Fleeting Rain, Passing Quilt

Two bus rides and three hours later finally landed us in the town of Latacunga. We walked along patches of sidewalk by men draining liquid out of machines, a man within the hood of his tractor trailer, people on bikes carrying carts of supplies, stray dogs wandering, and a woman washing her clothes in the concrete basin outside with a view of the patchwork of colored houses across the valley. The sun was actually on our backs as we walked closer to the center of town to find a taxi. From there we were driven to the orphanage constructed of one building situated in the countryside.

Soon enough I had a sleep pile of two toddlers sitting on my stomach and legs. The playroom was spotlessly clean and quiet music played in the background as baby Joanna wrinkled her nose against a stuffed animal duck. Meanwhile Sarita investigated my dirty shoes but I quickly pulled her away. Soon the Tia came in to herd them all to their respective high chairs for dinner.

I stood outside as the clouds increasingly grew black. In the yard I taught a couple little boys to blow the remains of a dandelion into the air. One of them, Carlos, rode around on his tricyle. Eventually they began heading inside, missing the beginning of the show that was about to take place. Carlos called to me to come with him, but I couldn’t take my eyes of the natural stage in the sky.

The clouds gained speed as they moved from the mountains in the distance closer to us. Weighed down by hours or days of moisture, their canopy seemed daunting. Slowly my mental thoughts cleared and my concerns of the day disappeared as all of my attention was taken by the storm above me. Every inch of independent anxiety was alleviated and washed away by the slow onslaught of the raindrops and the echoing thunder. Faster and faster they fell down onto the grass, drowning the dirt and pounding the pavement. This time I was safe under the awning, kept dry and alive to watch the incredible forceful throws of the storm surrounding me now. The thick clouds had moved over top of the orphanage and the smell of the rain made me smile.

It was sublime for a few minutes, especially when the hail came. I watched jagged edges of lightning cut the sky and break it for a moment. Thunder boomed its way into the distance and I watched the grass sigh, relieved that la tormenta had drifted.

Being driven to our hotel, we saw that the rain had managed to flood the roads, particularly a bridge that our taxi needed to cross, with water rising up into the bottom of the car. At the restaurant of our hotel the four of us shared a bottle of wine among our tiny sherry glasses and toasted to Valentine’s Day.

The next morning we rose early for our drive to a lake within a crater. We hired a driver who showed up with his little red truck and a camouflage jacket on. He drove us higher into the hills, above some of the low lying clouds. The volcano in the distance showed its face briefly but soon it was overshadowed by the moving clouds that slowly tiptoed their way in front. They drifted into the valley like ballet dancers, slow yet elegant in their sweeping powerful pointe work of pirouettes embodied with allegro and chassé.

Onward our truck took us, the terrain gradually becoming more divided in color and texture. We were now among the land of the indigenous farmers, their dry grass bound houses settled into the mountainsides as if it were a Shire. The bright pink or red dots marking the indigenous people with their colorful clothing often speckled the deep brown dirt.

Looking out my window, I remembered the glory of traveling. Here was a pocket of the world now made known to me, staring at me. We would drive straight for a bit and then curve sharply to the left or the right and the land would dip down and open up a whole other pocket of quilted farms, stitched together by people once escaping from the Spaniards. The shades of green below us and gray clouds hovering above us created a feeling of stillness. Alongside the road we would pass a couple of women wearing skirts to their knees, high socks, brightly colored shawls with long hair in a single braid wrapped with fabric and a panama hat on top. Half the time, they will have a baby wrapped onto their back as well.

We drove by one woman walking alone on the edge of the road. She was wearing a bright magenta shawl and stoically looking over the hillside at the expanse of farmland below her. I imagined her mind thoughtfully suspended in the air above her though her body was still walking around. Another woman we passed had a bright orange shawl and was herding sheep, lamas, and even a donkey all at the same time. Two more women worked the tilted black dirt up the hillside, one with a baby on her back. I wondered whether they felt satisfied.

Similar to when I’ve driven through the highlands of Scotland, I wish I could hear the stories of the land. In both places there is an eeriness that lingers in the air, alarming you that things have happened in these places even though it may be quiet and still now. The way the land showed itself with its colorful quilt, it was begging for quality time. I wish I could have lingered there a little longer.

The glory of traveling is wrapped up in the tragedy of leaving. But the fleeting moments can’t be stopped, they linger on and speed by as soon as you look up to see them.

Once we arrived at the crater it began to rain. The lake surprised me with its deep turquoise color as if someone had photoshopped and tweaked it to make it look more fantastical. But we only saw it for a moment before the rain chased us back to Latacunga.