Viajando Solita

Afternoons on end spent sitting in cafe’s, resting on curbsides and waiting in bus stations with no one to share meaningless cant with, the verb ‘people-watching’ takes on an all new meaning. When stripped of the constant comforts of traveling companions, the mysterious riddle of the the world’s back doors are divulged. I have watched Ecuadorean grandmothers donned in obnoxiously purple bathing suits dance the cumbia, looked on a teenage couple in puppy love walk tandem along the water singing Bob Marley, helped keep score for a boys vs. girls family volleyball game of incessant laughter and trash talk, and observed countless hours of illustrious women behind the stove from a cozy seat at the bar. With butterflies in my stomach, no Lonely Planet to guide me, and no concrete idea as to where I was going to go each day, I traveled alone. And my senses seemed to perk up at the opportunity to notice the less noticeable.

The Unnoticeable

Traveling alone as a woman can also impart some dangerous conditions as well. There are countless moments when my trust is tested. Hot, sunny afternoons waiting on small, dusty streets, being reassured by the old man with a hat on who claims himself the driver that despite the fact no one else seems to be boarding this bus, you should give him your bag and climb aboard; his rusty smile of golden teeth is not too convincing. You can’t really sleep on the buses, unless you have your bag securely wrapped in cavernous space of your lap and you’re not sitting next to a male void of shame. On one bus, a boy of no more than 15 perched himself exceedingly close to me and stared relentlessly as I feigned undisturbed concentration in my book. He finally got up the courage to rest his head, yes like my teenage boyfriend, upon my shoulder and gesture with his hands something to the affect of: Me. Sleep. You. A furious reaction involving the command Muevete! and a facial expression that super-ceded linguisitc differences seemed not to affect him too terribly, although he did finally move.

You also meet strangers, the good ones, a lot. I can’t count the number of people shocked at my presence asking, “Viaja Solita?” (You travel alone?). I found a collection of exceptionally affable strangers eager to assuage my fears, carry my bags, and push passengers aside so I could depart from the buses and hitch rides into town. A vacationing family from the highlands adopted me one day at the beach. The father was a social research professor at a university in Ambato and after rendering a most impressive sales pitch to marry his son, we were off to uncover caves of sea urchins, crabs and the enchantment (as they named it in Spanish) of the tidal waters ebbing and flowing over our feet. The surfer boys at the beach are, of course, more than happy to take up the roll of escort for any lonely gringas passing through that week. Although I had to thankfully decline their perpetual offers (preceded with Mi Amor, Mi Vida, and my favorite Mi Ricurda– like a sweet tasting snack), I couldn’t decline the invitation to a tasty, home-made pasta dinner in their grassy hut one night. Walls covered in surfing posters, a bed draped in a mosquito net, a simple kitchen with no running water crowded with two surf boards, and the one pair of shoes he pulled out only for special occasions, opting for barefoot freedom most days. I hiked 300 m down waterfalls with four girls from the UK, sharing exquisite vistas and refreshing swims. I indulged in some Chicory coffee with five Israeli boys overlooking a babbling river in the afternoon sun. The rainforest birds’ whistles accompanying our conversation, we passed hours discussing obscure topics from mandatory military service to vegetarianism to the what it truly means to have Israeli hutzpah. My hostel owner on the coast, Fabio, left me no chance to decline his extraordinary hospitable nature as well, declaring me his his daughter while I stayed, housing me in my own cabana with a private balcony and toting me away to his organic farm for the day where he offered me a job as administradora de la finca.  A most interesting proposition.

But I remember, eventually, that I am just the cute gringita  passing by, or the sweet American girl to be adopted by a friendly Ecuadorean family for a day. Sooner rather than later I will move on to some new city of locals, and those I once called strangers that I have now shared such intimate moments with will go along with their requisite daily routines, surfing and serving cocktails and sleeping on the shoulder of their loved ones through the long bus home to the highlands. They will cook dinner for another gringa, share their indigenous knowledge with another eager traveler, and eventually forget how they knew me when they look at my facebook page three years from now. I will seep into the busy highways of extra brainspace surfacing again only when the brain dumps its recycle bin in some peculiar, convoluted dream.

Yes, traveling alone affords such pleasantries and yet is so lonely sometimes. Sometimes you have to watch the sun go to sleep over the ocean alone.

A pleasantly lonely sunset...

Sometimes you have to stand agape at the site of a stunning display of Mother Nature’s ferocity alone, thankful to be at a loss for words because you have no one to say them to. But what a thrill, what a gift to know how to spend time by yourself. I’m almost screaming at myself, with some strange sort of joyful burning, Don’t forget this Kristin! Don’t forget these moments, this flavorful feeling of …. loneliness. It teaches me something.

Otavolo

Back in Quito, I spent a couple nights refreshing myself on civilization and life in the city. This, of course, included a night spent in one of the top hotspots for young, twenty-somethings in the capital of the up-and-coming economy of Ecuador. I was invited out by the director of Yachana’s institute who lives in Quito to a live performance by Herman Napatoli, one of Ecuador’s favorite folk guitar players held at an artsy, eccentric little tavern called Pobre Diablo. Cocktails, candelit tables andcortavenas – a genre of music in Latin America with songs recounting the all-too-common tale of the sorrow and melancholy of a broken heart, literally cut veins. Despite the melodramatic lyrics, the crowd didn’t seem to be filled with too much sorrow; the popular Ecuadorean songs were cheerfully sung by all alike, especially the song about the gringita loca in which they all enjoyed staring and laughing at the table hosting the only two white girls in the room while singing. I got a free CD, a nice buzz, and several tips on adventures to be had around the country from friendly young Quitenos.

