant memory that recalls much more the sweet than the bitter, and new experiences reach deep and captivate my soul and my zeal all over again. Yet, knowing you lured someone in closer than you had intended… sucks. It just flipping sucks when you feel responsible for igniting that same, chest-squeezing pain in someone else. So, I’m giving thought to all that. I don’t know what the answer is… I feel committed to living passionately. But, I don’t want to offer false hope.

It also nagged at me as to why I didn’t feel the same way for Selvin. Why didn’t Selvin capture in that same, distinctly affecting and tender way Michael had? Was it because Selvin was partially right? While I was awed at what he had experienced and defeated, at the wisdom and spirit he unquestionably possessed, did knowing some of his past, his reality scare me off? Was I afraid Selvin would never be able to give me everything I wanted, including a certain amount of comfort I was used to just by being lucky enough to be born into a vast amount of more privilege? Michael was from a more European class of Honduras. Selvin was from the distinctly lower class of Guatemalans. Could that one difference, the circumstances to which someone was born into, to which someone was still living and surviving, keep me from loving loving someone? That’s a tough question to face. It makes me squirm that that could be a possibility. How can I know? Well, I do know that many people of much privilege have also captured me in poignant ways, though not in that all-romantic way… not the way Michael and few others before him have. So that helps. But, I don’t know. The question still lingers…

Selvin and I ended up leaving on very close and comfortable terms though. He’s forever in my heart. Forever. I dream of the day when I can offer him more than just one tumultuous experience with a privileged, traveling American. I dream of the day where I can offer him real opportunity; opportunity that could change his reality – a change that would ultimately ripple from him, as I know it would, and change the realities of others.

Selvin left me with a handful of hand-made good. Selvin-made goods. They’ll always be more than the practical purpose they serve – a necklace or a pouch. They’ll remind me of him. They’re my Coca-cola bon bons.

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