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.