Dias de los muertos in Sumpango, Guatemala
Where the Sky Remembers.
I tend to travel in a very “wherever the road takes me!” kind of way, a practice I only arrived at after trying to be a more “type A,” planned-out traveler. Once you get out into the world and learn that there is more to experience and discover than you could ever possibly hope to ask for, you realize your preconceived plans and ideas are missing some of the best parts. You end up with an itinerary advised by Google reviews and social media travel guides that completely overlooks things like the makeshift restaurant on the side of the road somewhere between two bigger cities. Places that are quite literally just a grill manned by someone’s uncle, surrounded by a few plastic stools and every local street dog loitering nearby, while they cook up the best tacos you’ll ever have in your life. Like, sit-in-silence-and-chew-slowly-to-savor-every-bite kind of incredible.
The discovery is half of what makes traveling so exciting, that’s where the stories come from. Sure, “I got this shot glass at a resort in Mexico” is cool, but “I got this painting from a street artist I discovered in Mexico while riding on the back of a motorcycle through the mountains between two villages on a whim” is a story. And every time I look at those paintings, I remember how alive I felt on that ride, paying an old man five pesos for art that will likely hang in my home as long as I live.
Travel has a funny way of leading you exactly where you’re meant to be. Sometimes places call to you softly, through an overheard story, a photograph online, or a passing conversation that lingers long after it ends. Following those subtle mentions is how I found myself in Sumpango, Guatemala, on the Day of the Dead. Prior to arriving in Guatemala, I had never heard of Sumpango, so thank goodness we had the good sense to leave room for serendipity and the will to tug at the thread of an unknown adventure.
After spending the end of October in Antigua, my friends Allie, Taylor, and I made our way up to Lake Atitlán, where we spent time chatting with locals. We met a sweet guy named Nehemias, who was incredibly passionate about being from Atitlán. He told us all about the local Mayan history and artisan practices that have been passed down and preserved to this day. He introduced us to traditional hulipa makers, a favorite local coffee shop, and the local chocolate maker. On our little city tour, he asked if we had plans for the Day of the Dead. At the time, the only plans we had were to fly out of Guatemala City on the morning of Nov 1. He mentioned that a nearby town hosts a festival that was really worth checking out. We had already heard it mentioned in passing a couple of times but weren’t exactly sure what it was. He explained that a small town called Sumpango is famous for hosting a festival on Nov 1 every year, where enormous handmade kites are flown to honor the dead.
Within an hour, we had done some research, changed our flights to the evening, and were in the middle of a half-baked plan to make this stop happen on our way out of town. We spent a good amount of time troubleshooting the logistics of this four-hour trek to the airport with the Sumpango stop in between before Nehemias offered to help and found a friend willing to give us a ride for the small price of gas money. One thing that really stood out to me during my time in Guatemala was how incredibly kind and helpful everyone was. Just like that, our plans changed on a whim, and I was reminded why it’s important to stay flexible and open to change. When you’re on the road, people love recommending places to see and things to try. Half the time, the trips write themselves if you let them.
A couple of days later, our new friend Eduardo arrived for this carpool bright and early at 6 a.m., and we embarked on our two-hour drive up the winding highland roads as the sunrise peeked out from behind the volcano in the distance. Due to a lapse in caution that morning, having drunk tea made with tap water, I was fighting a serious bout of nausea pretty early on, which demanded my full attention, and the tightly wound mountain roads were not helping matters, despite the drive being beautiful otherwise.
Slowly and then all at once, the quiet hum of the countryside gave way to LA-esk gridlock traffic. Long lines of people, cars, and buses parked along the highway appeared out of nowhere at the foot of the hill Sumpango sits atop. Staring at a completely vertical uphill trek and a sea of people, it became clear that this pilgrimage was only just beginning. Allie, Eduardo, and my deeply unhappy stomach started uphill with the masses, heading toward the village center at the highest point of the hill. The nausea came in waves and definitely made the hike feel more brutal, but I was determined to experience this festival no matter how many somersaults my stomach did.
The streets were thick with artists and vendors welcoming people from all over the country, marimba music pouring from homes as locals sat on their front stoops watching the crowds make their way up the hill. The scent of grilled corn and smoke lingered, and the energy felt both ancient and incredibly present at once. When we finally reached the field where the kites would be flown, huge groups of official kite crews were hoisting their giant works of art up bamboo posts that stood at least a story tall. As the crowd thickened, small handmade paper kites secured by bamboo and string began to fill the sky. Some were small and simple; others towered like colorful 2D cathedrals. I think practices like this make it clear that the act of remembering is one of the most beautiful expression of love; proof that even in loss, there’s connection.
