I love traveling. The three years I spent running around carefree and barefoot with my friends in Tanzania as our family served with MCC planted in me a love for other people, other traditions, and other cultures.

Since then I have been blessed with the opportunity to travel abroad in Europe, the Middle East, and most recently Latin America.

Thus I was excited when my MCC country reps informed me that I would be traveling to Guatemala during my last month here to clear up some issues with my visa. This would mean going across Mexico and spending several days in Guatemala, at least a week trip. But this trip would be a little different than my others.

I would be making this trip alone.

Part of this sent shivers of excitement through me every time I thought about it. The image of hosteling my way across Latin America with nothing but my backpack, a nalgene, and a weathered copy of Lonely Planet seemed very romantic.

At the same time this very thought put the fear of God into me. Because up until this point, I have always been along for the ride.

On family trips my parents took care of all the details. In college I simply deposited my check at the business office and then worried about nothing more than getting on the bus when the itinerary said to and remembering to turn in my key when we checked out of various hotels. On top of that, I had all of my friends with me.

I realized as I planned this trip that I had never bought a bus ticket on my own. I had never crossed a border solo. I had never checked myself into a hotel. For that matter, after many trips of sharing a room with family and classmates, I wasn't sure I had ever even seen the inside of a single room. And when I flew to Akron Pennsylvania for orientation, that was the first time on a plane by myself.

I pushed these disconcerting thoughts aside with the thought of how good this would be for my self confidence. After all, if I can trek across Latin America by myself, the world is my backyard right?

So last Monday I took off on the adventure of a lifetime, the first leg a grueling 14 hour night bus ride south to the beautiful colonial town of San Cristobal located in Chiapas, Mexico`s southernmost state.

In comparison to most of Mexico`s arid terrain, Chiapas is a lush paradise, with thick vegetation filling out the the mountainous landscape. I was lucky enough to travel with friends for this first part and to stay with the MCC family that works out of San Cristobal. Two days were spent recouping from my sleepless bus ride and learning about MCC`s work in Chiapas.

That Wednesday night I lay awake in my bed, knowing that the next day my travels started in earnest and trying to ignore the feeling that I really didn't want to do it.

Morning came quick and I was put on a taxi to head to the bus station for the three hour bus ride to the border. I would be crossing at a city called Ciudad Cualtemoc. Upon disembarking I realized quite quickly that this was obviously not where most of the tourists crossed.

Perhaps I got this vibe from the fact that if I had not asked where to get my passport stamped I would have wandered straight into Guatemala without even knowing it.

I bought my bus ticket to Guatemala City on the Mexican side and there ran into a missionary from El Salvador who offered to split the taxi fare to the Guatemala side of the border. I look back at him now as the first angel God put with me to guide me through my week.

As we disembarked and worked our way through the muddy streets filled with vendors of every sort, my new friend stopped to convert money with a man on the corner holding a thick stack of bills. As I was unsure of the exchange rate and an easy target for getting ripped off, I decided to exchange money when I found somewhere more “official looking.”

As we continued walking I noticed a small building to our left that said “Imigracion.” I asked my friend whether I needed to stamp my passport there. His quick response was “What do you think this is? The US?”

Coming from a country a little more concerned with paperwork I convinced him that it was important for me to get stamped and he decided he would come with me and do the same.

I was flooded with relief as immigration lazily stamped my passport. My first obstacle was out of the way. My friend on the other hand wasn't having such luck. His photocopy of whatever document he was holding did not fly, and I was left to sheepishly say sorry and head out to catch my bus.

Ten minutes of asking and a short taxi ride later, I arrived at the bus station, three minutes before its scheduled departure time. Though the bus was there with two friendly looking drivers leaning against the bus and chatting, I appeared to be the only person there.

Other than the small dusty parking lot of a small car wash surrounded by tall mountains, there was nothing to suggest this was a bus station at all. About 10 chairs were set up in what looked like a garage, giving the waiting area a feel of the overflow space of a high school graduation party. When I asked to use the bathroom I was directed up a narrow flight of stairs where I walked through someones bedroom to find it.

Ten minutes later two other men from Guatemala arrived and to my surprise, not soon after, my friend from El Salvador. I asked him if they had come to an understanding and he told me that money can buy anything.

An hour later (I was not aware that Guatemala disregards daylights savings time) the four of us boarded the full size bus along with a few more stragglers and were on our way.

The eight hour bus ride is about as scenic as you can ask for, weaving its way through the heavily forested mountains, passing by small traditional Guatemalan farm villages as the evening mist creeps over the surroundings.

We stopped several more times at bus stations that weren`t bus stations and once to have supper, where our odd foursome gathered at a booth to eat. Neither of the two men from Guatemala knew each other, but they were both heading home from the US after losing their jobs. Both were anxious to see their wives and kids, one who had not seen his family in three years and the other in seven. He told me he left to find find work when his child was one year old and looks forward to being reunited with his now eight year old son. In comparison to these two men, I realized I had very little comparatively to be nervous about.

We pulled in to Guatemala City after dark and panic struck in as I reached into my pocket to find that my sheet of paper with my destination address was no longer there. My uneasiness grew as the bus rolled through eight blocks of the shadiest red light district I have ever seen in my life, with prostitutes marking every corner.

As we reached the bus station, a one roomed building with two other parked buses patrolled by an armed guard, I realized there would definitely not be anywhere to exchange money.

