A Love Letter

Life has been up and down and full of twisting, muddy roads this past month. I have begun running quite a bit, ostensibly training for my first marathon, to be run in southern Vermont towards the end of May. So my days have been full of early-morning runs in these breathtaking Andean mountains, with towering volcanoes standing watch over me. I have been feeling alternately awed by cultural differences and wisdom; amazed by hospitality; alienated and alone; surging joy at the uniqueness of this experience; and the deep pulse of life that flows through this fertile land where I am privileged to be at this moment in my journey. 

My life here has begun to establish a certain rhythm. Running; playing with my baby “brother” Dylan and watching him grow…his first steps, words, watching him dance and play instruments; teaching English once a week on an organic farm to a group of cute kids; lots and lots of bus rides and runs and conversations with my other “gringuita” (North American) friend Mary; conducting interviews and waiting for interviews that never happen; trips to libraries to get books and articles; increasing my grasp of Kichwa everyday; washing my laundry on a stone slab in the yard; taking the pigs on walks with Magui; reading; bucket showers; going to futbol games; running in the rain to catch the bus to the community where we live, and trying constantly to convince the bus drivers that we gringas actually do live there; the women at Jambi Mascaric slowly warming to me as I help them with embroidery projects and help serve food for symposiums on local development.

Then there are the stories that are a bit less routine, but which point to the kind of world in which I find myself submerged: inside yet outside.

My friend Mary and I went to Ibarra (the capital of the province in which we live—Imbabura). We went to rock climb and to get some resources from the department of intercultural health at the provincial office for public health. Of course the rock wall was closed, and we needed to go through an elaborate bureaucratic process of submitting letters of request to the Minister of Health—just to read the books in the office, let alone check them out. After all that, we hopped on a city bus back to the bus terminal. Since we don’t know the city well, I asked the bus driver to specifically let us know when we arrived at the terminal. After about an hour of driving through the city and then through various small villages, I asked him why we hadn’t arrived yet. He laughed and apologized, saying he had forgotten. I will take you there right away, he assured us. Subsequently we stopped in a field, a herd of cows walked by, a sketchy man with a slingshot and sort of a sick grin walked by, and the bus driver hopped out and said he was going to get lunch. Mary and I could do nothing but laugh, and sit and read, reclined in the empty bus in the middle of a cornfield.

There was the day that Mary and I were running in a community far from ours and a beautiful auburn dog ran out and started growling menacingly at us, snapping his sharp teeth and running alongside us. He kept running with us for miles, and over time became very friendly. We grew fond of him over the course of the run, and named him Yura (“tree” in Kichwa). He followed us all the way into my house, and we showed him excitedly to my family. Then he followed Mary to her house, before finally wandering off. People in our community still ask us frequently if we ever saw our beautiful dog again. The answer is, no.

I went to see a yachak (traditional healer) who works at Jambi Hausi (“House of Health”)—an intercultural health center in Otavalo. His little room was full of animal skins, bottles of herbs and tinctures, candles, images of saints, and mysterious objects of all kinds. It was very dark and he stared directly into the single flame of the candle on his table. He asked what my problem was, and began to pour some liquids on the crown of my head, and into my hands, instructing me to rub them into my abdomen and arms. He said an incantation under his breath and gave me a thimbleful of some pink floral liquid to drink. After that he simply said I should go. I asked if there was anything else I needed to do. No, he said, you’re cured now. I walked out of there feeling slightly dizzy and a bit giddy, and incredibly relaxed. The most at peace with myself and the world that I had been in weeks. Am I cured? I guess that remains to be seen. But I would say it’s a good start, at least.

Last weekend was full of new experiences. It started off with buying my first animal. A little black lamb for my friend, and Mary’s little host sister, Mishari, who will be baptized next weekend at the age of 7. She is a dear girl, and Mary and I really wanted to buy her something special for her baptism. So at the suggestion of our Kichwa professor, we bought her a lamb. We went very early in the morning to the famous Feria de Animales (animal market) in Otavalo, and bargained until we bought a beautiful little female sheep. We hope that Mishari can learn responsibility by raising her, and also make some money for her education by selling the wool, and eventually maybe selling her babies. Walking around the market with that lamb was an experience in itself. I don’t think I have ever gotten so much attention in my life. Bystanders commented to each other, “Look at those gringuitas with that little lamb! How cute!” Dozens of people reached out and petted her head, or grabbed her little hoof, or asked how much we paid and if they could buy her. “A little black sheep!” people exclaimed. It was a rush. We finally got home, only to discover that our sweaters were covered in ticks from our new friend. We stripped down to check for them burrowed around our necks and other places, mercifully finding none. We showered and changed clothes, and left our little lamb to graze in my backyard. Early the next morning, Mary brought Magui (Mishari’s mom) and Mishari over to show them our big surprise. They were honestly delighted, and so were we. Mishari has begun caring for her, and has named her Lucera.

