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is 4 am. The alarm goes off and I try to get up, it is a cold morning in Salinas de Guaranda, Ecuador. The house is made up of wood, which creaks under my feet. I wear a wool poncho and I go to prepare a cup of Nescafe. I look out the window, the village is immersed in the fog and slowly it is waking up. I hear dogs barking at the passing donkeys and llamas loaded with the fresh milk containers their owners are going to bestow to the cheese factory near my house. Suddenly, the headlights of a car break the twilight, it is the workers of the Fundación who come to pick me up, we are going to visit the indigenous communities of the subtropical region of SalinasMunicipality. I finish drinking my coffee and go to meet them downstairs. I get in the car, Mauricio, the driver, is taciturn, three other workers accompany us. As usual, we are all crammed. In the Andean region cars are rare, those who own one usually give a lift to the people met in the street, so in a 5-seater car can fit 6/7 adults, plus 8/9 in the loading area. I do not like this inevitable contact with strangers but I pretend nothing and try to focus on the landscape. The sun begins to colour the sky and the sea of clouds thins out. We are going to the Chazojuan community. The road is very ugly, full of potholes, ravines, streams to wade across. I am excited and a little scared, but I cannot share my emotions with my travel companions because I do not speak Spanish. Very often, in the evenings, I get severe headaches due to the effort of trying to understand what the other volunteers are sharing. After almost 4 hours of the trip, we reach our destination. The activities of the day consist of visiting the families with small children, praying with the catechist and the children. They all look at me because I am the only foreigner, the workers introduce me to the people we meet. I am enchanted by the beauty I perceive around me, my eyes are thirsty of the colours of nature, my heart hungry for staying with them. During the afternoon, in the subtropic area, the fog rises and a thin and constant drizzle begins to fall. It is time to go back home. On the side of the road, a woman and an elderly man ask for a lift. They seem, father and daughter, he is in his seventies, he is thin, his face full of wrinkles, she is a bit older than me. While we are approaching them I propose to go behind in the loading area to give my seat to the newcomers. For me, it is the most reasonable thing to do because it is raining and I am wearing a waterproof jacket and trousers, and I am younger than them. Nobody pays attention to me. Mauriciogreets them and stops. The lady gets into the car and sits close to me, her father jumps with extreme agility in the loading area. It seems that he does not perceive the rain and the cold, even if the is wearing only a cotton shirt, trousers and slippers. The indifference of my travel companions offended me and I keep silent. According to my western culture, I am doing something wrong, and I cannot stop worrying for him. I am used to protecting elderly people, to give them my sit on the bus. For my new friends is inconceivable that a woman, and even more a new guest sits under the rain. That afternoon of anxiety I learned to keep silent, to observe and to welcome a different point of view from mine. It was the first of many school days.