Mid-stroll on a busy street in Quito, after roaming in search of some internet access, Dan swears he sees one of her colleagues, Zee dash into a small restaurant. Sure enough, there were our fellow students from Colorado sharing a modest almuerzo, now Golden Gods of bronze skin after spending the summer in the Galapagos Islands. Hugs were given, smiles and stories exchanged, and three hours later we were on a bus to Otavalo, a small town outside of Quito in the shadow of the volcano of Imbabura in which is held one of South America’s most grandiose weekend markets.

In the morning, the sun beckoned along with the roosters for an early awakening. We were thinking we could pounce on the best offers of early dawn but soon discovered that the only purchases we would be making that early were bolones de verde and cafe. Somehow I managed to forget the most important lesson of Latin American culture: everything moves slower, everything begins later. Alas, what a riveting way to uncover the wonders of a city; the merchants erecting their kiosks, the senoras knitting up the last of their alpaca hats to sell, the multitudes of vendors sharing rice and guinea pig breakfast on the curbs of streets. The young girls shade their glistening, wind-burnt red cheeks under rainbows of Alpaca tapestries. Babies are stowed and slung over the shoulders of their mothers. Fingers are licked clean of breakfast, hair is braided and the desired possessions are intricately placed on the tables in preparation for the long day of commerce that lay ahead.

Eventually shoppers began to meander the nearly ten city blocks filled to the brim with necklace pendants made of conch shells, indigenous symbols painted on recycled leather, the notorious hand-woven Panama hats, and an entourage of sweaters, tapestries and woodwork. Of course, let us not forget the tranquil sounds of highland music accompanying our stroll with pan flutes and charangos. I am proud to say I was only sucked into buying one item of art despite the vendors best efforts, a purchase I’m quite satisfied with.

Wrinkles formed on my forehead as the morning sun peaked through the clouds, gradually unveiling the magical interplay of the snow-capped surroundings. Papa Imbaburu and Mama Cotacachi (as they are locally referred to) seem to be in constant contest for visitors’ curious eyes, moving in and out of the clouds to pronounce their latest display of precipitation. Written in plain English on a tourist map of the city it is said that when the morning reveals Mama Cotacachi covered in snow, its due to a “conjugal” visit from Papa Imbaburu. I didn’t ask the locals about this legend.

Due to our early start, we had time to wander up the hillside in the sunny afternoon to the magical, healing tree called “El Lechero”. I was surprised to find a rather small tree that, not surprisingly, looked nothing like a milk man. Our young friends enjoying a birthday party of Pilsener’s atop the hill thankfully informed us of the milk-like substance that seeped from the trees veins, rumored to bring healing powers to those who drank it. After a couple untasty experiences with tree saps this summer, I declined the offer. The clearing where the tree lay did offer an exceptionally refreshing view of all the volcanoes and lakes that lay in sight of the small town of Otavallo, yet another miraculous landscape in the land of Ecuador.

The joys of traveling

You have to throw your bags in the stow-away spaces underneath, stuffing and shoving in between various boxes of flowers, plantains and the sophisticated zippers of North Face and Osprey packs from the other extranjeros that have chosen to explore the country. After you secure a spot for your bag and turn around, fingers crossed, hoping this is not the last time you’ll see your life-crammed-into-duffel bag, its generally a chaotic scram up the steps and onto the jam-packed bus with rows the width of your waist. The nice elderly women chanting deals on empanadas, although adorable, only complicate the situation, weaving their way in and out of the maze of passengers trying to locate their assigned seat number, if they have one, which generally go in no sequential order and could range from 1 to 50 (despite there being only 25 seats on the bus). Alas, you will secure a seat eventually. For the next three to six hours you’ll either sleep, read, furrow your brows attempting to decode the peculiar Spanish translations of obscure English movies frequently starring Jean Claude Van Dam …. or you can gaze out the window and absorb the incredible vistas of the ever-changing landscape of Ecuador. Riding out of the Amazon jungle of the Oriente up into the Central Highlands of Ecuador is like nothing I’ve experienced in such a short distance. Five hours from Tena, at the confluence of two of the Amazon River’s most abundant flowing tributaries and I arrived in Banos de Agua Santa, observing the gradual interruption of evergreens and Condors on the tropical rainforest. The clouds hover everlastingly, taunting your senses (and your camera) as the peaks of numerous volcanoes move in and out of sight.

The hillsides on my bus rides through the most biodiverse country in the world

As the bus peddled along the infamous PanAmerican Highway plodding through fragile ecosystems and frail villages I pondered the irony of using this diesel-guzzling machine to make my departure from 7 weeks of work with a Rainforest Conservation Organization. Banos de Agua Santa is a quaint mountain town tucked into the valley of several hills and volcanoes, the most famous of which is Tungurahua from which the province derives its name. Among the many other legends from this small town known as the “Estrella de Ecuador” there is a compelling suite of miracles performed by the Virgen de Agua Santa, the most recent of which was the valiant act of saving the city from the eruption of Tungurahua just three years ago. The city center sits at ~2,000 m (6,000 feet), the statue of the Virgen overlooks her puebla from 3,000 m up, hiking and biking trails weave in and out of the vertical agricultural painted on the hillsides, and natural baths of healing waters heated from the voracious activity of Mother Earth underground are planted all along the periphery. Its a haven for the adventure-seekers and the nature lovers, and a place I could easily allow myself to call home someday.

