The drive into the village felt like stepping into another world. Hours on the road took us through winding mountain passes, past colorful fruit stands, grazing cows, and endless rows of corn. Eventually, the pavement turned to gravel, and then to dirt. Inside our bus, the excitement from the airport and our first night in Antigua had quieted. Our teen ambassadors pressed their faces to the windows, taking it all in—the tin-roofed homes, kids running barefoot, and the mountains all around.
No one said it, but I could feel the question in the air: “Who’s getting out first?”
Before we even reached the school, we spotted them—a line of students standing on the roadside, holding handmade signs with our names. Some of the little ones peeked shyly from behind the older kids. I stepped off the bus first, calling out a greeting in a mix of Spanish and my best attempt at Quiché, the local language. Their faces lit up. I found the kids holding my name and introduced myself, and that broke the ice. One by one, our ambassadors stepped down, meeting their “hosts” holding their names. And then the drumming and dancing began—right there on the roadside. Laughter replaced the nervous silence, and the week had officially begun.
We made our way down to the village of Laguanitas, and the first thing we saw was the existing, dilapidated classroom. Hastily put together with random wooden planks and scraps of tin, puddles on the floor, the classroom was being used for the youngest students. It left them exposed to the heat, rain, and insects—an environment that certainly wasn’t conducive to learning.
At first, there was a lot of curiosity from the community—especially the moms, who watched us closely from the shade as we got started on the construction site. Our small team didn’t exactly look like seasoned builders. The local masons were polite, but I could tell they were wondering how this crew of teens was going to finish a classroom in just one week.
The work was hard but satisfying. We learned to mix concrete, pass cinder blocks, and haul water under the sun…sometimes in the pouring rain. The rhythm of the week formed quickly—building in shifts, teaching in the existing classrooms, and playing with the kids at recess. We jumped rope, learned local games, and played pato, pato, ganso (duck, duck, goose) in the dusty schoolyard. There were potato sack races, lots of laughter, and even a few soccer matches with the kids and the workers. I joined in one day and somehow held my own—the next morning, they were waiting for me with the ball, ready for a rematch.
One of the most meaningful experiences was visiting families in their homes. To get there, we walked narrow dirt paths—sometimes along the edge of steep cliffs—and hiked as far as 45 minutes down the mountain. The views were beautiful, but what stayed with us most were the people who welcomed us in with such warmth.
During one visit, a mother proudly showed us her tortillería—a dedicated space in her home where she makes tortillas by hand to sell in the village. Another family invited us to see the outdoor sink where they wash clothes and dishes with water carried in by hand. These weren’t performances—they were simply sharing life as it is, with honesty and pride.
Our teens were quiet on the walk back up. You could feel how deeply the experience had landed. One ambassador said:
“We have things backwards. We think the way we live is real life, but THIS is real life. They focus on what matters—family, education, culture, and community.”
As the week went on, everything was taking shape. The kids were so excited about their colorful new space—they kept trying to peek at the mural we were painting. I laughed and reminded them, “¡Es una sorpresa!”
By the end of the week, the community gathered to celebrate the completion of the classroom. There was music, heartfelt speeches, and so much joy. The mothers had prepared a special lunch for everyone—tamalitos, caldo de pollo with fresh vegetables, and what turned out to be the spiciest hot sauce any of us had ever tasted. A few of our teens found out the hard way!
As we sat down to eat, I noticed something. The women who had prepared the meal weren’t joining us. They stood off to the side, waiting quietly, almost as if unsure if they were welcome. So I walked into the school’s cocina—a small, smoky kitchen with bubbling pots—and began serving them.
It felt like a small gesture, but it meant everything. It was a moment of shared respect and solidarity. We were all mothers, all working for the same thing—our children’s education, their futures. In that moment, there were no roles, no hierarchy. Just women, together.
Before leaving Guatemala, we also had the chance to visit two other nearby communities where IAPW has supported school projects in recent years. It was powerful for our ambassadors to see the impact of those earlier builds—classrooms full of students, schools that had grown with time, and communities still proud of the partnership. It reminded all of us that this work doesn’t end when the week is over. It continues through every lesson learned, every book read, every child who walks through those doors.
These projects—and the two others we visited—were made possible through our ongoing partnership with School the World, whose on-the-ground expertise ensures that every school we help build becomes a lasting resource for the entire community.
Saying goodbye was harder than we expected. There were hugs and many, many tears—ours, theirs, the teachers, the parents. We had arrived as strangers, but we left as family.
