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Communication is rarely strictly verbal. In fact, more often than not during encounters unfamiliar yet seemingly mundane, speaking is one of my clumsier forms of articulation. This becomes especially true when I travel. I often picture the imminent metaphor of the Tower of Babel, bombarding me with its behemoth and cryptic tower of confusion. Then I remember that communication is all about perspective, and the tower is suddenly less intimidating. Equipped with a decent undertaking of the Spanish language, and an eagerness to connect, we ventured further north to the Ecuadorian border from Peru in search of dizzying mountain tops and Incan culture. Our driver Carlos picked us up outside our hostel in the small town of Caraz for the second day in a row right about sunrise. Wallet worn pockets on faded jeans were held up with a silver inlaid belt buckle. Hands the size of cabbages tucked loose black hair into a baseball cap, and intense but friendly eyes greeted us with familiarity. The streets this early were calm and peaceful. Taking Quechuan instruction from our hostel owner, Carlos ushered us into his van and we embarked on the 90 minute drive to the Laguna trail head. Carlos had been steadfastly quiet, his eyes kind and polite. Despite a few muffled attempts to ask about family the conversation had no spark, so the aside from the groans of non-existent shocks meeting a hellishly bumpy road, we sat in silence. While we hiked Carlos waited. A bottle of Inca Cola and bag of sweet rolls kept him company throughout the day until our weary gringo legs reappeared from the valley some hours later- all in for a day’s wage of about $30. Hungry and tired after weeks of hikes and beyond sick of protein bars, we attempted to find a restaurant. It being a Sunday, and Peru being a country where Spanish heritages take their toll on idle travelers, made for a desperately low return. We ushered up the Spanish we knew to ask the driver if he knew a place for some lunch. Anyplace, just let it the food be hot. Opening up Google maps and picking a restaurant that appeared to be open, we pointed eagerly to the name of the restaurant. Just blank stares and silence. Re-phrasing, re-gesturing and handing him the phone to observe familiar road names or landmarks all yielded the same result. We pocketed the phone, bashful, and resigned to the reality that everything was closed so lunch was whatever crumbs remained in the backpack. The frustration and confusion of that communication denouement was not without hope-within another 10 minutes or so, we pulled into a gravel parking lot. An open-aired restaurant with white plastic tables and a garden exploding with color emerged. Thrilled for a hot meal, we invited the driver to eat with us; ‘Ordene lo que quiera’ we told him, and eagerly hopped out of the van. We ordered the litany of hot coffees, ceviche, hot chicken soup and whatever looked welcoming. Carlos however, was unmoved and stared at the menu without blunking. A slight look of desperation crossed his face, and finally he ushered the words to ask the waiter for cuy- the Peruvian national dish of skewered guinea pig. A look of relief crossed his face as the waiter gestured positively, in which he followed up asking ