I was pickpocketed in Guatemala, but that wasn’t the real story.

I immediately sensed something was wrong; the little huddle around me seemed to be too concentrated. Even in this crowded market a little more space could have been given. Putting my hand in my pocket, I already knew what I would find. Nothing. My wallet was gone. I patted my other pockets, more out of habit than hope, but knew that it had been stolen.

We had organised a day trip from our base in San Pedro La Laguna on the shores of Lake Atitlán to the famous Mayan market in Chichicastenango. The market, held every Thursday and Sunday, is much more than a tourist destination. Selling everything from cheap imports aimed at tourists to traditional Maya textiles and handicrafts, as well as everyday essentials, it’s a labyrinthine network of cobbled streets, pathways, and alleys.

Our bus had dropped us outside the pretty courtyard of Hotel Santo Tomas on the edge of the market area. We immediately went to find our first stop: coffee! The 7am pick up had not left much time for a normal morning caffeine fix, so with no idea where we were heading, we crossed the road into 6a Calle, a small street with stalls lining both sides of the temporarily pedestrianised zone. Within a few minutes we found Café Siena, offering local Guatemalan coffee and, more importantly, a place to sit and gather ourselves. My senses were already working overtime in the vibrant mix of colours from local garments, both worn and hanging from fabric merchants, mingled with the smell of coffee, street food, and burning incense. It was not too crowded yet. But that would come.

The stalls were spread out in a manner which did not suggest order. A food stall next to textiles, bound notebooks that looked like cheap imports next to hats and traditional handicrafts. At one junction, someone had simply deposited a pile of second-hand clothes on the floor, and curious shoppers were rummaging through the pile in search of a bargain.

Huge bales of black cloth lined the back and side of market stalls, hung ready to be cut and embroidered with brightly coloured threads. These will become huipiles, the Maya blouse of intricate colours and patterns that can often identify the particular community the wearer originates from.

In the middle of the noise and bustle stands the church of Santo Tomas, built in 1540 on top of an ancient Maya temple. The church steps are put to use by the flower sellers, and climbing the steps your nostrils are filled with the bouquet of freshly cut blooms in yellows, reds and pinks, but once inside the smell is replaced with copal, a traditional Maya incense prepared from tree resin. Candles burn and offerings are made in rituals that blend Maya traditions with Catholic practice.

The market, though busy, was not intimidating, but as the day progressed and the crowds grew, the walkways seemed to narrow, making it necessary for visitors to squeeze past.

Just down the alley from the church of Santo Tomas, several paths merge together. It was a tight fit to get through. As we stood contemplating which direction to take, a group of women tried to pass. They pressed up close, perhaps to allow a hand to slip unnoticed into an unsuspecting pocket. Except I did notice, if a little late. Turning, I saw the likely culprit walking away and quickly reached over, grabbing her shoulder. I did not say anything, but the locals seem to know what was happening as they stopped what they were doing and looked at me with concern. The suspect then pointed to the floor, and there was my wallet. I picked it up and moved to one side, quickly checking the contents. All was as it should be. A local lady quickly approached and pulled me to one side. She looked genuinely worried pointing to my pockets. My broken Spanish understood she was telling me to be careful, especially in these tight spaces, and to keep my hands on my wallet at all times.

Others stopped to see what had happened, their expressions showed concern.

This incident, rather than highlight the dangers of travelling in a different country, confirmed that there will always be those willing to exploit the unprepared, and equally those willing to help and offer kindness.

It did not ruin my experience of this beautiful country and these wonderful people, but gently reminded me to exercise more caution. It could have happened anywhere in the world, to anyone.

As I continued to explore the market, this time with my wallet in my wife’s cross-body, zipped-up bag, I realised that what had happened did not leave me with a sense that someone had tried to steal from me, but rather that there were those around that showed genuine care and concern for my welfare, and that left a far bigger impression.