There’s something about the Mayan ruins of Caracol—located in southwestern Belize—that seems to exude a sense of profound awareness, an urge to acknowledge its incredible surroundings.

The ruins stand deep in the heart of the Belizean rainforest, and I knew going there that the landscape’s natural beauty would be almost overpowering. But when we arrived, there was no sense of being strong-armed, of being oppressed by the grandeur of the forest. I was exactly wrong.

I discussed the matter with our guide Jorge, and after a small moment of quiet consideration, he laughed. Jorge went on to tell me that the rainforest wasn’t loud, in that sense, it just was. It was there, and, in a tone that struck me as almost mourning, Jorge said he hoped it always would be.

Jorge’s almost palpable grief stuck with me, coiled tightly, like one of the ever-present twining vines strangling the early Mayan’s sacred Saiba trees —And it wasn’t until later in our trip that I began to really piece through what Jorge’s reaction represented.

We were staying at Blancaneaux Lodge, which itself was tucked away in Belize’s mountains, sitting just on the outskirts of the jungle. During our time there, I gradually developed a close rapport with the bartender, Diego—for reference, the drinking age in Belize is 18. During one of chats, I mentioned my feelings about Caracol and my thoughts about Jorge’s response to Diego. After thinking for a moment, Diego answered.

I think Jorge had it right, he said. In Belize, everything about our history and the land itself is important to us. The people really care about what happens to the forest. And we’ve lost a lot of it. A few years ago, we started seeing the trees being cut much more. There are less every year.

For the rest of our trip, I kept replaying the conversations with Jorge and Diego in my mind. Their words started coloring everything I saw and heard. The next day in town, I kept noticing the near-omnipresence of organic building materials. Yet, the people seemed to embody a wordless respect for the trees that had built their little village. Nearly all the buildings faced towards the forest, rather than towards each other—an exact opposite when compared with the egocentric design of the most of American city. That singular fact represented to me the veneration all Belizeans appeared to hold for nature.

In later conversations with locals and guides, I learned just how important the natural world was to Belizean culture. They regarded it as part of their history, as well—a factor that I expect is key in understanding how they relate to their environment. It certainly says something that of less than 9,000 square miles—as I would learn—fully 36% of the land holds protected status as environmental and wildlife centers. Belize is one of the leading environmentally conscious nations in the world, with over 60% of its area still covered by forests and only 20% used as cultivated agricultural land.

If my visit there taught me anything, it’s that the Belizean cultural identity is inextricably tied to their vast rainforests. It’s not just where they live, but who they are.