Guatemala: A Personal Perspective

A must-visit destination

Lake Atitlán, the largest in Latin America, one of the most stunning spots on Earth.

The 1958 novel The Ugly American didn’t just critique—it fired a direct shot at the bloated egos of Americans abroad, ripping apart their arrogance, cultural insensitivity, and utter lack of clue about the lands they invade with their designer sneakers and boisterous voices. Over the years, the title morphed into a catchall term for any Yankee who strolls into a foreign country with all the charm of a bull in a china shop, blind to local customs and dripping with entitlement.

Guatemala, a jewel of vibrant culture and haunting beauty, wasn’t spared the parade of oblivious tourists. On a recent trip, I encountered a few textbook cases of the “ugly American.” They prowled the cobblestone streets of Antigua, hunting for golden arches instead of soaking in the culinary symphony of black beans, fresh tortillas, and pepian stew. To them, this breathtaking land seemed little more than a budget-friendly Instagram backdrop, its history and culture an inconvenient footnote to their quest for cheap beer and likes.

Of course, not all tourists fit this cringe-worthy mold, but even a handful are enough to stir up thoughts of Guatemala’s darker relationship with the United States—a partnership as lopsided as a three-legged chair. In the mid-20th century, the United Fruit Company, that corporate behemoth with a sweet tooth for bananas and unchecked power, treated Guatemala as its personal plantation. With the CIA acting as enforcer, the company orchestrated a 1954 coup to oust President Jacobo Árbenz, whose bold land reforms dared to challenge the empire of American greed.

The result? Decades of military dictatorships that turned Guatemala into a dystopian chessboard of repression and terror. Entire communities were swept under the iron fist of juntas propped up by Uncle Sam’s Cold War paranoia. But Guatemalans didn’t take this lying down. By 1960, a brutal civil war erupted—a bloody 36-year struggle pitting leftist rebels against a government drenched in U.S.-backed firepower. This wasn’t just war; it was survival against the shadowy puppeteers of global politics.

In 1996, the guns finally fell silent as peace accords were signed, but the scars ran deep. Guatemala stepped out of the war into a new era, shaky but determined. The resilience of its people is a marvel, their culture a defiant flame that refuses to be snuffed out. Yet, the ghost of foreign intervention lingers, a reminder of the high cost of exploitation masked as progress.

So, next time you hear an entitled tourist gripe about “third-world problems” while sipping Starbucks on a picturesque Guatemalan plaza, remember the history etched into those cobblestones. Guatemala’s story isn’t one of pity—it’s a testament to the strength of a people who refuse to let imperial greed define them.

As of 2024, Guatemala is young—really young. The median age is just 23, with a huge chunk of the population still figuring out high school. Nearly half the country wasn’t even born when the political chaos of the late 20th century was tearing through the nation. This wave of youth shapes everything: education, jobs, healthcare—you name it. The country’s future depends on whether it can keep up with the needs of its fresh-faced majority.

The historic Mayan culture continues to profoundly shape the lives of Guatemalans today, influencing their traditions, identity, and daily practices in numerous ways:

The Mayan view of death is deeply rooted in their spiritual beliefs and cosmology, emphasizing the cyclical nature of life, death, and rebirth. Death was not seen as an end but as a transition to another phase of existence, intricately tied to the gods, the natural world, and the universe’s cosmic order.

Guatemala isn’t just a country—it’s a living, breathing testament to the resilience of Mayan culture, a legacy that refuses to fade into the dust of history. Over twenty Mayan languages still echo through the mountains and markets, spoken by millions who use K’iche’, Q’eqchi’, and Mam not just as words but as lifelines to their identity. These languages, vibrant and alive, are woven into the community like the intricate patterns of a huipil. Bilingual education programs are trying to keep this linguistic magic alive, marrying ancient tongues with Spanish in a dance of preservation.

But the Mayan influence doesn’t stop with words. Their ceremonies still light up the highlands with fire rituals, sacred sites, and offerings that honor ancestors and the cosmic cycles of the universe. This isn’t some relic from a dusty museum; it’s raw, spiritual electricity. Mix this with Catholicism, and you get “Mayan Catholicism,” a kaleidoscope of beliefs where saints share space with ancient deities and rituals honor both Jesus and the maiz god.

Speaking of maiz aka corn, the golden crop isn’t just food—it’s sacred. Ancient Mayan agricultural techniques like terracing and crop rotation still shape the land, and maiz remains the beating heart of Guatemalan meals and traditions. The connection to the land runs deep, fueling modern struggles to reclaim ancestral territories from the grip of exploitative powers. For indigenous communities, the fight for land is the fight for survival.

Guatemalan women carry Mayan culture quite literally on their backs—vibrant, handwoven textiles bursting with colors and patterns that hold symbolic meaning tied to Mayan cosmology. These fabrics are more than clothing; they’re stories worn with pride. And the art! Pottery, sculptures, and paintings channel the gods, nature, and history, keeping ancient narratives alive for a modern world that could use a lesson or two.

