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.
