Quito to Shenzhen ... Siga no más

I felt a bit like F. Scott Fitzgerald titling The Great Gatsby as I was trying to title this blog post. How do I summarize three years in South America? Do I go straightforward with La Vida Ecuatoriana, or sentimental with I take a piece of you with me? Do I pull you in with the more humorous side: I came, I saw, I shat (thank you for your thoughts, Greg Webster)? Or I could err on the conclusive side with Ecuador: The Last Chapter. It was in chatting with Nicole, the namer of all things (like my Chinese cat who I will call Patacón) that a title came to this post. Quito to Shenzhen ... Siga no más.

All's quiet on the Ecuadorian front here this evening as I try to put my thoughts together. I did battle with myself a bit ago ... do I go out or stay in tonight? I'm on a cooking strike; my brain has no room to consider how to put ingredients together in anything edible this week, but it looks like it will be Nutella for dinner because as much as I want to spend time with my people, I am trying to process that this South American chapter is nearly written. I am nearing the conclusion.

In nine days I board the plane bound for my 1st home. Usually it is about this point when I break out my suitcase and begin packing a little something each day in anticipation of the summer really starting. This evening I am simply staring blankly at the unusual disarray that my home has become. Dishes are piling up, the coffee table is full of clutter ... stuff is just floating all around. It is rather indicative of the way apprehension and excitement and a certain sense of mourning are rolling around together inside of me.

For the past several months, I have been trying to memorize the landscape, to commit the view from my apartment window to memory. The way you may gaze at your little boy, trying to remember always exactly the pucker face he makes when sliding a slice of a green grape into his mouth, I have been gazing at the mountains that I can nearly touch from my terrace. Will I remember the way the sun beams in a streak through one of the valleys as it is setting after the rain? And the way that you are amused with your little girl as the mischievous glint in her eyes appears as she creeps towards the dog's tail, and you want to pocket that moment of her exploration for always, I have wanted to zip up in my heart the sounds of my friends' laughter and the shapes of their smiles.

Each night images from the 1st year, 2nd year and this 3rd year float into my consciousness, bringing nostalgia for a place that I have not yet departed from, bringing tears to well up in my eyes, and bringing a smile to turn up the corners of my mouth. In the same fashion that you plan your daughter's graduation as so many memories of piano recitals with their off key chords and melodies dance together towards the sleepless sheep as you lay awake pondering where all that time went.

I think there is sometimes a misconception that people leave a place to find themselves. I was already found when I came abroad three years ago. In fact, that was largely what led me abroad, the ability to listen to myself and my own intuition, the understanding that I do know what I need most. Deep down I knew I needed the travel and culture and trials of life abroad to push my boundaries, my worldview, to grow and evolve. Rumi has these beautiful words: When you let go of who you are, you become what you might be. The essentials of Jamie still exist here. I am still quirky and spunky, and a bit passive-aggresive in true Midwestern fashion, and sometimes anxious, and, of course, still obsessed with chocolate. But what I have let go of, what I have largely shed, are insecurities, those pesky self-doubts and residual uncertainties left over from my 20s.

As we are reflecting on experiences, on entire epocas de nuestras vidas, I think it is important to ask ourselves "What is the takeaway?" I love this question ... so much that by year's end my students groan when they hear me utter the word "reflection" or "reflectionate" as they have endearingly written. Seriously, though, what is your takeaway from the last week ... the last month ... this last whole year? What were your most profound "ah-ha moments," as my sweet student Noor would put it?

As I prepare to set sail from this South American life, I have profoundly learned how important it is to fall in love with yourself. My time here has largely been about deepening my relationship with myself. Just as I did not see Quito as so lovely when I first landed, I saw so many flaws in myself as well. But, as time went on, I began to see more of the beauty around the city. I forgave Quito her flaws and quirks -- all of those buildings under construction, the smog that puffed out of the back of the buses, the inefficient lines at Supermaxi -- and I fell in love with Parque Metropolitano and Carolina and the mountains that surround this city. And the thing is, both the flaws and the beauty are always there, juxtaposed against one another, but my eyes no longer pick at those blemishes and shortcomings. In a similar manner, I arrived to Quito, well into my 31st year, with those insecurities from my 20s clinging like a sticky residue. Am I pretty enough, smart enough and strong enough still hung around me like stale air at times. But with the weeks, I observed myself problem-solving, learning, growing and evolving, and the self-doubts have largely been wiped away, leaving a mirror free of smudges and streaks, revealing a truer reflection. Rumi comes in again as he articulately said "Close your eyes, fall in love, stay there." It is liberating to sit here and be able to confidently write that I love my smile and my body, my spirit and my strength so wholly.