This past weekend was also Carnaval, the holiday before Lent begins. Mary and I decided to take in the local flavor in a few different ways, going to Peguche for their big “Indigenous Carnaval” celebrations, which included a concert of the best traditional Andean musical groups. On our way to the concert we met a new friend, Paúl, who actually lives near us in Cotacachi. We were wandering around Peguche with him before the concert and a truck full of men and another truck full of baskets of fruit rolled by, and Paúl excitedly explained to us that they must on their way to do a “pedido de mano”—part of the local Indigenous wedding ritual. We ran after the trucks, and got to watch as the men played music in the street and danced the traditional circle dance in the street. After that, the tons and tons of fruit started being paraded into the house, and the “novio” (groom) came last--a huge fluffy sheep with a pink bow in his hand.

At the concert itself I got to see something I never thought I would see, something which may not translate to those of you who are not living in this context. But the traditional dance of the Indigenous culture of the Northern Andean highlands is something I refer to as the “shuffle dance”—it consists of shuffling one’s feet and circling around in groups, going one direction, and then switching directions in the circular rotation. To say it is mild-mannered is an understatement. But at this concert, people went wild, in a sense, flooding the stage area while the Andean bands played, and creating a crazy shuffle dance mosh pit, in which those of us engulfed could hardly breathe or move.

This was fun, but we also wanted to see a bit of a different culture, so Mary and I took the short trip to the valley called El Chota, which is the home to a primarily Afro-Ecuadoran population. There the Carnaval festivities were in full swing, with a dusty arena full of stands selling food and alcohol and cans of foam which people spray on people as part of the tradition of “jugar Carnaval” (playing Carnaval). Particularly as obvious foreigners, we were targeted. We were bombarded with foam, buckets of water, water guns, had paint smeared on our faces, and dye poured on us. But we decided to play along, and we danced for hours in the warm rain, covering ourselves in mud in addition to the paint that left only our “ojos claros” (light-colored eyes) visible. It was really fun.

Our final stop on our tour of Carnaval festivities in the province of Imbabura was back to Peguche on Tuesday for their flower ritual, known as Tumarina in Kichwa. Here we were greeted with a beautiful carpet of multi-colored rose petals, but also a full-on war of eggs being cracked on people’s heads, flour thrown in people’s faces, buckets of water and industrial hoses, flower petals, and countless bottles of sprayed foam. The shuffle dance was in action, and a brass band played along, as the procession turned into a screaming sprint and people tried to escape the youth who had perched themselves on roofs with buckets and hoses to wet all the passersby.

So, this is an update (perhaps too long) on what I have been doing this past month. As to what has been happening within me intellectually, emotionally, and spiritually, I hope the patience of beginning this slow process of training my body for a marathon is helping me train my mind and heart in the quiet patience that is deep love and openness to the world. Falling in love with the world in all its richness, with its contours and shadows, is a slow process of opening, of trust and hope. In the quiet rhythm of feet on hard-packed dirt, there is time and space for reflection: on who I am, what is important to me, and on what I carry on this journey. A friend recently wrote this to me in an email: “I've been faced with all the fears…that have followed me like (mostly unnoticed) shadows for so long.  I've been following them down though and - lo and behold! - there's actually Love at the bottom and Love all the way through.” This is such a beautiful reflection on what I myself have been finding, in waves of joy, hope, exhaustion, loneliness, and then, love. Loving the world for what it is, loving myself for who I am, loving others for who they are. Searching deep down through the fears and finding that love is there—all the way through, cradling it all.

To close, I want to share an excerpt of a Rumi poem that has been resonating these past weeks:

This is love: to fly toward a secret sky,

to cause a hundred veils to fall each moment.

First, to let go of life.

In the end, to take a step without feet;

to regard this world as invisible,

and to disregard what appears to be the self.

-Rumi

two of the students in our English class at the farm

the new puppy at my house (Ines rescued him)

women working in an embroidery workshop at Jambi Mascaric

my Ecuadoran family--my friend Ines and her son Dylan (not pictured: Kairik and Rodrigo)

Mary, right after buying the lamb

Magui and Mishari walking home with the new lamb (in Magui's arms) and their dog, Chiquitin

just the beginning of the Carnaval festivities in El Chota. After this, we left our cameras safely in our rooms, so we have no photos of the true aftermath of paint and dye and water and foam and mud

people running to escape soaking at the Carnaval flower ritual in Peguche