They’re called Barriletes Gigantes, and each one is a message. A tradition rooted in Maya spirituality, created to honor ancestors and bridge the worlds of the living and the beyond. Months before Day of the Dead, neighborhood teams begin designing and building these massive kites from bamboo frames, hand-cut paper mosaics, and natural glues, layering color and symbolism into pieces that can span dozens of feet. Each kite carries its own message, some ancestral, some political, some deeply personal. Seeing them raised by entire communities is as moving as the art itself and is a real testament to the structure of society within Guatemalan culture. What looks like a festival of spectacle is, at its core, an act of devotion: a collective offering of craft, memory, and storytelling that has evolved over time but never lost its meaning. A reminder that remembrance can be joyful, and that love doesn’t end with death; it only changes form.
Many designs incorporate elements of the Maya calendar, the cosmos, and traditional iconography. Common motifs include: Maya deities, Cholq’ij or Tzolk’in calendar symbols, Glyphs representing time, cycles, and spiritual energy. These are less about being decorative. They reflect the Maya philosophy of life as cyclical and interconnected; a reminder that ancestors remain present.
The movement of the kite in the wind symbolizes messages being carried upward. The sound of the paper and bamboo in the breeze is also believed to ward off malevolent spirits, keeping cemeteries peaceful during the time when the veil is thin between the worlds of the living and the dead.
Modern kites often speak directly to current issues facing Guatemala. They’ve become a bold platform for: Indigenous rights, Environmental protection, Migration and family separation, Violence against women, Land struggles and Cultural preservation. You’ll see phrases woven into the designs, often poetic or political, turning the kite into a kind of visual manifesto. In recent years, many kites have depicted powerful portraits of Indigenous women. Honoring matriarchs, healers, leaders, and protectors of cultural knowledge.
While the palettes are vibrant, they’re not random. Colors are chosen for symbolism: Purple — mourning, spirituality, connection to the ancestors, Yellow/Orange — marigolds, guiding spirits home, Blue — sky, water, the divine, Red — life force, struggle, resistance, Green — nature, renewal, land. Each color is an emotional and spiritual cue.
The size is intentional, too. Giant kites require the collective labor of dozens of people. Their magnitude reflects: the scale of communal memory, the weight of the prayers they carry and the unity needed to keep traditions alive. Some take up to 6 months to assemble, with hundreds of people cutting, pasting, painting, and weaving symbolism into every inch.
Clips from our day in Sumpango
As I wandered between families, photographing quietly, I kept thinking about how different this way of mourning is from what most Americans grow up with. Here, death isn’t something to tiptoe around; it’s something to honor, to celebrate, to weave into the fabric of everyday life. Families spread blankets across the grass, sharing tamales and fruit, the air thick with incense, marimba music, and charcoal-roasted everything. It was the kind of environment that makes you feel completely present.
At one point, I found myself sitting on the edge of a hill, projectile vomiting while Allie went on a heroic quest for bottled water and came back with a kite for us to fly. Not exactly my most cinematic moment. But honestly? The view was great. And because the universe has a sense of humor, a kind man walked by just seconds post-crisis and insisted we needed a photo together with the kites behind us. It took everything in me to smile after quite literally purging my soul into the bushes, but it immediately became one of those travel memories that’s so ridiculous it loops back around to meaningful. A perfect reminder that even on the days meant to honor the dead, life has a sense of humor and remains messy and so deeply human.
Photo taken by a nice stranger while I was ill.
In the most proper “boot and rally” fashion, we chugged on. If I’ve learned anything from traveling, It’s that the most well adjusted people in life are the ones who are constantly readjusting. My goal is always to be honest and real when sharing stories about my experiences. It’s true that life is cosmically balanced and some of my lowest (or grossest) moments are either wrapped up in or immediately followed by some of my life’s greatest moments. Thats just part of it. I am very much not trying to sell the false narrative that life or travel is always sunshine and rainbows. What I am trying to sell is that this life and how you experience it IS your choice. As I have said many times before: Life makes waves, you either surf or drown. We don’t usually get to choose the boot part, but we absolutely do get to choose whether or not we rally after. That moment made everything that followed feel even more vivid. The golden light that followed us down the hill as we made our way out of town, silhouettes of families dancing on the hillside, the wind tugging at kite strings while the colorful paper was glowing in the distance. It grounded me in the strange, beautiful truth that remembrance isn’t just solemnity; it’s laughter, chaos, community, and the kind of love that keeps showing up, even when your stomach absolutely refuses to.
I turned back one last time before leaving because I wanted to fix the image in my mind. Sumpango reminded me why I travel and why I photograph. It’s not only to see new places, but to witness the ways people celebrate life, in light and color, in ritual and kindness. That day reminded me that photography isn’t just about what we see, but what we feel: the quiet weight of grief, the pulse of a place that holds so much meaning.
Sometimes the best stories aren’t the ones we go searching for. They’re the ones that find us, in a conversation or a change of plans. Sumpango was one of those stories. A reminder that the sky remembers, and that love somehow always finds its way back down to earth.
