Hasta Luego, Mi Ecuador

December 21, 2014

The rain drums softly on the roof above, a melodious backdrop to the rise and fall of the humming conversations that surround me. I've come full circle. Nine weeks ago, I sat with these same people, eating the same kind of Ecuadorian food, speaking the same language; the only difference was that we were at Taite Pedro's restaurant instead of gathered around Abuelito and Abuelita's dining room table and sprawled across their spacious living room floor and numerous couches. The location was only one of many differences, however. The people who were, to all degrees strangers nine weeks ago, are now family to me. The food that tasted so new and strange and foreign to me then now numbers among my favorite dishes--hornado with aguacates, llapingachos, and mote. This time, I stuffed myself full of food instead of gingerly sampling a morsel here or there. The relaxed atmosphere now seems normal, and the hum of Spanish lulled me to sleep for a refreshing hour-long nap. But I never felt out of place or self-conscious like I had before. And the language--Spanish--is no longer incomprehensible to me. Whereas nine weeks ago I would have nodded along and tried to politely smile or laugh when everyone else did during my host cousin's engagement story, today I nodded and smiled and laughed in all the right places because I understood the story almost completely. Although my speaking and comprehension skills are passable at best, I understand far more than I did when I arrived. Nine weeks ago, everything was unfamiliar; now as I depart, I feel like I'm leaving home again.

I stir awake and lift my head from where I've dozed off on the couch. Everyone is coming my way, taking their seats in a giant circle to prepare for tonight's Novena. No matter each person's actual feelings about this Catholic ritual (boredom, anticipation, a sense of duty), still the living room where we are gathered is heavy with the atmosphere of a most precious sentiment--familial love. This love, keeping strong relationships with family and friends, is what has drawn me in to this culture. First I was fascinated by it, then full of wonder, now I can't get enough of it. Sure, there are still issues and relational frictions, but the degree to which Ecuadorians esteem familial relationships is a refreshing mantra to me--there is no greater importance, except one's relationship with Christ. It's an almost tangible feeling, this truth of love and acceptance I see in the faces of this beloved family surrounding me. Though I've never heard this particular song before, I lift my voice with the swell of others', humming along when I can't piece together the Spanish words on my own. I can't imagine a better way to close this adventure than to exist in this room with these people for just a few moments longer. The music hovers in the air, lingering until the last person has become silent. I cling to this moment, committing it to memory as I have done with countless other moments in the past nine weeks.

As I hug family and friends good-bye, I try my hardest to hold back the tears, and I barely succeed. Though tears don't come now, they will later, in a stream, a river, a deluge. My tears will be a mixture of sorrow and gratitude--sorrow that the time has come to whisper "hasta luego" to a place I adore, yet gratitude to those who have guided me, helped me, and loved me in the name of Christ during my journey here. And what a journey it's been.

Mi Corazon

December 13, 2014

Impossible. There's no way this is real. My eyes blink into the blinding sun; I raise a hand to shield my face from the glare, then let it flop down to my side as I sigh in satisfaction. I tilt my face upward in delight, surrendering to the bright, golden glow that warms my face and tugs a smile from my lips. The wind pulls my hair every which way, rendering it a tangled mess, but I don't care. Nothing can douse the flames of exhilaration that were lit in my heart the moment my feet began to ascend the grassy, dirt-encrusted slope. I lifted my arms to the sky, feeling a whoop rise up my throat and escape my body--I am alive and free and completely unburdened here, here in this ironically barren wasteland, rocky fields strewn with the debris of a mighty explosion that shook the earth more than 100 years ago. The culprit of this outburst looms to my left, its mighty, snow-filled, concave peak blends in almost entirely with the increasing cloud cover above us. This is in stark contrast to the reddish dirt below the snowline that which eventually fades into grey and black rock at its base. Cotopaxi.

Of all of the places in Ecuador I visited or researched or wanted to visit, Cotopaxi began and remained the apex of my obsession. I brought a hat and mittens to Ecuador solely for the purpose of travelling to Cotopaxi National Park. There proved to be no greater climax to my Ecuadorian adventure than that of off-roading to pay a visit to this slumbering beast of destruction. And there were no better friends to sojourn with than Juanpa and Paula. My Ecuadorian friends informed me that all the rocks and bits of rubble I saw scattered on the plains below were remnants of Cotopaxi's last major eruption, in 1904. Channels had been worn into the ground, rivulets of lava flow had carved through the earth here, leaving behind these deep impressions as a reminder of the volcano's deadly power. Cotopaxi has not erupted since 1940; this is the longest it has stayed silent. My wonderful guides implied that the effects could be deadly should an eruption of massive proportions take place again, especially after all these years. I myself am convinced that the effects would be akin to those J.R.R. Tolkien outlines in his famed book, The Hobbit, when the wily serpent Smaug is inflamed with anger so great that he bursts forth from The Lonely Mountain and releases his rage and fury first by battering the mountainside to bits, and then by destroying Lake Town with belches of fire. Such would be the destruction wrought by this volcano.

Yet here we are, on a sunny, blissful Ecuadorian day, enjoying a quick lunch before we further explore nearby Inca ruins and then drive up close to the first hiking outpost, 15,000 feet above sea level. The path is precarious enough; the road snakes upward, shrouded in mist. But before long, rain starts to fall and turns into a plink, plink sound on the windshield--hail. This makes our journey increasingly slow. When we finally reach the dizzying heights, the hail has morphed into--of all things--snow. I hardly expected a winter wonderland when I had been standing on the top of the ridge an hour earlier, face warmed by the afternoon, equatorial sunshine. Seems impossible, this rapid juxtaposition of summer and winter. As we bravely stepped out into battering winds and swirling snow, I again couldn't keep back the grin from my face. Here we are, surrounded by real, raw nature. The power of God. Beauty unveiled.

I reached down to my feet and carefully scooped up a tiny ball of snow, then rolled it on the ground, just like I would if I were going to create a snowman. I cocked my arm like a baseball pitcher, and threw the ball with all my might towards a piece of dark, crooked, Mordor-looking rock. Smack! The snowball splattered every which way, leaving only a tiny bit of snow clinging to the rock. "Hahaaaa!" I laughed with glee. Soon I was throwing snowballs and whooping and laughing and caught up in the wonder and hysterics of it all. I've formed many a snowball in my life, but never with volcanic snow. Paula was more gentle with her snow--we decided to create "volcanic snowmen". Our efforts met with success, and finally, cold, winded, and pleased with our creations, we descended back down to the vehicles. As I leaned back in my seat, finally safe and warm inside the car, I breathed in deeply. I took in the smells of wet hair, wet mittens, wet coats, and snow. Winter smells. The smells of Christmas. The smells of home. I knew. My adventure would be coming to an end in a short week's time, and I would be back home, with the cold and snow to remind me that it really is Christmastime. I would drink hot chocolate, warmed by a fire, curled on the sofa with a good book.

I sighed. But once I go back to Minnesota, once I settle into my seat and pick up my book, I think I'll have to put it down again. I'll close my eyes, lean back, and dream once again of the magnificence of Cotopaxi, the intrigue of traipsing alongside Inca ruins, the views that, at 15,000 feet above sea level--quite literally--took my breath away. I'll dream of today. There's a phrase in Spanish that describes perfectly how I feel about this place: Mi corazon. My heart. My love. My place. And so I'll dream again of this place. Of the sun, of the wind, of the joy that comes with being surrounded by good company, being in Ecuador and being alive.

I'm in Love

December 1, 2014

I am overwhelmed with gratitude to the people of Ecuador. They are so kind and gracious with my slowly-progressing Spanish. Without their help, I might still be wandering the streets of Quito, or at least a lot poorer from using my money to find a cab instead of taking the common transportation--a bus. Yesterday, on our way back from Banos, Caley, Emily and I had to take the Trole bus--also known as the "sardine can" bus, for good reason--from Quitumbe bus terminal to 6 de Diciembre, about a half hour's ride to the north. We weren't even sure if we'd boarded the correct bus, or how long we were supposed to stay on the bus. With our patchwork Spanish, all we'd been able to extract from the information booth was a map with all three bus lines marked in red, green and blue. The problem was, all three lines intersected with each other, and we weren't sure if we had to get on a different bus or stay on the present rocking, plunging beast. My arms ached terribly from holding on to the rail above; and from having my body jerked to a stop and hauled in the opposite direction every time we made a stop or started moving again. 

To clarify our present location, I asked one of the gentlemen who had just hopped on, "Cual estacion este?" ("Which stop/station is this?"). He stated the name, and when we pulled out our our map to confirm this new information, he pointed to the stop and explained that we were on the first of three buses on that line. Each of the buses run a third of the total route to the end destination, some tens of kilometers to the north. This is to consolidate space on the road and time in-between buses. He continued saying that he would show us which stop to disembark at so that we could catch the next bus. It took some repetition on his part accompanied by pointing and gestures and broken Spanish phrases on our part, but we finally understood. We were exhausted after a busy weekend of travel; my brain was beginning to feel like a saturated sponge--no room for extra comprehension or translation ability. However, it felt good to understand and be understood.

He showed us where and when to get off, and after explaining this, he wished us well and exited at his stop. We were incredibly grateful. Without his kindness, who knows how long it would've taken us to find our way and realize we had to change buses in order to reach our final destination. As it was, it was almost dark by the time we arrived at our stop. When I finally made it home, I was surprised at my own sigh of contentment and relief in recognition of the Quitenan street names. That's when understanding slowly descended upon me: Quito is beginning to feel like home. 

I love the way the city starts to shimmer as lights turn on at dusk, illuminating the night as the last rosy remnants of the sunset slip behind the westerly Pichincha mountains. There's somehow a mysterious, yet soft, cozy feeling to the city, which is magnified and made sweeter by gentle rains that wash away the filth of the streets and the smog in the air, and leave the city clean and the air clear. When my taxi driver inquired about my stay in Ecuador, my words tumbled over each other in my haste to enunciate my sentiments. I gushed about my affinity for Quito and all of the other places I've visited in Ecuador. Each day when I arise, I sigh in satisfaction at the sight that greets my eyes--morning mist obscures the rising sun; hulking, dark mountains tear the sky with their jagged peaks, protecting the dwellings that nestle in their rocky folds below;

the birds never cease their uplifting melodies amidst the clamor of an awakening city. I am filled with an immeasurable sense of gratitude that I have been so blessed as to call this place "home" for the past month and a half. As I was raised in the countryside, I never imagined I could develop such a strong emotional attachment to a city like I have developed for Quito. I can no longer deny it: I'm in love. With Quito. 

"Banos" Means "Bathrooms", But It's Also the Name of a Beautiful Place....

November 29th, 2014

"Woah!" I whispered excitedly to Emily--"did you see that!?" She and I crouched down on the well-beaten, damp jungle path, cameras aimed and ready. "Yes!" she breathed, then carefully raised her camera to snap some pictures. We could barely see it through the dense foliage, but the unmistakable flash of orange we'd glimpsed hurtling toward the trees was slightly visible through the jungle overgrowth. "What even is that?" Emily inquired, as she expertly tilted her camera so as to capture the best possible angle. "It looked like some sort of giant parakeet or breed of parrot. How awesome is that?!" I enthused. "Super cool," she agreed. Unfortunately, it wasn't long before our bird friend was startled by the sound of another person's footsteps on the path and darted away in a flurry of orange and black wings, just as suddenly as it had appeared. "Dangit," Emily muttered, flipping through her photos, "This is the best one I got." She showed me a picture of the bird's bright orange wings--its head, sadly, was blocked by a giant, green leaf. "Oh well," she sighed, "that was still really cool!" And it was. It was one of the most exciting natural encounters we've had so far this weekend.

Of all the jungle treks I've had the opportunity to be a part of, you'd think that by now I'd have seen plenty of wildlife besides bugs and flies, but alas--no such luck. Then again, we've mostly visited popular tourist destinations, which are sadly devoid of much wildlife. Thus, we were thrilled to have seen a parrot(?) in its natural habitat. A rare sighting. We were on our way back from visiting Pailon del Diablo, one of the most awe-inspiring, powerful, roaring, twisting, foaming giants of nature I've ever set my eyes on. It rightly gets its name, "Devil's Pot", from the churning, violent depths carved into the rocks all around it at the bottom of the waterfall's surge. The pressure is so high at the base of the waterfall that any attempts to swim across or dive down would be met with a painful, crushing death.

 I can hardly describe the awesome, powerful beauty that surrounded us as we marched down, down, down to the base of the waterfall. Though paths have been cut through the rainforest, paths that thousands of tourists' feet have worn down even further, the jungle has such a wild, mysterious, untamed feeling about it. As if no hands of man could ever truly subdue that power of life that is the heartbeat and breath of the jungle. All around us, mountains rose upward, piercing the clouds above. I half expected King Kong to crash over the nearest peak, tearing through the underbrush and destroying everything in his wake. Obviously, this didn't happen, but it definitely seemed like it could happen. Anything seems possible here in the jungle, because everything is so exotic, so fresh, so LARGE. It's the kind of beauty that prompts one to wonder aloud how the new heavens and the new earth will ever surpass this because it's so incredible. It's the kind of place that takes one's breath away, not just because of the steep climb at a high altitude, but because it's so pure, so pristine, so untarnished. It's the kind of place that evokes joyous songs of praise and whoops of exultation because of the inescapable feeling of freedom that accompanies viewing this landscape. And there's a sense of danger as well--Volcan Tungurahua sleeps just above, an ironic protector of the busy town below. It erupted only a couple of months ago; inhabitants of Banos fled to nearby villages built on higher ground, expressly for the purpose of sheltering them from the lava flow and cascading rocks.

I sighed, content with the view. "Are you ready to go yet?" Emily's voice broke through my daydreams of King Kong and burning lava. "No," I admitted, "Let's stay here a little while longer. I want to soak it all in." Soak it in I did. We were definitely damp with waterfall mist and rain by the time we began the return journey.

But these feelings of exhilaration are just the beginning of our adventure. Tomorrow, we visit Casa del Arbol and the "Swing off the Edge of the World", and plan on enjoying a colorful parade in celebration of the annual "Viva Banos" Festival. I smiled. I was ready to go, ready to move on, ready to greet the next experience with arms splayed to embrace the wind and a grin as wide as the world I'm able to live in and experience and love more fully than ever before...."Alright, Emily," I whooped, "Let's go!"

Coffee Shop Musings

November 26th, 2014

I'm the only one here who is here alone. I sit in the back corner of the quaint, well-lit Corfu, my favorite bakery/coffee shop here in Ecuador. As I sip on my latte, I'm confronted with the truth: In the United States, what I'm doing is perfectly normal--sitting in a coffee shop on my own. But here, it's not normal. People come to coffee shops to be with other people, not to sit alone. I guess that makes sense. In a highly individualistic country such as the United States, obviously it would be normal to see people sitting around in coffee shops with only their coffee, food, and technological devices to keep them company. Clearly, I still see people spending time with other people in coffee shops in the States, but there it's just as common to see people alone. I'm not saying that everyone here appears in cafes accompanied by friends and without their smart phones, etc., but it's not a frequent a sight. I am the anomaly here. I like the ever-present community aspect of life here. And, as I've mentioned time and time again, I love the pace of life. It's much better-suited to me than the constant rush and blur of life in the U.S..

It's not incredible that here in Ecuador, where I feel the weight and pressures of performance and constant scrutiny and judgment lifted from me, I feel BETTER in life, better in the classroom. I'm more motivated to do a better job. The thought of returning to the United States nearly sends me into a panic. Something I'm starting to realize now that I'm removed from my culture is how worry-laden the United States' society is. I believe this is a by-product of our constant desire to be in control of our own lives. When there's such a strongly-rooted drive to be individualistic  (a sentiment that has, in my opinion, permeated our society down to the core and ruptured our families and communities) then the outcome is worry. If that's the goal of a culture, then that is what will happen. Because the people in that culture want to rely only on themselves, the individual, to succeed, then the consequence is inevitable worry about all the responsibilities and things they should actually be relying on GOD for, not themselves. Happily, there are many exceptions, but the pressure to perform, to "pull yourself up by your own bootstraps" is a reverberating, infinite drumbeat that pumps poisonous blood through the heart of America.

