Set into the Chota Valley, a town called Mascarilla

Throughout my three years in Ecuador, I have been to Mascarilla four times. I have struggled to write about it enough to capture the heart and spirit of this tiny town three hours north of Quito. In fact, I still sit here at my desk, staring through space and squinting my eyes to try to find the words to articulate what Mascarilla really feels like. It certainly is not the cloud forest of Mindo whose lush jungle-like trails are a haven to countless exotic bird species, whose waterfalls offer a sanctuary for a refreshing dip and whose chocolate shop lures me down-down-down the winding road for frequent visits. Mascarilla is also not the little town of Chugchilán with its mesmerizing waters of Quilotoa and cozy hostels like The Black Sheep Inn whose beds invite you to nestle down under the covers while the fireplace heats the room and fills the air with that smokey, earthy scent. No, what has struck me from my first visit to Mascarilla is how it stands in stark contrast to the other towns that I have traveled to outside of Quito. If I am being honest, when I have sat down to write about Mascarilla in the past, I have squirmed a bit. I have been uncomfortable. This is not because of what Mascarilla is, but because of who I am. I am a product of white privilege. I am a product of a middle class, midwestern family. So the only way that I can write of Mascarilla is through that lense, really ...

As you leave Quito and begin driving north on Panamericana Norte, the nearer you come to Otavalo, and the more lush the landscape becomes. The Andes surround you, hug you, really, and delight you with their patchwork landscapes. As you speed, or chug, depending on your vehicle, past the rose farms and large artisanal Otavalan market, you approach Ibarra, capital of the Imbabura province, nicknamed The White City for its abundance of colonial white-washed houses. In the kilometers between Otavalo and Ibarra the blocked grassy geometry has faded, as if the artist has taken a thick paintbrush of deep, rich green and stroked it over the mountains now. This juniper green fades to tans and browns as the bus winds further along the road. The mountains diminish to hills and appear as if elephants and rhinoceroses have piled on top of one another, all folds and grooves and greys. The bus kicks up dust as the air has become quite arid just an hour outside of Otavalo's temperate climate.

The mountains surrounding Mascarilla.

The bus hardly makes a complete stop as it drops you off on the side of the road upon arrival to Mascrilla. It slows down just enough for you to descend the steps and then puffs off in a cloud of exhaust towards Mira, the next town that may appear on a map, that you might be able to Google. Each time that I have arrived in Mascarilla, what is immediately perceptible is the intensity of the sun. It is warmer than being on the coast, at least it feels as such in the absence of any palm trees under which to seek shade. And you won't find anyone selling piña coladas or caipirinhas to refresh your dry tongue. Mascarilla does not boast such luxuries. It also does not boast a grocery store or restaurant or hotel. And upon my first visit, this is what I noticed most, at least in those first moments of taking in the pueblito. Wait, it does not ... it is not ... where is the ... came my naive thoughts. And I sigh a bit now as I think back on what I felt Mascarilla was missing in the beginning.

Let's take a walk through town before I continue ...

The street of Ana's family home.

A small square down the street and around the corner from Ana's parents' home.

The sun's rays will dry that laundry in mere minutes.

The small church and parish.

A quiet Thursday in town.

But, if my first impressions carried from the first world saw the pueblito as barren, they were later eclipsed with an understanding of the fertility of the town after spending a bit of time with Analuisa and the Borja Minda family.

The first time I stepped into Ana's childhood home it was the weekend of Día de los Muertos, the beginning of November, my first year here. Ana had picked me up in Quito and driven us to Mascarilla to make colada morada (it should be noted here that she may be one of the few sane and safe drivers in Ecuador and it was a rather relaxing drive after most of my taxi rides in the city had left my hair standing on end). Colada morada is the traditional drink around the time of Halloween, an Ecuadorian beverage the color of sangria but made much richer and thicker by simmering and blending delicious fruits and spices and black corn flower together.

The rich and fruity spiced colada morada.

The kitchen was filled with the warm presence of Ana, her mother and her sisters that night.