The hillsides of Banos

Countries like Ecuador are great for people who like to forge their own trail. We began at a legitimate trailhead that was rumored to lead to the Mirador de Volcan at which we could capture some breathtaking views of Tunguruhua. Five hours later we had been rained on, acquired a pet dog we appropriately named Benito, slipped and slid in muddy puddles, passed several greenhouses full of babaco, trekked through farms and backyards and forests, seeing less and less friendly tourists along the way until we finally reached an unmarked, sleepy little bench in between two farms atop a hill. The bench held the words of wisdom, “Ama la Pacha Mama” (roughly, Love mother nature).The clouds were serving their usual plate of frustrating yet beautiful thickness; I wouldn’t have known we reached our destination save for the nice beanie-clad woman hauling boxes in the cold who informed us that the volcano lay just behind us. Pacha Mama finally chose to reward the hikers for their courageous efforts, retreating the clouds for no longer than a thirty-second window of the striking ferocity of Turungahua’s snowy peaks. The descent included lots of trial and error on various trails and muddy pathways until we fell upon a picturesque little red house on the hillside where an exceptionally friendly man promptly sat us by the fire just before the rain came, served us a plate of vegetables and a Pilsener to share while unloading heaps of kind word and interesting facts about our surroundings: the tree just feet from where we sat, El Sangre de Tigre (Blood of the Tiger) seeped a red liquid which you could collect, dip your fingers in, and rub on your skin rapidly to form a cream that serves as an excellent bug repellent – I really could have used this guy in the Amazon. Although he insisted he could make the trek back to Banos in an eight minute run, he refused to let us walk back in the muddy cold. We caught a ride in the back of his father-in-law’s truck, sharing the bumpy ride with a couple other Banenos discussing the upcoming football games.

Our walking stick, my wet socks and the cozy fire Jorge shared with us.

In addition to the hiking, rafting and canyoning offered to visitors, the most famous adventure of Banos is the Ruta de las Cascadas (Route of the Waterfalls) down the highway to Puyo where thrill-seekers can visit over forty waterfalls of various sizes and styles. We hailed a public bus for $0.25 down the road and stopped off at Pailon de Diablo. The steep hike down on a well-maintained trail was adorned with wooden signs advocating the respect of nature, “Water is the wisdom of the land, the wise protect it” and “Conserve nature, protect your life”. The line of eco-friendly advertisements ended with the most powerful of phrases just before we arrived at the waterfall: “Estas preparada para una sopresa? …DIOS EXISTE!” And they were right, the astounding might of what I saw that day was most likely the best representation of a deity I’ve ever experienced. The crashing sound echoing below the rocks as I crawled under low-hanging ceilings and around cave walls was astonishing. The mist twirling around the walls of the canyon, hundreds of feet from the bottom, was unbelievable. The sight of each of the billions and billions of water droplets falling in a chaotic song of power was impossible. I think this is what they mean when they say breathtaking.We cascaded down waterfalls on ropes, we hiked around the periphery of the city, we soaked ourselves in the refreshingly steaming, thermal waters after a cold day in the rain, we ate a host of international foods (even Pad Thai!), and we cozied up in one of the best hostels I’ve ever stayed at. 

End of my days

The sharp pangs of technology have not beckoned my morning arrival in over two weeks. My alarm clock here is a choral performance of the rainforest. Its soft at first, like the setting on your cell phone that offers an “ascending” ring tone. One male Oropendula offers a full belly announcement, awakening the choral voices of the screaming pihas intertwining their sounds with the pitter-patters of last night’s shower dripping off the multitude of leaves. The monkeys awake, finally, offering their faint whistles only to the most keen of listeners.

I will miss you, Amazon, and all the various ways you engaged my five senses. I have attempted to give much, take little from you, and have gained an incomparable appreciation for the Lungs of the Planet along the way.

Inspirations

I have encountered an inspiration, and from none of the usual suspects. When I travel, I always manage to pick up an extra bag of “get my shit together” souvenirs. With all the extra time to think, I plan. I’m really going to get in better shape when I get back. I’m really going to spend less money this year. I’m really going to manage my time better by cutting at least three hobbies out of my life – (this one is pure absurdity and never achieved). You could call these inspirations and they usually come from observation followed by contemplation, with the observation part generally being of new activities to try, new books to read, new challenges for myself, new ideas for my future, a new subject I want to study. Now, I encounter myself inspired by my peers – my younger, harder working, more diligent, softer, smarter, self-less Ecuadorean peers.

Robert hails from the small community of Mondana where he grew up playing volleyball on muddy courts illuminated only by the hours of sunshine offered and washing his clothes in the Napo river. He graduated in the first class at Yachana Technical Colegio where he helped build the classrooms, dorms and kitchen and also served on the team that cleared six hectares of rainforest to grow food for the high school. Robert acquired his perfect English skills in Pennsylvania, going on to impress listeners worldwide during his speech on rainforest conservation in Tanzania before returning to his family at Mondana to work as a one of the most highly-requested guides at Yachana Ecolodge. All before the age of 21.

Maggie is a quiet-hearted, sweet soul who is determined enough to return to complete her high school education at 28 years of age. She never fails to smile as she serves me breakfast and I have never heard a peep of fatigue from her during the eight hours of machete-whacking through the fields.

And then there is the legend of Fabio. A young man by age and a wise soul by wisdom, I have met few people in my life with the work ethic and desire for knowledge as this friend of mine. I have been inspired by his diligence, moved by his words, inspired by his dreams, and struck by his smile. He studies in the city at the University of San Fransisco de Quito with the big boys but has not forgotten a single scent of the rainforest of his roots. His relationships are precious to him, his reading is important, and the notebook tucked in his bag, toted down rivers and through forests and on long dusty bus rides, is bursting at the seems with every bit of knowledge he could ever require from any passerby. He is the inhalation and exhalation of one of my favorite Emerson quotes, “Every man I meet is in some way my superior, and in that, I learn of him.” I will tuck a little piece of Fabio in my notebook and tote it through all of my further journeys as a constant reminder of a inspiration.

