A Touch of Identity

Tendrils of smoke part from the mountains’ lips as they lazily rejoiced, high off the sky’s universe. Orange tile roofs spill across the mountain sides. I observe as the bus wobbles across the narrow highway. On one side, lies the edge of a mountain sliced in half, on the other, an endless abysm calling visitors onto the glistening brown river.

The next stop was San Bartolomé, where we visited an old woman’s traditional home in San Bartolomé, a small settling that had been occupied by colonizers. Most importantly, the golden Inca sun had been found in that town.

Lands that had once bubbled with gold were now desolate. Sandy streets with loose stones and scraggly dogs lingering around the broken houses, while on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, Spanish towns brimmed in beauty and richness that had come from stripping away the culture and prosperity of native Americans.

Not only had they destroyed a culture, but it was impossible to ignore that their actions impoverished generations to come.

A man passed us by as we entered the home. The toughness of life had left jagged marks on his skin. His eyes sunk into his face but they shone like those of a child as he walked limply. He wore a hat and suit trousers, probably maintaining a tradition of well dressed outings. His bright blue decathlon sports jacket didn’t match his formality, and didn’t fit his crumbling figure for the matter, but it was the only layer covering his thin body.

Once inside the house we drank bright pink tea that had been made from eight different herbs from the woman’s garden, accompanied by sweet bread made of corn flour and panela. The room had light blue walls and was adorned with some hanging pictures, lonely on the otherwise empty wall. Highest, stood a small portrait of an old couple, probably the eldest of the home.

I saw the cuyes, some perfectly peaceful, their coats gleaming and resting, as if oblivious to their fate; and some red eyed, their coats uneven and patchy, straggling through the hay, in an anxiousness similar to the one of a man who is on the verge of death and upon the realization that they have not lived.

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"Cuyes straggled through the hay with anxiousness similar to the one of a man who is on the verge of death and upon the realization that they have not lived."

I went to the bathroom and right next to it was a woman washing clothes on a stone. She was young, thirty-five maybe, and smiled genuinely as I nodded hello. The hanging clothes and soapy smell brought me back to the summers and Christmases I had spent in my grandmothers house in Cumbaya, Quito. Memories of the beautiful garden and the prickling of grass on my feet as I ran around, of scraping the skin off my knees as I lost control of my bicycle, even of making necklaces out of flowers.

No matter the activity, I would always run back into the house sweaty and despeinada through the patio, with the smell of clothes washing on rock giving me tranquility.

Recalling my childhood as a memory made me realize I was getting old. I am afraid for what is to come. When will I go back to la casa esquinera de Jardines del Este in Cumbaya? Will my kids visit it? Will they understand Ecuador as a home or a forced visit to their mother’s third world country? Will they be able to understand everything I understand now? The beauty of this country? The stories underneath each and every unturned stone?

I now find myself at the same bottomless pit that swallows me when I think about the future, but I’m glad. I have more questions than answers, and more love and longing for my native Ecuador.