I think oftentimes we are waiting for the next big thing to come along -- the nearly perfect person, the next big break, the next best job. As it turns out, I am the next big thing, and I've really come into my life. That's a big takeaway ... a fantastic takeaway.

As I begin to pack up my cozy Ecuadorian apartment, and as I begin to say nos vemos to my treasured friends, the following is a tribute, a grand salud, to the moments and memories, and faces and places that have made Ecuador one kick-ass, keep me on my toes, drop me on my booty, stir my soul and grow my heart experience ...

Cue Pharell Williams here, because Happy was my first year ... and 2nd year ... and 3rd year ... and happy is life.

Year One

My first trek with Paypahuasi to summit the four peaks of Pichincha did inspire a true love for these Andes.
Gaze into that horizon: never was a clearer vista seen atop this active volcano.

Hannah and Eric came back from Christmas with me to celebrate the New Year in Quiteño fashion.

Michelle hosted her birthday party. Her home turned French cafe was still the best dinner party I have attended.

Another of this night to note that there were indeed moments in this dry country that I was surrounded by handsome men.

Cuyabeno, the part of the jungle where you can catch monkeys having a smoke.

Summiting Imbabura with Alli and Andy -- our treks together were inevitably sleety and snowy, but spent in great company.

Ah, the Bachelor Pad. The site of many shimmies.

The best beach vacation award goes to Puerto Lopez. This was reason 97 that I knew
Michelle and I will be lifelong friends. Food fears us.

Mindo. The land of chocolate and ginger beer and the end of year despedida.

... and sometimes after eating too much chocolate the shenanigans turn to this. 

Year Two

A year that began with a trip to Argentina with my NieNie. There were many magical moments,
but our 8-hour cooking class in Medoza with Jose takes the cake.

Room with a view. My apartment for the 2nd and 3rd year has taken my breath away daily.

Sunsets have been sensational.

Bacichx together in Ecuador ... I got them to visit by bribing them with shopping trips to Otavalo and Cotacachi. ;)

Mascarilla for Melisa's (Ana's niece) Quinceañera.

Dinner parties with this bunch: <3.

Mom and Dad's 2nd trip to Ecuador landed us in the Galapagos with the Reuter's and Saumweber's
... allowing us to set our eyes on ancient tortoises ...

and besitos between mamas and babies (photo credit Bruce Rueter) ...

and the famed Blue-footed Booby, (photo credit Bruce Reuter) and so much more ... 

When Gina came to visit, ceviche in Guapalo made us this happy.

Quaint Cuenca. Get your Panama Hat here!

Mery, first my Spanish teacher, and then mi querida amiga. Eres una tesora, Mery.

Year 3

Those Saturday mornings when you can wake up, grab a happy camper, and hike up Rucu.

Just enough cooks in the kitchen ... cooking in the ocean air of Portete ...

... after having swum in the warm water while watching the sun set.

Corazón and the celebratory chocolate we looked forward to at each summit.

Cayambe. All the way to the cumbre. I still get butterflies looking at this and pondering our feat.

That time I led us up a creek in Vilcabamba after our weekend got extended because we could not fly out of Loja due to high winds and then Michelle had to figure out how to get us back to the hostel. Boom.

I finally got Dad onto some Ecuadorian mountains. Rucu again.

A trip to the hospital didn't keep Gram down for long. An extended vacation meant more dinners and a trip to Old Town. 

Fancy cocktail parties with this goofy crew. ¡Voy a extrañarles muchísimo!

I am at a loss for how to even caption this to capture the marvel of this trip. Machu. Picchu.

Pillars of Light, part of the democratic architecture in Medellin.

Sue, the saver of my school sanity, and Chris, the Grandma appointed Handsome Man.

