Huautla de Jimenez Market and Mazatec Rain

At sunrise, I made my way up the path to the comedor. There, I was taught to make eggs wrapped in hoja santa. What a revelation—fragrant, earthy, medicinal. I’ve never had eggs that good.

Sunday is market day in Huautla. People from nearby villages trek in to sell their produce, earn just enough to buy what they’ll need for the week. The town pulses with life—smiling faces, nods of recognition, but also eyes filled with judgment. Suspicion. I understand the tension.

Brief History Insert: Huautla de Jiménez is known globally because of María Sabina, the Mazatec curandera whose use of psilocybin mushrooms attracted waves of outsiders in the 1960s. Many came looking for enlightenment but left behind commodification and distortion. The town has since developed a protective, sometimes hostile attitude toward foreigners. It’s not about tourism—it’s about survival and safeguarding what’s left of a sacred way of life.

Still, that doesn’t soften the unease of being stared down in silence.

Rain is constant. Every day. Every night. There’s a legend here of a virgen who came seeking her husband-to-be, only to find he already had a wife and children. Heartbroken, she left and asked for help along the way. No one opened their door to a stranger. She cursed the village with endless rain, but with each door she passed, she left a blessing—abundance that only those who rejected her would never see. It fits somehow.

Armed with a solid raincoat and boots, we braved the weather to visit a small Mazatec gallery—artworks by local visionaries, full of mushrooms, spirits, and ancestral visions. This culture runs deep.

We hoped to hike the mountain, but the trail was too treacherous in the downpour. Instead, we returned to the ranch and were served mole made from the host’s aunt’s recipe—complex, comforting, and necessary warmth for the soul.

We spent the rest of the evening wrapped in conversation: politics, survival, the fragile ecology of this mountaintop town. I am far from my comfort zone here—but that’s the point. This is not a curated retreat. This is life, raw and lived.

Once more, the father serenaded us with music as we descended into night. Tomorrow, if the weather allows, we’ll try for the summit. But no use making rigid plans here. Better to follow the breath of Mother Nature.

I fell asleep again to the rhythm of rain on tin, grateful, uneasy, but deeply alive.