Our guide, a man whose family had lived on the edge of the jungle for generations, brought his son along for the trip. He was a quiet boy, curious and observant, who, like us, carried a camera. But this wasn’t the digital age of instant photos and filters. We chose film—Kodak Portra 35mm—to slow ourselves down, to experiment, to give space to each shot, to honor the craft of seeing and capturing a moment without the ease of a digital preview. There was something timeless about it, fitting for a place that had stood for millennia.

We spent days camping out in the jungle, under the thick canopy of trees that shielded us from the harsh sun and rain. The sounds of the jungle became our background—howler monkeys roaring in the distance, the rustle of leaves as birds and small creatures moved through the underbrush. The trek was long, the terrain challenging, but with each step, we felt ourselves becoming more attuned to the rhythms of the jungle and the history beneath our feet.

The boy, wide-eyed and eager, took to the camera like a natural. His perspective was different from ours. While we sought to capture the grandeur of the pyramids and the immensity of the jungle, he focused on the details—the way the light hit the leaves at dawn, the intricate patterns of the tree bark, the small, fleeting moments that spoke of life in its simplest form. His photos, often surprising, captured the soul of the place in a way we hadn’t expected, reminding us that sometimes, the most powerful stories are found in the smallest, quietest spaces.

At night, as we gathered around the fire, the boy would ask his father to tell stories—old Mayan tales of the jungle and the gods that watched over it. His father spoke of the ceiba tree, the sacred connection between the underworld, the earth, and the sky, a symbol of life and the cosmos. Listening to the crackling fire, surrounded by the sounds of the jungle, we felt connected not just to the land, but to the ancient past and the lives that had once thrived in these ruins. It was as if the jungle itself was alive with stories, waiting to be heard.

As we shot on film, there was no instant gratification—no quick check to see if the shot had turned out. Instead, we trusted in the process, allowing the film to develop the way the jungle slowly reveals its secrets. There was a kind of magic in that patience, in knowing that each frame held something unique, something that couldn’t be replicated. The boy learned this too, understanding that photography is more than just pressing a button; it’s about seeing the world in a way that others might not, and capturing that vision with care.

When we finally reached the towering pyramids of El Mirador, the scale was overwhelming. Standing at the base of La Danta, one of the largest pyramids in the world, we felt small—insignificant even—in the face of such ancient grandeur. But with our cameras, we didn’t just document the structures; we tried to capture the spirit of the place, the energy that had drawn people here centuries ago and still lingered in the air.

In the end, the series of photos we took—both by us and the boy—became more than just images of an ancient city. They were a reflection of our journey, of the connections made along the way, and of the stories we had heard and created ourselves. The film, with its grain and texture, gave the images a depth that mirrored the layers of history beneath the jungle floor. And as we left El Mirador behind, we knew that the photos we had captured on that film would carry a piece of that ancient, untamed world with them.