Nicole and Lolita in our favorite park filled with fresh air and eucalyptus trees.

Nothing makes the earth seem so spacious as to have friends at a distance; they make the latitudes and the longitudes.
--Henry David Thoreau

Cheers to Quito and to soulful friendships, to loving and to life ... 

and to a Sojournista's continued life abroad.

Siga no más

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You will never be completely at home again, because part of your heart will always be elsewhere. That is the price you pay for the richness of loving and knowing people in more than one place.

--Miriam Adeney

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

A Journey with Radicales: The Need for Continued Aid on the Ecuadorean Coast

I am lying here in bed reading more wise words from Rumi. Put your thoughts to sleep, do not let them cast a shadow over the moon of your heart. Let go of thinking he once wrote. Sound advice, but not the kind my head and heart will abide by tonight. Instead of drifting into any sound slumber, Rumi, I am again writing in the madrugada. Tonight I am still processing this past weekend's experience ...

The evening of April 16th an earthquake rippled through the ocean and hit the coast of Ecuador with a force of 7.8 on the Richter Scale. You likely already know this because it made international news, with the death toll rising to 661 and another 27,732 injured, images of coastal cities that were leveled by the earth's jarring movements made front page news. I was visiting Medellin when the quake cracked the earth here, so we experienced the tragedy in largely the same way, through the media, through Facebook and Twitter. For having lived here for nearly three years, I felt strangely removed from the devastation that night. But upon returning home from the weekend trip to Columbia, the dust settled in the cities, only to reveal the reality of the disaster, and the truth that it will likely take years for these towns to rebuild.

While the reality was heavy, I was heartened and impressed with the ways individuals and schools and organizations like the Red Cross rallied, and aid flooded in from other countries. 

After some days, the gravity of the devastation did become more than photos and news articles, and it felt like I needed to do ... something. 

Enter Fernando Aguirre and his foundation Radicales. My good friend Nicole and her husband Andres pointed me in his direction as they volunteer with Radicales. As fortune would have it, Fercho was planning a trip to the coast on a weekend that I had Friday free. 

At 4:30 am on May 27th I gathered with Mara, a friend at Americano, Fernando, and 14 other Quiteños to begin the drive to the coast. While I am sleeping little in my own bed as of late, that bus rocked me right to sleep and I proved to have a good bout of narcolepsy each time we hopped back on it after making a stop in a little town. It did feel like an auspicious beginning to the weekend, being able to sleep.

Voluntarios de Radicales

Our first stop was Tosagua where we were setting up camp in the hotel named Rodavi, a hotel that was putting us up for free. 

Fernando and our hosts. Not only did we have beds and showers at Rodavi, the Rodríquez family also fed us a delicious breakfast of plantain empanadas, shrimp and eggs. 

In Tosagua we met up with Fernando's friends Vanessa and Admarie who both live in Portoviejo, another town hit hard by the quake. Vanessa told us about the evening that the earthquake shook her pueblo, about how she was working with the children at her church, about the cries from those children as the earth began rocking, about the panic to get back to her family, who were all thankfully okay. 

After listening to her recount her experience, we boarded the bus and drove 90 minutes to Canoa, until recently, one of the most popular beaches frequented by teachers. Prior to the earthquake, Canoa was the town we went to sleep on the beach, to try out our sea legs on a surfboard, to eat fresh ceviche, sip piña coladas and bump and grind to the music that blared out of competing stereos of neighbouring beach bars after the sun had set. This Canoa has been devastated. Canoa today is a tent town, as these are now the dwellings of so many of the townspeople. While dozens of dogs still find reason to romp and play, and the young children run barefoot, laughing as they chase one another outside of the tents, the parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles show troubled expressions, lines of sorrow, and stress and fatigue crease their brows and betray little in their eyes. 

Upon arrival in Canoa, we parked our caravan and Fernando organized the distribution of goods that we had brought to deliver. He had a list of families, and as he called a representation from each family, a volunteer from Radicales would go to the family member and walk them to the truck with the supplies, things like canned food, toiletries, diapers and blankets. In this short walk, we asked those whose hands we held ¿Cómo le va? How is it going with you? 

