Happy Mothers Day, Mom! Here is a little message from my first grade English students at La Escuela Bilingue Los Algarrobos in Canoa, Ecuador!
After another recurring conversation with my parents about the future date of my flight home, my next job, money, safety, etc... I coincidently stumbled across this letter that another traveling friend had shared.
To my Mom and Dad, and all the other Moms and Dads of travelers (or future travelers), please read and try to understand...
Dear Parents:It’s me, Rachel. We haven’t formally met. I am not a licensed medical or psychological professional. I’m only a writer – a profession that requires little in the way of legitimate qualifications. Still, I hope you’ll hear me out. I’ve heard that your daughters – young women in their late teens and early twenties – have of late been considering the idea that they might be of the constitution and comportment to have some adventures. Maybe your daughter is a new high school graduate or in the middle of her college years or just graduated from some ivy-covered university where she spent hours poring over literature and philosophy and debating gender performance. Your daughter is educated and free-spirited and full of wonder, thanks in large part to the opportunities you have provided her.
A group of gap year students from Carpe Diem enjoy natural, organic mud masks at Rio Muchacho Organic Farm in Ecuador.
We spend most days working long hours under the hot Ecuadorian sun. Cold showers are usually not too painful, but I can never seem to get the dirt out from underneath my fingernails.
While life on the farm is relaxing, it is not necessarily a place to pamper yourself. But last Wednesday, a few volunteers and I decided to relax in the hammocks and cleanse our skin with organic facials.
"Baño Negro" face masks are made by grating a clay stone, mixing it with water and applying it to your face for about 20 minutes. After rinsing off the mask, we cut up fresh aloe vera leaves from the garden to put on our skin.
While life on the farm is relaxing, it is not necessarily a place to pamper yourself. But last Wednesday, a few volunteers and I decided to relax in the hammocks and cleanse our skin with organic facials.
"Baño Negro" face masks are made by grating a clay stone, mixing it with water and applying it to your face for about 20 minutes. After rinsing off the mask, we cut up fresh aloe vera leaves from the garden to put on our skin.
I sleep in an open-air cabana. There is no difference between inside and out. Each night as I close my eyes, I listen to the rustle of bats circling the room and the steady hum of a million different insects occupying the darkness. The frogs seem to croak the name of one of the workers on the farm: “Ed-garrrr,” they say, “Eddd-garrr.”
One night, a catfight ventured to the fourth floor where I sleep. The animals hissed and snarled while sprinting back and forth along the corridor of the room between sleeping girls. I shot up in my bed and attempted to shine my headlamp on the cats, but they were moving quickly and my pupils were still adjusting to the white light. I couldn’t catch a glimpse before they chased one another down the ladder-like staircase.
The next morning our floor was covered with fur and cat poop. We went downstairs for chores and found our fluffy farm pet lying dead under the bamboo sofa. It is still somewhat of a mystery what killed him. My guess is an ocelot.
Needless to say, the nights are never quiet, but they are always somewhat peaceful. I’m used to the sounds now. I find them comforting and familiar. I know the roosters begin to crow around 4:30 a.m. – even the little tan one with a broken vocal box. Leo usually passes by on his motorbike around 6 a.m. -- a signal for me to get out of bed. And I can now recognize the steady, high-pitched rumble of his moto, which is different from Edgar or Danilo.
I also know the sounds of the gates scattered around the property – the subtle, low drone of the main entrance or the long creak of the gate near the pigpens.
The ambient noise of this area is so different from what I know: there are no passing airplanes, no highways full of traffic in the distance, no TVs. At first the silence felt creepy, but now I think electric noise would be creepier.
One night, a catfight ventured to the fourth floor where I sleep. The animals hissed and snarled while sprinting back and forth along the corridor of the room between sleeping girls. I shot up in my bed and attempted to shine my headlamp on the cats, but they were moving quickly and my pupils were still adjusting to the white light. I couldn’t catch a glimpse before they chased one another down the ladder-like staircase.
The next morning our floor was covered with fur and cat poop. We went downstairs for chores and found our fluffy farm pet lying dead under the bamboo sofa. It is still somewhat of a mystery what killed him. My guess is an ocelot.
Needless to say, the nights are never quiet, but they are always somewhat peaceful. I’m used to the sounds now. I find them comforting and familiar. I know the roosters begin to crow around 4:30 a.m. – even the little tan one with a broken vocal box. Leo usually passes by on his motorbike around 6 a.m. -- a signal for me to get out of bed. And I can now recognize the steady, high-pitched rumble of his moto, which is different from Edgar or Danilo.
I also know the sounds of the gates scattered around the property – the subtle, low drone of the main entrance or the long creak of the gate near the pigpens.
The ambient noise of this area is so different from what I know: there are no passing airplanes, no highways full of traffic in the distance, no TVs. At first the silence felt creepy, but now I think electric noise would be creepier.