The constant competition and striving for perfection in my culture can be quite enervating at times. I need to get an internship, I need to get a job, I need to write better, I need to read more, I need to focus focus focus. Then, I stand at the corner of Confusion Avenue and Running-Against-the-wind Boulevard, staring at my map thinking, “Now, where was I trying to get to again?” In these folks at Yachana, I have seen a strength I would like to acquire. These people are not trying to take over the world. These young people are not trying to prove anything to anyone. They are not out to win some award, get their name in some research paper, or get a better job than their peers sharing the canoe with them. They are out for the journey. They are content in their work, their play, and their “achievements” they receive along the way. Life must be, as the notorious and anonymous “they” always say, truly about the journey and not the destination. I have gained so many things from this summer that are difficult to put in Research Field Notes to my professor or my final Research Analysis for graduate school, and they’re difficult to express in a flashy resume aimed at obtaining a sought-after job. But they’re in my resume of life. The references are listed as teenage Mentors.

Mission Impossible: Mission Accomplished

What happened was a story fit for Oprah… or Ellen, Ellen would be fun. When the word was passed on to all of our MDP partners about the location of our research, one of our professors, Julie Andrews, was elated to hear that we would be trapsing around the same plot of jungle she visited more than 15 years ago in her young career. Julie is a videographer and news contributor to News 9; She has an incredible family and a beautiful home in Denver which she graciously invited us into for some dinner and wine before we left… to give us a mission.

Julie had visited the Napo Province of Ecuadorean Amazon for a month long ago. She taught English, made videos, and did much of the same activities we participate in today: bug bites, rainforest symphonies, shotty canoes. The memories of her family there brought tears to her eyes, yet, she had not communicated with them since she left. The community in which Julie stayed was quite small, remote, no electricity and certainly no roads through which to tote gracious gifts and letters from well-meaning, monthly gringo visitors.

Our mission looked something like this: Find a canoe. Find Huino. Find the football field in the middle of the community. Look for a house on one of the corners of the field. Find a woman named Narcissa, her husband and her three kids (no last names) and give them these soccer balls, books, pictures and a heart-felt letter. Oh, and don’t forget its 15 years later so no one will look like they do in these photos, certainly not the kids who were 5 at the time nor the father who was 65 at the time and may not be alive. Hmmmm…

To my utter amazement, Mission Impossible became Mission Accomplished today. We hitched a ride with the Yachana canoe that was headed down river to Coca; the dropped us off on an abandoned bank with a half-constructed gravel/dirt road leading to Nowhere, Amazon. Filled with the energy of the sun straight from the middle of the Earth blaring down on us, we hiked up the road for a while until a dump truck operated by none other than a friendly young Ecuadorean who had lived in New York with perfect English. He informed us we were walking in the wrong way, gave us a bumpy, sandy ride in the back of his truck down the road, and informed us of the next obstacle: we would have to ford the river, and we would have to dig out a canoe to do it.

All adventures become less intimidating when you have a jungle guru like Fabio at your side. Two at a time we scooted into the canoe no wider than my waist and no deeper than my Nalgene bottle.

Digging out the canoe

Crouched with eyes agape and abs engaged, Fabio used a long branch to push the canoe across the rier, careful not to sway more than a bit and tip ourselves over into the murky water, video camera and all.

Riding in the canoe across the river to Huino

A young boy toting a dog he apparently wanted to sell us found us on the other side, escorting us up the steep, slippery slope of primary forest and across several Ant Superhighways until we reached Huino. Huino has changed. Electricity lines draped the sky and the center reeked of construction and development. Finding the family wasn’t quite as hard as I had imagined with my ethnocentric mind – small communities like this have quite the ability to spread the word, and they know every single person who has ever walked these streets for more than a day. We soon found Nancy, a friend of Julie’s who was flushed with emotion upon the mention of her blonde friend’s name. Nancy led us out to Narcissa’s chakra(family horticulture plot) where we uncovered a family much like the description Julie had given us.

Narcissa and her family receiving their letter from Julie, in the middle of their work day on the finca.

Narcissa was much older now, although that didn’t stop her from spending her hot, sunny days working in the field. Nancy, the daughter, was a woman now with a young son and a baby daughter who swung in a glistening white-sheet hammock under the shade of a plantain tree as her mother diligently swung her machete clearing space for crops. We gathered under a lean to, all six of us gringos on our mission and the family of Narcissa. The only exception, the father who had died just three weeks before our arrival.

Joyful tears were shed and genuine smiles were shared as we read the letter aloud to the family and passed around the pictures.

Narcissa cries tears of joy

After departing the chakra and sharing some fruit Narcissa cut down from her tree, we made the trek together back to their house, exactly where Julie described it at the corner of the field. Except this house was a new one. The plot where Julie had lived lay bare in the shadow of a concrete-walled, two-story, barred-window home that the family now shared, equipped with a stove-top fit for Denver surburbanites and a living area in which we shared some much-needed cold coca cola and crackers while opening the soccer balls and books fro the children. It was an afternoon of joy for all, and exceptionally pleasing to see the community’s development and the family’s well-being improved over the time away.

Julie's Amazonian family, 15 years after the last contact.

Save a little spill out of the dugout canoes on the way back across the river that made for good laughs, we safely made it back to Yachana with stories to tell and an incredible video to share with Julie.

