SUCASARI - MAIJUNA
10
It was the little things—ones most people might overlook. Like the way she interacted with her daughters.
SPECIAL OPPORTUNITY TO SPEND TIME WITH THIS MAIJUNA COMMUNITY
When we first arrived in Sucasari, one of our first stops was a community area where villagers kept bees, harvesting honey to support their community. At first, most of us were hesitant, a little afraid of the buzzing swarm. But with some encouragement, we pushed past our fears, and I couldn’t have been prouder of our girls. Before we knew it, we were holding the bees, feeling their tiny bodies vibrate against our fingers as they licked the honey from our skin. The hum of their wings mixed with our laughter, creating a moment that might seem small to an outsider but felt deeply meaningful to us.
Later, we met some of the village women and learned how they use the natural resources around them in daily life. They showed us how to work with chambira palms, crafting baskets, bracelets, and intricate designs using skills passed down through generations. At first, the language barrier seemed like a challenge, but we quickly grew comfortable. Their warm voices, easy laughter, and the way they chatted among themselves—it was contagious.
As I sat beside one of the women, carefully weaving a crane, I realized that communication is more than just words. When I made a mistake, we laughed together. When I accidentally pricked my finger with a needle, she patted my hand—a silent reassurance that I was doing just fine. She checked on me, making sure I was okay, and in that moment, I wasn’t just a visitor; I felt like part of the community.
But it wasn’t just our direct interactions that made me feel at home. It was the little things—ones most people might overlook. Like the way she interacted with her daughters. At one point, she asked her eldest for some wire, and when the 13-year-old brought back the wrong thing, she let out an exaggerated sigh, rolled her eyes, and tried again. It was such a simple, familiar moment—one I could have witnessed in my own home. And yet, standing in a village thousands of miles away, it made me feel like I belonged.
By the time we moved on to trading, we had settled into the rhythm of the experience. We introduced ourselves, sorted through clothes, and carefully selected items we knew people back home in Michigan would love.
When we first arrived in Sucasari, one of our first stops was a community area where villagers kept bees, harvesting honey to support their community. At first, most of us were hesitant, a little afraid of the buzzing swarm. But with some encouragement, we pushed past our fears, and I couldn’t have been prouder of our girls. Before we knew it, we were holding the bees, feeling their tiny bodies vibrate against our fingers as they licked the honey from our skin. The hum of their wings mixed with our laughter, creating a moment that might seem small to an outsider but felt deeply meaningful to us.
Later, we met some of the village women and learned how they use the natural resources around them in daily life. They showed us how to work with chambira palms, crafting baskets, bracelets, and intricate designs using skills passed down through generations. At first, the language barrier seemed like a challenge, but we quickly grew comfortable. Their warm voices, easy laughter, and the way they chatted among themselves—it was contagious.
As I sat beside one of the women, carefully weaving a crane, I realized that communication is more than just words. When I made a mistake, we laughed together. When I accidentally pricked my finger with a needle, she patted my hand—a silent reassurance that I was doing just fine. She checked on me, making sure I was okay, and in that moment, I wasn’t just a visitor; I felt like part of the community.
But it wasn’t just our direct interactions that made me feel at home. It was the little things—ones most people might overlook. Like the way she interacted with her daughters. At one point, she asked her eldest for some wire, and when the 13-year-old brought back the wrong thing, she let out an exaggerated sigh, rolled her eyes, and tried again. It was such a simple, familiar moment—one I could have witnessed in my own home. And yet, standing in a village thousands of miles away, it made me feel like I belonged.
By the time we moved on to trading, we had settled into the rhythm of the experience. We introduced ourselves, sorted through clothes, and carefully selected items we knew people back home in Michigan would love.
by ATIA SAMUEL