Vivian Valencia Professeure en

systèmes alimentaires durables

I have to admit that since becoming a mother of two—both currently under five—my field visits have become more sporadic and shorter. Before that, I used to spend extended periods, particularly in two communities in La Sepultura Biosphere Reserve, where I’ve worked for over a decade. During that time, I watched children grow up, shared home-cooked meals, attended weddings and, sadly, funerals too. In addition to spending time in the community, my favorite part of fieldwork has always been hiking in the forest. Setting out before dawn and entering the dense forest, my favorite sounds were the rustling of leaves in the wind, the distant sound of water flowing through mountain streams, and the occasional bird call and insect buzz. Far removed from cities and human-made structures, those were moments were I felt soul, body, and mind aligned with the forest, grateful and also quietly asking for permission to enter.

More than having a favorite ice-cream flavor, I have a favorite ice-cream parlor. I grew up in Mexico City, and before I was born, my pregnant mom would eat ice-cream at Chiandoni. So I I’ve been eating ice-cream there since before being born.

Then I was born. Then my children were born. and Chiandoni still exists. Their ice-cream still tastes exactly the same as it did over three decades ago. They still have the same tables, chairs, and metallic ice-cream cups. I love how time seems to have stopped there. It is a constant in my life.

And after more than thirty years, you might think that I’ve all flavors on their menu. Nope. I always sit at the same table, in a corner by the window near their small mural of Piazza San Marco, and order one of three things: a hot fudge Sunday, vanilla ice-cream soda, or plain vanilla ice-cream.

A few years ago, I was leading an expedition deep in the highlands of Chiapas, investigating how coffee leaf rust is changing rustic coffee agroforests. We were hiking through dense forest when I nearly stepped on a nahuyaca—the most venomous viper snake in the region.

My research team and I instinctively stepped back to give it a chance to slip away. However, Don Pablo’s, the farmer co-leading the expedition, acted fast. He killed it. For him it was a decision about his safety and that of his children, who often hiked those trails. These decisions unraveled in less than 90 seconds and captured the deeper tension between the ideals of those who want to conserve the forest and its biodiversity, and the daily realities of those who live in them.