La Madre de Valeria

Apparently the agronomist formerly employed by the Colegio is too often preoccupied with a propensity to alcohol, or suffering the aftermath of over-consumption the day after, to assist in the revitalization of this agricultural project we have undertaken. We roamed around the premises hoping that notorious small-town word-of-mouth would afford us with some agronomy-savvy somebody, and fate provided. Rumors began soaring around about “La Madre de Valeria”, which sounds striking similar to the English word Malaria. Confusion abounded, but after several sloppy Spanglish attempts, I finally figured out that Valeria was a Yachana Colegio student and her mother had some sort of garden in Coca.

Exhausted shock absorbers and worn-out brakes toted us out of the jungle and into the city of Coca, noted for its ill-famed oil evil-doers who’ve cut through the primary forest to provide all of us industrialized people with the precious flow of life. Coca is also getting a bit further North than the guide books entice travelers, stretching into the border with Colombia and reaching into hearsay of crime and kidnappings. To the contrary, we pulled into a well-equipped bus station, walked no more than a mile to a descent, cheap hostel with several panaderias luring us with their aromas along the way.

“La Madre de Valeria” advised a short taxi ride up the road where we perched ourselves atop a concrete block waiting for further instructions. A fancy white Toyota Tundra showed up and in we piled for a short jaunt across the street to a stunning, elegant wooded house, shaded by a smorgasbord of horticulture glistening after the afternoon’s rainshowers. Am I back in Fort Collins, CO? The gate was opened and two German Shepherds scurried up to greet us along with their two most recent puppy additions to the family. Over the next several hours I came to find out that La Madre de Valeria would be the front-runner in Greatest People I’ve met in Ecuador (second only to Fabio, perhaps). Still unconscious of her real name, this graceful woman began with an offering of fresh hot chocolate, made from the Cacao of her own farm and some warmed empanadas drizzled in a local honey that ran off my spoon like molten lava and dazzled my taste buds like carbonation. This is a woman I want to know, I thought. She escorted us around her half acre home garden, insisting on the tasting of every leaf, filled with tomato hybrids, four different kinds of orchids, a succulent section of cactus from all over the world, every herb known to man, and even some tobacco and coca that act as natural repellents (unfortunately, the leaves of those plants were rather unappetizing). After an hour or so of gardening galore, her husband shouts from the steps “la lluvia!” and we make our way back into the cozy comfort of her home for a seminar on seeds, passing around bowls of her most proudest possessions, a variety of colors, textures, ruggedness and ability.

We decided the trip was too good to pass another day in Coca without Paquita, her name, I finally discovered. Day 2 of our makeshift Agronomy conference included a trip to the family farm of six hectares where we toured the interwoven patterns of pineapples, cacao trees, coffee trees, papaya, banana, guanabana, orange, lemon, of course tasting each of the delicacies along the way.

Red Pineapple

Wandering through Paquita's Organic Farm in Coca

Cacao, that illustrious fruit with hidden gems inside which some genius decided to add a lot of sugar to and produce God’s greatest gift of chocolate, is quite different than I imagined. The chocolate goodness, which first of all tastes nothing like the Hershey’s bar at the gas station, can only be found once one has cracked the outer core and eaten through the fruity, slimy goodness off mush that resembles something like smashed banana innards. Needless to say, your hands get really dirty and spitting of seeds is highly recommended. Paquita had three different kinds of cacao growing on her property.

The unexpectedly peculiar innards of Cacao.

We trapsed through the organic section of the farm where I was attacked by a spiky plant by the name of Ortiga, through the yuca and onto the tree potatoes (which, yes, grow up the tree on a vine and drop to the ground like candies from a pinata) before heading back to the truck. As only the best of hosts will do, Paquita and her husband took us out to their third piece of property up on the hill overlooking the entire city of Coca before heading home. If you’re wondering where the money was procured to live such a splendid life of luxury in Ecuador, you may be saddened (as I was) to hear Paquita’s husband is an oil man for Halliburton. Ah, the irony.

Paquita sat with us through an explanation of the Agricultural Senior Project for the students, the land Yachana has, the crops we were thinking of growing, and the many questions we were troubled with. She filled our map with agroforestry and permaculture guidance, inter-cropping inventions, native variety options, and a bag full of seeds and leaves to take home for inspiration. She also packed a bag full of natural medicinal leaves which I was ordered to place in a bathtub of hot water and soak myself in as remedy for my unbelievable war zone of bug bites on my legs. If I had a bathtub, I would love to complete the mission – a bucket bath of tepid water may be my best shot.

All in all, the trip to Coca was a success as we’ve completed the map and planting plan for all nine teams of three students who are arriving tomorrow. They’re in for a bit of an agronomy surprise, just as we were when we set out to find “La Madre de Valeria”.

A Day in Paradise

Remember the summer days you used to have in your childhood? Makeshift games of kick the can, adventures trekking through the creek mimicking Indiana Jones. I never worried about the germs that may be having a landrun through the plains of my hands or the scrapes forming scabs on my knees Maybe development is the perfect career for mixing work and play.

Dan, Fabio and I grabbed a 30 meter tape measure, a notebook, a machete and approximately one gallon of bug repellent in preparation for the hike up to the Colegio’s agricultural fields to make a lofty attempt at mapping the area.

Mono, which actually means monkey in Spanish, happens to be the nickname of the long-haired, hard-working chef of the Colegio. Mono hiked up from his home in Mondana with his two kids that morning and was diligently sweeping the floors of the comedor when we found him. Simple, quiet, straightforward, Mono graciously supplied us with his menu, more or less, for the year at the Colegio, in hopes that we could plan agricultural plots that could better serve the high school and the products they needed.

