Deep in the untrammeled rain forest, Peter Kaminsky finds that the path to sustainability and cultural survival is lined with cacao

In a corner of the remote rain forest of Guatemala, inside a longhouse in the tiny Mayan village of Tzalamtun (the closest English pronunciation would be a lusty sneeze), the men of this subsistence farming community resembled a group of kids trying to unwrap small Christmas packages. They were very intent on their work—eager to see what the present was, but puzzled at the same time, as if to say, "It's a lot of work to get to this little gift. I hope it's worth it."

Once they got past the wrappers, each of the farmers consumed a small square of Scharffen Berger chocolate, a brand familiar to patrons of Whole Foods but never before seen in the Guatemalan hinterlands. The men paused, considering the flavor of this novel food. Although this region is the ancient homeland of cacao—the basic raw material of chocolate—nobody eats solid chocolate here. In the tradition of their forebears, Maya grind cacao and consume it as a drink or add it to food as a seasoning (for example in mole negro)—asking them to eat chocolate is like asking an American to drink roast beef.

Sebastián, the village headman, closed his eyes and tasted with the prayerful deliberateness of a sommelier rating a new wine. He smiled as if to indicate that maybe the crazy American wasn't so crazy. This chocolate stuff was actually quite delicious! The rest of the men—cacao growers all—nodded in agreement and, in the most convincing endorsement, asked for more.

The American bearing gifts was John Scharffenberger, a maker of high-end chocolate. He was in Guatemala to do business, but he was also on a mission. Without the rain forest, he realized, there would be no cacao; and without cacao, there would be no chocolate; and without chocolate, life would be much less pleasant. Since the conclusion of the vicious Guatemalan civil war, the poverty-stricken Maya had been chopping down their rain forest to clear land to plant corn. At the current rate of deforestation, this last patch of virgin Mesoamerica will be turned into barren, eroded hillsides within a decade. But chocolate, hardwoods, and other exotic products of this bountiful ecosystem could, according to Scharffenberger, be a saving grace.

The story began three years ago, when a shipment of beans—an ancient and pure strain of the highest-quality cacao—was delivered to Scharffenberger's Berkeley, California, factory via FedEx. In a similar fashion, thousands of samples had arrived in the previous ten years. What started as home kitchen experiments with a coffee grinder and a hair dryer had become one of the world's top gourmet chocolate makers.

The beans in question—plump, oversize, and pale—bore all the outward markings of the criollo strain of cacao, prized by Aztec nobility for its full flavor and soft tannins. The frothy chocolate beverage marked the high point of regal banquets in the palaces of Tenochtitlán: Montezuma himself was served his chocolate in a golden goblet, and drank great quantities, it was said, in order to maintain the stamina to attend to his many wives and concubines.