While my Spanish seemed to make like a roly poly and hide under a shell, this did not keep the family from embracing me and handing me a cup of colada morada ... and then another ... and then fresh sweet and savory breads to dip into the beverage. As I gobbled up the bread and gulped down the drink, I rather quietly watched the playful gestures and words that all of the siblings, ten in total, exchanged. There was a good deal of friendly teasing and a general air of exuberance that floated in the air, mixing with the smells of all of those spices and freshly baked breads.

Rockin' and rollin' in the kitchen.

I went to bed feeling happy, perhaps the most so since arriving in Quito a few months before. I was snuggled in a bed in a home, not the apartment in Quito that still felt sterile, and I had been missing that cozy feeling. I am quite sure I slept with a little smile on my lips that night ... and was awoken the next morning by the shaking of my hips. On any given Saturday or Sunday, salsa begins to blare into the streets at 7 am. It is the Mascarilla way. The sun is again already beaming down, the sky is quite cloudless and residents begin to mingle in the streets, casually chatting and enjoying the start of a new day.

The sense of community that has been built in Mascarilla was again evident when I returned for a very special occasion my 2nd year. The Borja Minda family had invited me to attend Melisa's (Ana's niece) quinceañera. This was to be the only event of such tradition that I was blessed to be part of in my three years in Ecuador. The whole family had pitched in to outfit Meli in a beautiful dress and provide food for what seemed like the 1,000 residents of Mascarilla, though it may have been just a few shy of that number. The evening was full of hugs and love and pride for the young woman that Meli is becoming.

Ladies walking down to the church.

Gentlemen outside the church.

Meli about to enter the church service in her honor.

After the service in the church, we gathered in the community center for the dinner and for Meli and her chosen crew to show off their moves with their choreographed dances. This town grooves, man. After the honored lady of the evening and her friends were done performing, and our tummies were satisfied with soup, the traditional Ecuadorian hornado, quimbolos and cake, the attendees danced into the wee hours of the morning. Truth be told, Michelle, who had come with to join in the celebration on this trip, and I retired a bit early ... because Mascarilla brought out the narcolepsy in me, the same way the beach does, which is a testament to the way my worries and racing thoughts fall away whenever I have arrived to Ana's hometown.

Before falling into fast and deep sleep, my stomach has always been delighted upon my arrival to Mascarilla, and this third year Mom, Dad and Gram got to experience the delicious foods to come out of the Borja Minda kitchen. We sat down to a lunch of spinach soup, beef and rice and beans. I've always thought of rice and beans as just rice and beans, plain and simple, until I met these staples here. Ana and her mother have a way with spices that has gotten me gazing at rice and beans with hungry eyes. So after Ana's mother fills your stomach with such goodness, indeed the soul food of Ecuador, it is right about the time you are ready for your afternoon siesta, but first Ana and one of her dozen nieces or nephews will accompany you onto the family land, full of mango and avocado and orange trees. We all filled a couple of baskets and our pockets and more or less waddled back to the house ... after watching Ana climb trees to shake down the fruits, being quite the model of how a real woman works.

Going for the ripe, high-hanging fruit.

Erick with our basket of sweetness.

On my last trip to Mascarilla just a couple of weeks ago, Ana filled my backpack with avocados and mangos one final time. I made the most delicious herby avocado egg salad and avocado ice cream when I returned home. And on that bus ride back I sat and further reflected on the hospitality of the Borja Minda family, the warmth and love that they express towards one another and that they have extended towards me. As the bus wound its way back to Quito, my mind turned over a dozen thoughts. Why didn't I visit more often? Will we meet someday again? God, how fortunate I am to have gotten to spend this time in their home. China may have great green tea, but nobody does avocados like that. What I come up with now is that my time in Mascarilla was perhaps one of the truest glimpses into the heart of Ecuador. One may find fancy restaurants, hotels, spas and good shopping here, but that is not the real spirit of this country. No, rather it is rustic and a bit raw, its infrastructure still developing. It is not a nation of material wealth. But it is one that boasts people in small towns who offer you the fruit from their trees and the goodness in their hearts.

The beginning of the Borja Minda clan, Ana's parents, Arnulfo and Anatolia.

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Space is as infinite as we can imagine, and expanding this perspective is what adjusts humankind's focus on conquering our true enemies, the formidable foes, ignorance and limitation. 

--Vanna Bonta, Italian-American writer, actress and inventor