After receiving our helpful guidelines, with ideas brewing in our heads, we hiked down into the terrenos which have become such a familiar home in my short time here. The next five hours looked something like a GIS topographer’s nightmare. One 30 meter tape measure was dragged through the rugged forest with our best attempts at direct lines. I would hold down the fort in the middle of a chaotic fury of corn and plantain and peppers and god knows what else as the boys drug the other end of the tape as long as it would stretch, at which point they’d chop down a branch of yucca or banana trees to place as an x-marks-the-spot treasure for me to find. I spent most of my lonely time waiting in the middle of the jungle gawking at the soup of organic matter in beautiful disarray on the forest floor, imagining the millions of different life forms that call that one square meter home. My hippy-dippy natural repellent, needless to say, isn’t powerful enough to repel the fear that ensues from standing in the jungle alone, looking down to find centipedes crawling up my rubber boots. Soon, Fabio shouts “listo!” and I begin a slight trot towards the boys, feigning tranquility as soon as they can see me again. Mono showed up armed with his machete to assist in the messy attempts at cutting make-shift paths through the over-grown jungle plots.

The afternoon sun made its appearance bursting through suddenly blue skies. Desperate for rehydration, the universe answered my call with a naranjillo tree. Fabio darts to the left and after a few minutes says, “Come!”. He’s chopped down one of the luscious, orange fruits for me and begins to peel back nature’s packaging with his machete. “How do I eat it?” asks the inexperienced Gringo. “Bite and suck!!” responds the amused Amazonian.

We needed to measure another plot. We needed to meet back at the Lodge with Douglas. We needed to do our daily exercises we’ve made routine during our days here. We wanted to jump in the river to cool ourselves off. A moment’s decision plopped three twenty-somethings right back into their childhood summertime memories in the middle of a Mondana resident’s property on some flat(ish) sand. As I lay there, sand in my hair, mud on my pants, sweat drenching my skin, eyes glancing out over my heavy rubber boots as I wallowed in the pain-staking cries ringing through my torso, I couldn’t help but smile at the peace of my day. Upon word of the last situp, like clockwork, no words exchanged, we were down the path and ducking under the last leaves overhead as we break out onto the shore of the river. Boots off, clothes off, skin gasping for air as its enveloped in freshness, in coolness. The boys immediately follow suit with the requisite competition – attempting to outswim each other upstream; they didn’t make it too far. I sat on the shore soaking up my happiness.

We make our way back through paths unexplored, stopping in a Mondana neighbor’s land at which Fabio converses with “Don Quixote”, the nickname of his friend who is drying coffee beans on a big mesh bag laid out along his muddy lawn. They exchange words I can’t understand as I ponder how incredibly content I feel in my clothes dripping in river water, my pants covered in mud a melting pot of plants and bugs, my hair a humid mass.

I truly enjoyed, for the first time, my cold shower as I cleaned off the day’s adventures. The tourists have all made their departure for the week and my co-workers are down at the Mondana volleyball game (I think its oil guys versus locals today), a cultural portrait of women cheering them on over their Ecuadorean Pilseners. I opted for a sunset alone. I close my day in paradise perched upon a comfy chair, listening to the symphony of the selva. Birds making the last calls of the day, monkeys whistling each other into the twilight, night insects taking stage, and a young man off in the distance casting his net over the river in hopes to catch the dusk’s offerings. I hear everything. I feel nothing. I feel free. I feel like a little girl who just had a great day in paradise.

The Good Earth

I don’t remember what my Senior project was, or if I even had one. I remember reading The Canterbury Tales in my Senior English class and suffering through a rough composition echoing Chaucer’s sentiments in my own form of made-up journeys and characters. I hated the assignment. I most likely completed it the night before it was due, under the beaming blue light of the computer while simultaneously chatting up the social scene on Instant Messenger. A senior project at the Yachana Technical High School in the middle of the Amazon looks quite different. “Rising Seniors” made the trek from their various corners of the country back to the Napo Province to Yachana High School last weekend – just one week after school ended for the year. Thy were there to prep the half-hectare plot they were assigned last year for their Senior Sustainable Agronomy Unit.

Just like any other day, as if strapping on a backpack and kissing mom goodbye, the students casually picked up their machetes, stepped into their rubber boots, and traversed the steep, muddy stairsteps down to the Yachana’s finca. This farm isn’t quite the structured, orderly monocultures in the American Midwest.

The organic matter soup on the forest floor of the Amazon

With its ample rainshowers and endless supply of organic matter, this farm is an amalgamation of numerous wonders spontaneously bursting straight from Mother Nature herself. Plantain trees tower over bushes popping bright red Ahi peppers. Stalks of corn burst towards the sky as a variety of fruit trees beckon herbivores with their array of avocado, lemon and papaya.

The students spent the day clearing the plots and turning the soil. They will then plant the seeds, harvest the produce and sell it back to the High School, the Ecolodge, or at the weekend market across the river for profit. My job is to create a curriculum to lead them them through the learning process of all of this, which is to say, a little outside of my expertise. Explaining how to calculate the area of a plot in Spanish is one thing; conveying the nuanced nature of organic fertilizer and permaculture versus commercialized, chemical-dependent cultivation to teenage kids in the Amazon is another. The kids will have to collaborate with the chefs at the high school and at the Ecolodge to determine an appropriate amount and type of each crop they plan to grow on their plot. They will need to discuss with a hired agronomist to determine inputs and spacing. They will have to return four times during their summer vacation to tend to their plots and do the necessary manual labor.

A greenhouse started by some students the previous year. They intend to grow some of their veggies from seed here and transfer to raised beds later in maturation.

