Chapter 2. First Landing

Where we learn why monarch butterflies and chocolate-covered deer droppings don’t go very well together

Note: Author commentary at the end of the chapter. This commentary is exclusive to the Cacao Muse; you won’t see it on Amazon, my author site, or printed inside the wrappers of my favorite chocolate bars.

Droplets beaded up on the exterior windows as the plane descended through low-lying clouds into the Mundo Maya International Airport. Max could feel the humidity through the thick metal of the plane. He couldn’t wait to land and get out there. He’d never been to Guatemala—or anywhere else in Latin America. Holding his iPad-turned-Spanish-teacher tight, he whisper-rehearsed the words and phrases he’d learned so far: hola, buenos días, adios, bienvenido, tengo hambre, por favor, arbol, pajaro, media, casa, jamón, chocolate... He imagined what it would be like at the research station: the people, the food, the rainforest, the animals. He was certain he’d be the first of his family to see a jaguar—like the little wooden carved figurine he wore on a leather cord around his neck—and already couldn’t wait to tell his friends back home about it. Had to be sure to carry his phone with him at all times to take pictures.

It was then he noticed his heart was racing. He grabbed his mother’s arm as the wheels hit the tarmac and the wing spoilers snapped open into the full force of the wind.

“You okay sweetheart?”

“Yeah.” Max pulled his arm away and looked out the window.

He didn’t want to let on that his stomach was about to implode with a case of the butterflies. Not just the little ones, either. The migrating monarch type. The kind that can rip your insides to shreds. But he was almost a man, as his father always said, and wasn’t about to cry to his mommy.

At the ripe age of eleven, Max was already a veteran traveler. He’d gone with his parents all over the United States as his father tracked ailing bee colonies, taking measurements and recording videos, analyzing tissue from dead bees and other pollinators, sampling the pesticides and herbicides sprayed on these plants, talking to beekeepers, gardeners, farmers, and farm workers. Max had missed more than a few school days because of these trips, to the consternation of his teachers and the silent envy of his friends, which at times turned into an onslaught of taunts and jabs he had had to learn to ignore. But neither he nor his parents regretted the school time missed: he always took his class work with him to stay on top of it and besides, as both his parents said, the research excursions packed more education into a week than he’d get in a year.

He had his own suitcase and backpack, both expertly outfitted and packed—for an eleven-year-old—and fancied himself quite independent from his parents. If he could, Max would have reserved his own hotel room on these trips, but that’s where parental grace drew a firm line.

Above all, Max had never been afraid of flying—quite the contrary. He dreamed of being a fighter pilot someday, or of owning his own fleet, or at the very least traveling the entire world. So no, it wasn’t the plane that sent those butterflies aflutter. It was something else, something Max could not put his finger on. But it sure set him terrifically on edge. He decided to chalk it up to Guatemala being a foreign country. Yes, that made sense. Guatemala was really foreign, totally exotic in fact, so he had to be nervous.