"Land of the free, home of the brave", I sing every Monday morning during Colegio Americano's weekly civic moment. I feel incredible national pride every time I belt out these legendary lyrics. I appreciate so many things about my country, but I cannot, and refuse to, put my faith and hope in a broken society. However, I will never begrudge the freedoms I possess as an American citizen--the freedom to print controversial words without fear of death, and to worship my Creator without having to hide my love for Jesus Christ or be frightened of torture. When I do return, I will relish these freedoms anew. And I will pray that I can be free and brave, as our national anthem declares. Free from worry. Brave enough to fight against the individualistic tendencies imprinted upon me from my youth because of where I grew up. Free to resist the pressures of conforming to a work-crazed society. Brave enough to deny independence and instead accept dependence upon my Provider, Savior and Fulfillment. Free to integrate the lessons

I've learned here in Ecuador into my daily life in the States. Finally, I pray that I will be brave enough to choose to live life with a willing attitude to continue learning and growing from the myriad of cultures that surround me in the United States. What a joy!

A Glimpse of the Eternal

November 23rd, 2014

Everyone needs to come to the jungle. Let me re-emphasize that: Everyone NEEDS to come to the jungle. Nowhere else in the world are there such luscious views, such a plethora of insect species, such an abundance of plants and animals, such a sweetness of atmosphere. Our bus slowed down incrementally, and I jolted awake. After a long week at school, my exhaustion got the better of me, and I drifted off during the short, hour and a half bus ride to Mindo, a small jungle town located at a mere 5,000ft. above sea level. I felt the difference immediately upon awakening--my lungs felt almost twice as large as normal. This proved to be an incredible blessing, as the next day, David and I hiked for three hours through the winding jungle pathways to soak in the beauty of the waterfalls, flowers, moss-covered rocks, and glittering, pristine pools that are scattered throughout the jungle.

It was probably the most relaxing weekend I've had the entire time I've been in Ecuador. I suppose it helps that my boyfriend was with me, and he could finally experience the same beauty of the country that I've called "home" for the past month. We enjoyed a lazy, unhurried breakfast, accompanied by the delightful twittering of jungle birds, the sight of numerous brightly-colored hummingbirds, and the playful antics of a striped, beribboned kitten. If only all of life could be this beautiful, this relaxing.

Thirty minutes later, we were slightly regretting our decision to ride in the truck bed on the way up a serpentine, dusty road to the cable car that would carry us across the valley, which was situated a precarious distance below. As we bounced along the road (I feared for my life at almost every turn; the road was barely wide enough to accommodate two vehicles, and with all the tight turns our driver made, I was terrified that we would crash into an on-coming truck. Thankfully, though we got close to hitting another car, we weren't harmed), David and I got acquainted with our hiking partners: Rein, a tall, blonde woman from Iceland, on a three-month tour of the Incan ruins and jungles spread across South America, and Charles, a bearded, probably 30-year-old German who had just arrived in Quito the previous day and was on a quest to find animal shelters where he could volunteer. We were glad for their company, and were able to assist each other with picture-taking and climbing the boulders in our path. I remember looking up at the sky, frequently, and thinking, This is so incredible, it can't be real. Every turn brought some new delight, some new feast for the eyes. Beauty unparalleled. The whole forest lives; each plant's breath seemed to sweeten the air, the cascading, icy water refreshing to the weary feet of fatigued travelers, bringing revival. The birdsong is pure and joy-filled and has the power to strengthen and bring light and life to any downtrodden soul. I leaned over to David at one point and said, "If this is how beautiful a sin-wrenched earth is, I can't wait to see what heaven will be like!"

Indeed, in the midst of a broken world, it's rare to come across a seemingly-unsoiled environment such as what we experienced in Mindo. Yet there it was--a sanctuary, a refuge of life and purity--a glimpse of a glorious new earth. I'm convinced that God has given me this awe-inspiring hike to remind me of His wisdom and omniscience in creating earth, and to renew the hope in me that this world is but temporary, and the world to come will be far richer, vaster and more immeasurable than anything we have yet seen or encountered.....

Moments and Pictures

There haven't been many situations where I've been afraid for my life, but now was one of those moments. "Don't look down, don't look down, don't look down," I muttered to myself. "You'll be fine--millions of people have done this before," Anna's voice chimed from behind, encouraging me onward. "I know they have," I wailed, "and that's what terrifies me!"We were standing on a rickety wooden bridge; below was the concrete ceiling of La Basilica, sloping dangerously downward on both sides. I gripped the ropes on either side of me and tried to continue as fast as my irrational fears would allow. Little did I know that this was only the beginning of a dizzying ascent awaiting us ahead....

