Carving a Life

 Don Abel and the Soul of Guatemalan Woodwork

In my grandmother’s foyer in Guatemala City sits a massive round table of solid mahogany, its lion-shaped feet gripping the rug like it’s been there forever. I grew up admiring it, running my hands along the carved details and pondering the skill required to make it.

One day, I asked where it came from. My grandmother smiled and said, “Don Abel made this. He’s the best woodworker in Guatemala.” Then, she added, “He has a story you wouldn’t believe.”

A few weeks later, I was driving two hours north, up into the highlands of San Juan Sacatepéquez, to find the man behind the lion-foot table.

When I reached the address, I stood in front of a simple metal gate. Before I could knock, the gate swung open, and a stout man in jeans and a plaid button-down shirt came jogging out to greet me, smiling wide. “¡Bienvenido!” he exclaimed, extending his hand, radiating an unassuming warmth. This was Abelardo Suruy, known by everyone here as Don Abel. His wife stood in the doorway behind him, wrapped in the bright woven textiles of the Kaqchiquel Maya.

Don Abel led me down a brick path past three houses, each one built by his own hands for three generations of his family, until we reached his taller (workshop).

Tools hung from the ceiling: chisels, planes, and hand saws. A downy blanket of sawdust covered every surface, collecting heavily on items on the top shelves. Industrial milling machines stood in one corner and simple hand tools in another. Piles of caoba wood (mahogany), both raw planks and discarded offcuts, marked one wall of the shop.

Don Abel pointed to a table base in progress, a massive, undulating piece of carved caoba. “Wood is my passion,” he proclaimed. As we stood among the sawdust and stacks of wood, Don Abel told me his story.

Born into humble surroundings, at 12, Don Abel left school to work with his father, a bricklayer. “The chemicals burned my hands each day,” he said. Don Abel hated the work. “I told my father, ‘I’m leaving [this job].’ He asked, ‘What are you going to do?’ and I responded with ‘carpentry.’ Because I’d always liked carving slingshots from guava tree branches as a child.” He described carving ornate designs using only a machete and glass shards to smooth the surfaces.

Don Abel convinced an uncle to take him on as an apprentice carpenter, but the man refused to pay him, saying, “Other apprentices pay me to teach them.” Discouraged but determined, Don Abel sought out another uncle who, after some hesitation, hired him to help install windows at a church. He was paid eight quetzales weekly, about one U.S. dollar. After three years of that work, Don Abel had mastered the basics: measuring, sanding, assembly.

At 15, he set out for Guatemala City, taking a bus and disembarking at a newsstand to scan the “help wanted” ads. That led him to a furniture factory in Zone 4, where industrial machines and design templates replaced his hand tools. He stayed for seven years, learning the precision and artistry that would define his future work. A tip from an upholstery acquaintance introduced him to Del Palomar, a boutique in the city’s high-end district. The owner asked if he could replicate an antique serpentine jewelry box, commissioning ten identical pieces, with no blueprint or advance payment. Don Abel said yes.

“I made those boxes before I had a workshop, without anything, just my toolbox,” he said, pulling open a drawer to show me his collection of 40-year old hand tools. “I didn’t have a drill or a router. I had only my hand jointer, my plane, my square, the chisels, and the brace and bit. I still keep them here, as mementos.”

When Don Abel delivered the ten matching boxes, the shop hired him on the spot. It was his breakthrough moment.

Over the decades, Don Abel built a reputation for trust and craftsmanship. “I learned that respect is worth a lot. That was my letter of introduction.” In fact, he tells me, my grandmother’s lion-footed table was one of his first independent commissions. He grew his business by word of mouth, amassing a dedicated stable of residential and commercial clients, including Casa Santo Domingo, a colonial-style hotel in Antigua, Guatemala. “Everything you see in Casa Santo Domingo, all the armchairs you sit on in the reception, all the friar chairs—those are made by me. Wow!” He laughed.

I asked about his secret to success. “Well, one’s creativity must be different, one must distinguish oneself. Some would tell me, ‘You have only a sixth-grade education, but you know a lot.’ I tell them that I’ve hung out with many people who have studied. And I studied them– the way they talk, the way they look at things. I’m observant.”

He grew serious for a moment. “I’m passionate about woodcraft beyond imagination. It makes me angry when another craftsman wastes wood, when they ruin it for nothing. Good wood… why? Because I know its value and what I could get out of one of those pieces, the gem that can come out of it.”

Then he softened and chuckled again. “Because I remember a little piece of guava wood,” he said liltingly, explaining how he once carved a slingshot with a playful design to win over his future wife. “When I was trying to woo her, I came well-armed.”

Today, Don Abel’s life is both entirely different from, while also connected to, his past. He has since bought the land around his childhood home and built a family homestead. His two sons, both college-educated, now work with him, using modern tools like computer-aided design and business management software. But his core values haven’t changed. “Punctuality, quality and honesty,” he said. “These three are the most important things.”

After more than an hour and a half in his workshop, Don Abel invited me into his home to show me his favorite pieces: ornate Chippendale and Queen Anne-style chairs, a kitchen lined with solid wood cabinets and counters, and a seven-foot-tall, hand-carved china cabinet displaying his family’s dishes like treasures.

As I was preparing to leave, he called to his wife. “¡Mi amor, tráeme la caja!” She returned with a serpentine jewelry box, identical to the ones that had launched his career at Del Palomar.

“I made ten of these for my commission,” he said, “but I also made a few extra, for special occasions.” He placed it in my hands.

“I want you to have this,” he said. “You can’t tell my story without it.”