I got off the bus realizing I was in a bad part of one of the most dangerous cities in the world at night, without money or the address of my hotel.

My three angel companions agreed to wait until I was sure I wouldn´t be wandering the streets, as I explained my predicament to a taxi driver. Since "Semilla Anabaptist Seminary" isn't exactly on the radar of a taxis, the driver told me that if he could help me find this place and there was somebody at the end to pay him, he would take me.

Seeing this as my best option I bid farewell to my three friends and got in the taxi of this stranger, more than aware at how EERILY similar this was turning out to be like an almost disastrous incident I had in Prague a few years ago.

As luck would have it, the taxi driver turned out to be my fourth angel, not only taking me to a hotel with internet where I could look up the address, but also giving me his cell number in case I should need anything else while I was in the city.

After a long search, we finally found Semilla, and upon ringing the doorbell, tried to explain to a short old Guatemalan lady in coke bottle glasses why despite having not paid for my room yet, she needed to loan me 100 Quetzales to pay the taxi. My faith in the generosity of a Mennonite associated guesthouse paid off, and after paying my driver, my fourth angel went on his way.

I collapsed onto my bed in my room that night, so relieved, yet wondering how much more stress I could go through in a week.

I woke up the next morning for breakfast, with no plans and seriously considering just staying at Semilla the whole time to avoid another day like the one before. As I stepped out of my room admiring the inviting and safe feeling that beautiful Mennonite associated guest houses carry with them, my fifth angel came down the stairs.

Paul Regier, a friend of mine and former classmate at Bethel, was officially the last person I expected to see in the middle of Guatemala. Alongside being a seminary and guesthouse, Semilla also hosts the CASAS program, a semester long study abroad opportunity that Bethel has connections with. Two of my good friends had done the CASAS program and spoke highly of it, but beings that it was summer, making such a connection wasn`t really on my mind.

As we talked Paul asked me what my plans were for the weekend. I told him of my interest to see Antigua, climb a volcano, and spend some time by Lake Atitlán. He informed me that the summer semester class, which involved over 20 students from Goshen, Hesston, and EMU, was taking a weekend trip to Lake Atitlán and that I should ask to come along.

Three hours later I was on a small packed school bus, happily separating the Mennonite game into three parts: connections to friends, connections to Ortmans, and connections to Freeman, and marveling at the sudden unbelievably pleasant turn of events.

I know already that I will look back on those three days with fondness for the rest of my life. Instead of wandering around by myself, I was fully welcomed into a family of fun and exciting Mennonite youth, with all travel, food, and lodging taken care of. Some of the memorable memories over those three days include:

-- Staying in the small town of Santiago along the shore Lake Atitlán, where we were the sole residents of the humble hotel we stayed at for $5 a night.

-- Taking an evening run along the shore with friends, winding through the small dirt paths in the corn fields.

-- Visiting and touring a local fair trade coffee organization. (Who boasted of visits from Demi Moore and Ashton Kutcher and one to come from Bruce Willis, though for security reasons they were not allowed to give us the dates).

-- Visiting a village wiped out some years back by a landslide that killed 250 people and learning of their work to rebuild along with the help given by MCC (and currently one of my SALTer friends that lives and works there!)

-- Eating home cooked meals in the evenings around a large table, laughing and reminiscing as we tried to find ways around the strict “Spanish only” meal rules.

-- Singing hymns in four part harmony for the first time in a LONG time

-- Wonderful theological discussions that went long into the night

-- A boat ride on Lake Atitlán, despite lousy weather, to find the hot springs

-- All of the wonderful talks I had with different people in the group about just about anything.

As I waved goodbye to Paul and his angel band on Sunday as they disappeared down the road, I found myself once again feeling small in a very big world. After a bite to eat I treated myself to ice cream, where I ran into two Americans who sat down to keep me company. The one resembling David Crowder turned out to be a radio broadcaster for Compassion International and after a brief conversation we parted ways and I added another two angels to my list.

After my adventures getting into Guatemala, getting back to Mexico was almost ridiculously easy. I cautiously wandered across the street to a travel agency and told them I needed to get back to San Cristóbal. For thirty five dollars they picked me up in a roomy 15 passenger van at my hotel in the morning, took me the 5 hours to the border, waited for me while I got my papers stamped and then took me to San Cristóbal.

Along the way I had the pleasure of chatting with various people, including a creative writing professor from the US concerning Spanish Classics and with a young British lady doing her graduate work on the drug cartels of Mexico. I quickly added my travel companions to my list of angels.

After a quick stay in San Cristóbal I weathered again the 14 hour bus ride back to Mexico City. The bus stopped only once, at 2 AM to eat breakfast. I do not sleep on buses, ever, without exception, and I disembarked at 8 AM feeling my 24 sleepless hours quite heavily, but happy to be safely back home.

I calculate that I spent over 60 hours on a bus that week (enough to put a dent into the War and Peace audio book I had put on my ipod). Traveling in Latin America is unpredictable, stressful, and sometimes dangerous. Yet with all of risks caused by those waiting to take advantage of the vulnerability of others, I was moved in a new way by the angels in disguise that are around us all over the world. I was continually reminded of a song by Skillet, one of my favorite bands, which ends:

“What will you do to help someone along the way?
Just a touch, a smile as you turn the other cheek
Pray for your enemies, humble yourself, love's staring back at me
In the midst of the most painful faces
Angels show up in the strangest of places”