I am inspired by their work ethic incomparable to those of myself and my peers back at Stillwater High School. One day of our summer vacation wasted on manual labor for no self profit would have granted at least a few enraged PTA meetings alleging violation of international child labor rights. I am also refreshed to be directly involved in the production of the food I eat. As symbiosis surrounds me here in this mega-diverse kingdom this summer, I begin to realize what it means to provide for the land as the land provides for me.  I am enveloped by an ever-present ecosystem of which I am only one piece.

Life in the Jungle, Part II

First, complaints. For this I apologize but if you can’t vent to your blog, where else is a girl to let out her shameful, vain admittance of the yearnings for “necessities”?

If my ankles aren’t suffering enough from the blisters I’ve formed wearing rubber boots around, they’re now decorated in small red scabs where my lack of self control has scratched them raw.

Its not chickenpox, its just the Amazon.

The eco-friendly woman I am, I’m beginning to understand why they put deet in bugspray in the first place; my “Herbal Armor” provides no refuge from the bedbugs. Maybe its my pheromones of mildew emitted from my clothes that I have come to realize will simply never completely dry in the humidity. I patted myself on the back at how light my pack was upon departure with only one pair of pants I thought I could wash each day – I’m beginning to regret my lofty attempts to be travel savvy. My hair is a ball full of frizz and tangles, also never completely dry. I sweat, all of the time.

Ok, now for the good stuff. As the majority of the tourists left yesterday, I strapped a lifejacket around my waist like a diaper and jumped into the Upper Napo River of the Amazon basin with some of the local guides and workers to let the current carry me along a spectacular, exotic journey through the jungle, one which could never be topped by any diesel-running engine. I hiked through mud, leaves, trees, vines and streams for a couple hours through the Yachana Reserve of the jungle a couple days ago, passing along the way a forest grazer snake, a screaming piha bird, and tasting some piton fruit cut down with a Machete by the illustrious Juan, our guide. I’m serenaded every morning by the male oropendula birds showing off their best call of the wild which sounds eerily like an loud, computer-generated water droplet. I share my living quarters with several species of insects, some wandering ocelots, and a pet tarantula we’ve named Terry living under the stairs. Our hike back and forth to the dorm has become refreshing in the morning and blissful in the evening when the unimaginable darkness provides a blanket of black upon which some of the best stargazing is to be had. At this moment, I’m swinging in a hammock pondering the odd behavior of newborn chicks in step behind their mother foraging for food. Mornings and evenings are the best, when views of snow-capped volcanoes in the distance or twilight encloses over the river, when the tranquility of the jungle is remembered most.

I am guided by a young man I now call my friend, Fabio Legarda. A promising graduate of Yachana who has just completed his first year of studies at Universidad de San Fransisco de Quito, there is pretty much nothing this guy can’t do. Between taking care of the gringos, reading the book 1492 IN ENGLISH (!), being at the beck and call of Douglas for any errands he might need, and writing a blog for the United Nations Environment Program, he assists me in learning Spanish. I hope he sees some good potential in this pupil because the frustration is compounding…

P.S. The food is incredible. 

Development of Development

On my quest for a better understanding of International Development through my Master’s Degree, I’ve joined this group of six student researchers to travel down here to the middle of nowhere, Amazon, Ecuador, in attempts to conduct my first ever real research project.

Last Spring, some of the MDP students prepared a project analysis of the proposed Yachana Technical Institute and cultivated the relationship with Douglas McMeekin, the director and creator of Yachana Foundation. Last quarter, our team of six student researchers completed our research proposal (passed through IRB successfully!) to conduct needs-assessment survey of potential students of the Yachana Technical Institute, a post-secondary training institution which aims to give people in the region the appropriate skills needed for regional employment opportunities – an idea apparently completely foreign to the local populations. What do they want to study? What could they pay? What kind of schedule is best for them? The second part of our research was a lofty attempt to imitate the longitudinal survey we observed at ICDDRB in Bangladesh where demographic information was collected on a random sample of the families in the region over a forty year period, producing an invaluable collection of data reflecting the changes in the community over the years, impacts from development projects, and data which can inform future development projects that may better serve the community.

Now doesn’t that sound like a Development Student in action? Participatory data-gathering and demographic information to inform future projects? We were prepared to set off into a Utopian world of development in which participants participate, students are eager, money is available, of course a crises of your time never occurs! Least to say, this is why an education with practical components applied on-site is so appropriate.

Douglas McMeekin is your typical entrepreneur. Visionary, exciting, motivating, bursting at the seams with ideas and innovation. A man who came to Ecuador with a less-than-perfect history in American business, a desire to change the world, and a sack full of dreams. Entrepreneurs (or at least the successful ones) also typically have a lot to show for those dreams they carried with them twenty years ago, and Douglas is no exception. The Ecolodge with its walkways adorned with indigenous flowers, its high-energy, bilingual, local guides, its internship employing local high school students in the kitchen.  The Yachana Collegio offering exceptional high school education to communities previously marginalized from knowledge, producing young people with confidence, work ethic and aspiration. The Yachana Technology, the greatest of which is the water purification buckets, procuring a much-needed amenity of clean water in the middle of the Amazon. I am nothing less than impressed.

But… there has to be a but… this is development. This is twenty years of trial and error, projects successful and projects left to rot in the backways. I’ve learned in the last few days that the high school almost had to close down last year for lack of funding in the foundation, despite the fact that the idea for the Institute funded by the foundation forges on. I learned that in fact no money is given from the Ecolodge to the high school, despite the fact that this is promoted all over the property of the lodge. I learned that in fact little food used in the kitchen is grown by the foundation or the high school kids as was suggested to us previously. I learned that there are about a million ideas in the head of that entrepreneur and his right hand man is continually reeling him in back to “reality”.

