My eyes were fixated on the dusty, uneven track ahead, trying to distract myself from the aching throb in both legs. Each step was a struggle under the weight of my large pack, made ever more apparent by the relentless Central American sun above. For days myself, two other travellers and our local guide Pedro had navigated the diverse terrain of Guatemala’s Western Highlands, setting up camp at various small villages along the way. Beginning in the large town of Xela, we had hiked through volcanic landscapes, above the clouds, through wet forests, across far reaching fields to now dragging ourselves along rocky cliff edges, trying to avoid inhaling the dark volcanic-esque dust we inevitably kicked up with each trod. “Just around this corner chicas,” Pedro’s voice rang out. He, having done this journey many times before, was a few metres ahead. “Your rest is coming!” We slowly manoeuvred across yet another rugged fringe on the sloping hillside, toward the village Tzucubal, where our last break would take place before camp. As we rounded the corner, all of us stopped short, thrown to a halt by the mirage-like scene before us. Just in front, down a small grassy slope, blatant amongst the surrounding scenery, sat rows of towering cream-coloured villas looming over the winding dirt streets and busy locals. Sitting at two or three stories high, the clean lustrous walls of each immaculate home stood flawless and rigid, juxtaposed to the wild, desolate landscape behind. Previous to this, the little amount of infrastructure we had seen over the last few days consisted of small brick blocks, a few traditional clay saunas and occasionally straw huts. Pedro watched us and smiled, preempting our dumbfounded response. “Chicas, vamos,” he laughed, gesturing us forward toward the town. This shock wasn’t solely due to an isolated journey in the hills or a lack of connection to wealthier cities back home. No where in the whole country had I seen such houses. Over the last three days of our hike, Pedro had relayed stories of Guatemala’s past and present political situation and the lack of support the population has seen due to the corruption in their system. This had been evident in all the villages and communities we passed through. According to Pedro, due to most of the towns’ isolated positioning amongst the hills, resources were unlikely to reach them nor were government officials likely to care. Tzucubal was apparently different. As we approached the village using the limited energy left in our legs, we were escorted by a few locals towards a small brick store sitting idly amongst the white mini-mansions. Here we were treated to water, ice cream and, most importantly, a chair. After a few minutes of chatting and stretching my feet, I turned to Pedro. “So why does this town have these houses,” I said, gesturing to the villa on my right. “Look around at the people chica,” Pedro said in between bites of his Sarita cone. “Where are the young men?” Confused, I scanned the group in front of us and continued to look ahead at the locals in the surrounding streets. I could only see women, children and older men. It was here I was told of the dangerous journey most young men from Tzucubal take. Heading north through Mexico and illegally into the southern United States border. Endangering both their freedom and lives on a predetermined venture, they work for decades in the US to send money back to their families. According to Pedro, most, if not all, of the village’s funding comes from the personal remittances of these men. I later learnt this scenario wasn’t exclusive to just Tzucubal. As the sun drew closer to the horizon, we once again heaved the packs over our shoulders, ready for the last leg of the journey. At that moment, I caught the eye of a small boy straddling a wall next to his home. He smiled a curious, innocent grin and waved us all goodbye. Probably no older than 9 or 10, I couldn’t help thinking how long he had left before it was time to leave this haven in the highlands and join the other young men.