It was while engaging in these brief conversations, and hearing those of my new friends, that it struck me once again that so much power exists in few words. The responses we got were varied. Our family is okay; nothing else matters ... I can feel the love, and I can feel the prayers from all of you ... The earth shook, the house fell and just like that my father, cousin and friend were gone ... I am living with my sister now, me and her and all of our children. We are taking care of one another ... And sometimes our inquiry was simply met with tears, the ones that flow when you've been shouldering a large burden and a loved one asks you how you are doing, and the dam breaks. And so we hugged one another, and shared in sorrow, continued holding hands with strangers and it didn't feel so strange. We felt connected. We felt a familiar and comforting energy flow between us. And I heard my Radical friends offer so much back in few words. Words of comfort and strength and solidarity. I felt so blessed to have met up with this group, to be reminded of what deeply generous and kind spirits are all around me.

Fernando extending his kindness and love.

Andrea and her words of strength.

Sebas has this wonderful embrace.

Vanessa is a child whisperer.

Most of her time with the children was very animated, singing songs and dancing.

Sonrisas from the niños.

Reflecting on our time in Canoa on the bus later, Sebastian, another volunteer, shared with some of us that he connected the energy we felt in Canoa to the Holy Spirit. For him, what he felt in this town that is trying to mend was majestic. Bigger than us, outside of us, and then within us. As we continued reflecting, Mara mused on how powerful it was to physically have come to the coast. There is much good that donations can do, and often that is the only feasible option, but for those of us able to make the trip, we had all experienced moments that had felt profound. Mara was indeed the shoulder that one woman needed to lean and cry on, and knowing Mara even better now, I would say that it was particularly her that could be just what that woman was yearning for in that moment. 

A few days after our return to Quito, Fernando received the following message from the community leader in Canoa, words that brought goosebumps to rise on my skin:

Saludos Sr. Fernando, 
En nombre de mi pueblo y de parte mia estamos muy agredecido...mi gente de Canoa quedo muy contenta...ya que las ayudas no llegaban como al principio...despues de casi mes y medio del terremoto ustedes llegaron en el momento preciso...GRACIAS MUCHAS GRACIAS...DIOS SE LOS MULTIPLIQUE. 

Translation: 
Greetings Mr. Fernando,
On behalf of my town and myself I would like to say that we are so appreciative...my people in Canoa are happy now, because much help did not arrive in the beginning...one month and a half after the earthquake you all arrived in the most precise moment. THANK YOU...SO MANY THANKS...MAY GOD MULTIPLY YOU. 

After spending a night at Rodavi, and chowing down the delicious breakfast cooked with much love from the Rodríquez family, we set back out on the road to visit several more communities near Tosagua and Bahía. As we followed the same protocol as the day before, we were again met with deep gratitude and appreciation from those we came to serve. 

Javi lovin' up another one of the littles.

Mara and her smiles.

¡Fuerza Manabí!

We were on the coast and nearby areas for less than 48 hours, but those 48 hours were enough to observe how much work there is to be done to help these communities rebuild. Many weeks ago this story fell out of the media's spotlight, but the people in Canoa and Portoviejo and Pedernales and other nearby provinces have a story that has not reached an acceptable resolution. While this story will not be picked up by CNN and The New York Times again, we need to keep telling it.

Because of her patchwork Andes, snowcapped volcanoes, lush jungles, warm Pacific waters that kiss her shores and wildlife on the Galapagos Islands, a popular hashtag has been #allyouneedisecuador. And now, today, all Ecuador needs is you.

If in the coming months you are able to volunteer here in Quito, or make a trip to the coast, I encourage you to contact Fernando. His email is fernandoaguirre@radikaltraining.com. You can also message him and see what Radicales is doing through his Facebook page Radicales Marcados Por Cristo. Two other organizations that will be continuing to help the coast rebuild are TECHO Ecuador and the Red Cross Ecuador. 

This week, as it is my last week with my seniors, I was reading them Omid Safi's "The Problematic Idea of Success." He closes this speech to university graduates with the following words: If you care about justice and social justice, and by God you should, because this planet is burning up and the people are crying out! At home, and globally, we need you. We need you not to be successful; we need you to be great. Greatness as measured by the extent to which you are willing to put your love into the service of others.

Extending love to the coast. Sending abrazos from Quito. XOXOXO