Confusions abound. They should offer you a course on the philosophy of development. Where do you begin? Which types of projects should you focus on? How much money should you have before you begin? Can you take chances with peoples’ lives? Should the cart ever be before the horse?

All of that said, here we are. This morning we conducted our first focus group survey which looked nothing like what we had hoped. Sporadic participation of 16 graduates of the high school who were… somewhat interested in the idea of technical training, while attempting to maintain their focus on the cute senorita across the room. We’ve been here five days and have altered our survey questions probably ten times.  This must be what Douglas meant when he said we’ll need to “learn to be adaptive”.

I’m learning more than conducting a survey. I’m learning how difficult it is to operate a conservation and education organization in the Amazon. I’m learning how to operate with difficult and different personalities. I’m learning about myself and piecing together pictures of my future.

Life in the Jungle

My stomach is grumbling as I find myself perched on a comfy chair, overlooking the Napo River, lush green forests pitched alongside the shores and floral hues of reds, oranges and yellows bursting from every corner. I think lunch comes soon, although I’m disappointed to realize the cause of my hunger pangs are from the one mile hike we trek back and forth to get to our sleeping quarters. I guess I’m not in as good of shape as I thought.

My first 24 hours at Yachana have been filled the expected travel woes (mucho dolor en mi estomago) and some rather unexpected realities of life in the Amazon rainforest. Its green here. And when I say green, I mean 650 species of tree per hectare (100 yards x 100 yards).  Green means bushes with leaves the size of the hood of your car. Its paradise for those of us who always wished we could live out the land before time. Its also muddy here. And when I say muddy I mean sludge that goes calf deep sometimes. We’re well equipped with knee-high rubber boots and seem to be quickly mastering the art of mud hiking. The sounds of the jungle are ferociously powerful. A chorus of frogs, crickets, monkeys, and a host of birds make their presence known in the darkness of night. And frequent torrential rainstorms eternally replenishing life in the wild kept me tossing and turning under my mosquito net all night. Insects, even greater in diversity than trees (100,000 species per hectare), make no polite request for the sharing of our sleeping quarters. Cockroaches have infiltrated our beds despite Matt and Dan’s best efforts to utilize our illustrious Chacos in squashing them – they return everlastingly, which is I assume why they are said to be the only survivors after any potential doomsday world destruction scenario.

The forest demands respect from those who wish to enter it. The jungle is a propitious reminder that we are humans, animals at best, an iota of something much larger, greater, more powerful than we could ever collectively create. Our societies have been functioning for centuries now (some could argue, millenia) under the assumption we are grand enough to extract ourselves from this thing we call the ecosystem; that we are distinct and disparate from nature. The jungle may remind us that, in fact, we are nature. We are mere portions, pieces, pawns in an eternal, chaotic beauty of life and death and rebirth that happens every day here. Ants are building colonies and carrying leaves across the pathways I walk on here. Flowers are blooming and offering delicious feasts to their pollinators. Rains are filling the river and washing rocks from the highlands into the basins of the jungle. Humans have infested this area in the last 50 years causing alarming rates of deforestation. If we cannot find a way to reinsert ourselves as parts and participants in nature, nature will surely find a way to destroy its festering cancer.

Alas, I’m humbly soaking up all I can learn from the leadership of Yachana in education for conservation and sustainability. From programs employing Payment for Ecosystem Services to award farmers with money in exchange for not cutting down the forest, to technical training of young adults in PV solar technology maintenance, to one of the best ecotoursim lodges in the world according to National Geographic, this Foundation is making strides.

I washed my clothes in the sink today with the notorious Dr. Bronner’s, hanging them in a shelter which protects from the rain but provides no precipitation for the drying process in this humid air. I am hoping against odds I may have clean pants to wear tomorrow. I took a cold shower in a simple, small room. And now I lay my head down under a mosquitero, hoping to rest amid the symphony of the jungle tonight.

El Oriente

As they call it in Ecuador, El Oriente, the Amazon beckons me on this early morning. Caffeine assisting me, from the comfort of Denver Airport’s picture windows in concourse B, I’m gazing out at an all too familiar skyline of snow-capped peaks, the snowmelt of which I will not meet again until August as it fills the rivers and streams and blooms the wildflowers of the foothills. Colorado summers are distinguishably my favorite thing about living in this State – hiking, climbing, rivers, bikes, backpacking – and I will be sad to miss the heart of it all this year.

Alas, off I go to a world of wonder, education and adventure awaiting me atYachana Foundation on the upper Napo River in the Amazon River Basin. Piranhas, crocodiles, some giant iridescent insects yet to be named, some populous pesky insects yet to be killed in the throws of my annoyed, slapping hands, flowers with scents and dyes yet to be experienced by my senses, indigenous people of Kichwa descent, and many adventures awaiting my curious mind. Truly, this trip is void of any expectations from me. An open mind and a bag full of books is all I brought. Okay, I brought my rain jacket too.

I will be lacking in French Press coffee, NPR mornings, and hot showers. There will be no saucy advertisements and debilitating (at times) technology of Western culture. The texting and emailing I’ve become so accustomed to – they give you that little “high” everytime a familiar tonal melody or the long-awaited vibration informs you that, yes, you are in fact important and someone needs to talk to you. In reality, most of the time its an update from Groupon or Facebook hardly caring for my attention.

A break from civilization and society and the impossible expectations of life I place on myself. A time of slight solitude, profitable peace. I will put to work these hands and this mind that has endured their first year of development in training, observing first hand the incredible possibilities of a future embedded with social equity and sustainable ecosystems as practiced by Yachana Foundation.

Stay tuned, it should be a good summer.