Anna and I arrived at La Basilica a bit after 11am, and thankfully this was before most of the crowds invaded the historic stone building. La Basilica is the most awe-inspiring gargantuan, solid chunk of stone I've ever beheld in my short, sweet lifetime. I've never felt more minuscule, more fragile more temporary. I've stood next to the Sears Tower before, but that's a sleek, modern feel and La Basilica holds all the mystery and grandeur of years' worth of time and history. To me, this is far more impressive than just another mundane skyscraper, no matter how tall it is. And when I traipsed the floors of the Sears Tower Skydeck, I had reached the towering heights by means of an elevator. There were walls and panes of glass to enclose the area as well, giving me a sense of safety and security. No such luxury here. If I was freaked out by the wooden bridge, the black almost-vertical stairs ahead of me presented a much scarier scenario. The worst part--there were three flights. Somehow, I made it to the top, trying only to look upwards, going a quickly as safety would allow. I was practically knocked off my feet when I got to the top--not just because of the wind and incredible view of the city, but because I spotted a woman in 6-inch stilettos right across the viewing deck. "How on earth did she get up here and not die?!" I whispered to Anna, "I had a hard enough time and I wasn't even in heels!". "No idea," she laughed and shook her head. We watched as the young woman's boyfriend chivalrously led the way back down the stairs-like-ladder. I wanted to see if she would take her shoes off for the descent; but no, she kept them on. Somehow she also made it down alive; we saw them again at the bottom. The abundance of high heels here astounds me. It seems to make no sense--the hills around every turn, and standing on public buses and the need to walk everywhere--I don't understand it, but I see women in heels practically everywhere.

I was glad that Anna and I had walked around the outside of La Basilica before going up. We marveled at the European/Gothic-style architecture and Galapagos Island-inspired gargoyles. Each gargoyle is a different species of animal found in the Galapagos. I've never been to Notre Dame or gawked over the splendor of European cathedrals, but now I'm beginning to understand the allure. I've heard multiple friends of mine exclaim over and gush about fabulous churches and cathedrals in other countries, and I can finally relate. What stature! What magnificence! I was in awe.

This is not the only awe-inspiring view, though. I have the opportunity to relate one final snapshot of my life here before it's time for cafecito (the bread and coffee dinner we have here in Ecuador. Lunch is the main meal here). A few nights ago, I had cafecito at my host aunt's house. Her apartment complex is perched on the western side of the city, and offers an incredible glimpse of the main snow-capped mountains visible from Quito--Cayambe to the north, Cotopaxi to the south, and the Illinizas trio to the south-east. Quito is SUCH a beautiful city. I am struck by that revelation almost every day when I wake up. From the heights of my host aunt's dining room, I was graced with the most beautiful sight yet. Twilight slowly descended upon the city. The colors on the eastern horizon, reflecting the sun's fading light, changed colors slowly; orange melted into pink and pink slowly faded into purple. The lull of Spanish conversation in the dining room behind me, occasionally punctured by a child's squeal of joy sounded like a sweet melody to my ears. My hands embraced my comfortably warm coffee mug; its steam curled up in the fading light and disappeared into the air.

I sighed contentedly at the richness of this moment. I will never grow weary of watching the magic of the evening unfold. Lights in the houses, buildings and apartments flickered on as the city allowed night to spread its soft cloak of darkness over her. Lights shimmered, the city glittered, unveiling her captivating beauty. I don't know how to explain it--I couldn't turn my eyes from the sight--it was too ethereal, too enthralling. Like all perfect moments though, this one too had to end. But not before I'd gotten the chance to pause and thank God for His grace in allowing me to experience it. If there's one thing I'm learning to appreciate here, it's life. Moments. Seconds. Minutes. Time spent in company with others, days where I learn much Spanish and others, little. Days where I come home from school exhausted and wishing I was back home, and days where I'm yelling for joy on the mountain-tops, thrilling in freedom and perspective, glorious sun and wind. I appreciate life more here. In the States, I am too busy, too rushed, overworked and constantly tired; I am too exhausted and preoccupied to be able to savor moments like this one. Or moments like those last Saturday, on the top of La Basilica, where I could relish the freedom of having a day to myself just to exclaim in awe over churches, plazas and the gold-overlaid interior of La Camponia. So, though I only have a month left, I am determined to soak in all I can, travel all I can, experience all I can. The truth is, I may never have the chance to again.