Festivals here are a sensory overload of Mayan tradition, with dances, music, and storytelling tied to the agricultural calendar. Then there’s Día de los Muertos, where Guatemalans fly giant, kaleidoscopic kites—barriletes—to commune with their ancestors. The sky becomes a canvas for the living and the dead to reconnect, a tradition so beautiful it almost feels like it belongs in a dream.

Ancient ruins like Tikal, Uxactun, and El Mirador are more than tourist traps; they’re monuments to the architectural genius of Mayan ancestors. Their influence spills into modern architecture, where Mayan motifs sneak into the lines and designs of contemporary buildings, blending past and present into something uniquely Guatemalan.

But the Mayan legacy isn’t just about culture—it’s a rallying cry. Indigenous rights movements are reclaiming space in a country still grappling with inequality, demanding respect, autonomy, and a voice. The resilience of the Mayan people isn’t just a thing of the past; it’s happening right now, shaping Guatemala’s political and social landscape.

Mayan culture isn’t a history lesson—it’s a heartbeat. It shapes the language, art, spirituality, and daily lives of Guatemalans today. Despite centuries of colonization, oppression, and marginalization, Mayan traditions continue to thrive, offering not just a connection to the past but a bridge to the future. It’s alive, it’s fierce, and it’s unapologetically here to stay.

So you’re probably wondering, why did the Mayan civilization collapse? The collapse of the ancient Mayan civilization wasn’t a single “oops” moment—it was a symphony of chaos, a long, drawn-out unraveling of one of history’s most advanced societies. Historians and archaeologists have been piecing together the wreckage for years, and the answers read like a disaster movie script: environmental destruction, power struggles, overpopulation, and a dash of cosmic irony. Here’s why the mighty Maya fell apart.

The Maya loved their land, but they also worked it to death. They cleared forests faster than a suburban developer on steroids, turning lush greenery into fields of maiz. Over time, the soil gave up, and erosion did the rest. Their ingenious water reservoirs and canals? Great until they weren’t. Mismanagement turned once-thriving cities into parched ghost towns when droughts came knocking.

Speaking of droughts, Mother Nature had no chill between the 8th and 10th centuries. Sediment cores and tree rings tell the story of brutal, extended dry spells that turned fertile lands into dust bowls. No rain, no food, no society. Simple math.

The Maya were brilliant, but their growth rate was their Achilles’ heel. Cities swelled, resources shrank, and suddenly, you had a whole lot of people fighting over not enough corn. Add that to the pressure cooker, and you’ve got yourself a civilization on the brink.

The Maya weren’t exactly holding hands and singing kumbaya. City-states like Tikal and Calakmul were at each other’s throats, locked in endless cycles of war. Throw in some internal revolts—peasants tired of the elite hoarding all the chocolate and jade—and you’ve got a recipe for collapse.

The Maya thrived on long-distance trade, moving obsidian, jade, and cacao like pros. But when the trade networks crumbled, so did their economy. Major hubs like Copán and Palenque became shells of their former selves, and the whole system came crashing down.

Mayan kings were supposed to be divine middlemen, keeping the gods happy and the corn flowing. But when droughts, wars, and famines hit, people started doubting their rulers’ cosmic credentials. More sacrifices, bigger temples—nothing worked. Eventually, the faith eroded, and the people had had enough.

Here’s the kicker: the “collapse” wasn’t universal. The southern lowlands—modern-day Guatemala, Belize, and parts of Mexico—saw cities abandoned during the Terminal Classic Period (800–900 CE). Meanwhile, up in the northern Yucatán, places like Chichén Itzá were still throwing epic parties for centuries.

Sign in a park:: “He does by necessity; pick it up out of politeness.”

And, the plot twist: the Maya didn’t vanish. Their cities fell, but their people didn’t. Today, millions of Mayan descendants live across Mexico, Guatemala, Belize, and Honduras, speaking their ancestors’ languages, practicing their rituals, and weaving their culture into the modern world. The “collapse” was just a chapter, not the end of the book.

The Maya didn’t fall because of one big mistake—they were crushed by a perfect storm of bad luck, bad decisions, and bad timing. Their story is a cautionary tale about the delicate balance between humans and the environment, power and resources, faith and survival. It’s also a reminder that even the most glorious civilizations can falter, but their legacy can endure.

There’s no shortage of fascinating places to explore in Guatemala. This video, filmed mostly from the backseat of a TukTuk, highlights two must-see destinations: Chichicastenango, famous for its vibrant market, and San Juan, a quaint pueblo on the shores of Lake Atitlán. A TukTuk, a small three-wheeled motorized vehicle, serves as a popular mode of transport in many developing countries and tourist hubs, offering a unique way to navigate these colorful locations.

We spent eight days in Guatemala and look forward to visiting again. Some in Mexico refer to Guatemala as their sister nation, as many Mexicans share Mayan roots. But even though the countries are neighbors, their cultures are quite different. Guatamalan food isn’t as spicy and the clothing is much more colorful.

Clothes shopping is not among my favorites, but Mayan Designs, a shop in Antigua, offers very cool shirts, pants, jackets, etc., on demand, within minutes. I purchased a shirt, pants and a jacket!

Sherrie, Bret and Esperanza, owner of Mayan Designs. On the photo above, her brother is one of the tailors in the shop. My Luchadores shirt is from Mexico.