Isabel’s strong, gnarled hands massage my midsection as she prays under her breath in Kaqchikel. She’s trying to reposition my uterus. It’s drifted up and to the side, she says, and that’s why I haven’t been able to get pregnant.

A self-taught Mayan healer who specializes in fertility, Isabel is renowned in her community for helping infertile couples conceive. As far as I know, I’m the first foreigner she’s ever treated. Nevertheless, she didn’t flinch when I showed up on her doorstep in the Guatemalan lakeside village of San Lucas Tolimán, across Lake Atitlán from the popular tourist town of Panajachel, in the southwestern Guatemalan highlands.

I didn’t come to Guatemala in search of healing. I came to do volunteer work with a group that provides training to rural Mayan midwives. The leader of that group, Cenaida, lives in San Lucas Tolimán. When she found out my husband and I couldn’t conceive, she said I needed to meet Isabel.

That’s how I’ve ended up lying on my back on a threadbare bed in a tiny concrete room while this wizened, illiterate woman with no medical training asks me questions about my periods. When I tell her they’ve been lighter than usual, she nods and says I can expect heavy menstruation for a few months as blood that’s been trapped in my tilted uterus drains out.

Isabel only speaks Kaqchikel, an indigenous language of Guatemala, so Cenaida translates into Spanish. My mother-in-law, Annette, who’s part of the same volunteer group, translates the Spanish into English for me. It’s like that kids party game Operator, where everything gets whispered from one ear to another, and you just hope that what comes out at the end of the line bears some resemblance to the original.

This is all a huge change from my consultations with fertility doctors in Vancouver, where everything was laid out in the stark language of fractions and figures and statistics. Isabel, by contrast, just wraps a handwoven belt around my abdomen and knots it firmly above my pelvis. I need to wear it for three months, she says—it’ll keep my uterus in position.

But that’s not all; apparently I need medicine too. It’s late at night, but Isabel disappears into the dark streets to get it. Almost an hour later, she returns with a two-litre plastic bottle of something that looks like swamp water. What is it? I ask through the translators. She just smiles and says it’s a secret recipe that a man down the street mixed for her. I can’t help but silently question whether it’s wise to swallow an unknown “medicinal” concoction in a country where I can’t even drink the water. I glance at Annette and Cenaida, then at Isabel. I take a deep breath and knock back a mug full of the brew. It tastes just like it looks—murky and green. Everyone applauds.

Isabel doesn’t charge for her services—she believes they’re a gift from God—but I’ve been told to offer her a small amount of cash. When I do, she takes my hands, looks me in the eye, and says something in Kaqchikel.

“She wants to know if you have a strong faith,” Annette translates. At that moment, looking into Isabel’s face, which seems to radiate wisdom and warmth, I do. She nods. “You must pray hard and have much faith,” she says. Mischief glints in her eyes. “And a lot of sex.” Next year, she predicts, I’ll come back—with a child.

A few days later, I stand outside the cabin at the ecolodge our volunteer team has rented. It’s raining, a rain that reminds me of Vancouver. I close my eyes. A sense of calm and certainty steals in and curls up in my abdomen. It’s a feeling I have never experienced in all the years my husband and I have been trying to get pregnant. It feels like something has changed. In Spanish, rain is la lluvia. I decide that if—no, when—I conceive a child, her name will be Lluvia. Lluvia Isabel. Somehow, I know it’ll be a girl.

For the first few months after I get home, my husband and I do everything right. No coffee, no alcohol, and—using sperm-enhancing lubricants we have to order on the Internet—sex scheduled around temperature charts and cervical mucus. Even though I’m Anglican, I fall asleep saying the rosary I bought in Guatemala.

Still, nothing happens. My hope—not to mention my motivation—starts to erode.

Finally, over a bottle of wine, we decide enough is enough. A few days later, we fill out the paperwork for a domestic newborn adoption. Two months ago, just weeks after we finished the lengthy application process, a young mother chose us to adopt her baby.

We brought Madeleine home at four days old—two months and a year after Isabel made her prediction. Her treatments didn’t cure my infertility, but then again, she never exactly said they would—just that I’d come back to Guatemala a mother. Next year, I plan to do just that.

Access: Finding a healer like Isabel, who doesn’t advertise or work with tourists, isn’t a straightforward process. If possible, seek recommendations from people you trust who have direct links with Mayan communities. Aim for places that are off the tourist track to increase the likelihood of an authentic experience. Search Web sites like the Lonely Planet’s Thorn Tree forum for leads. Use common sense, trust your instincts, and don’t do anything that makes you uncomfortable. Consult your doctor before pursuing any alternative treatments.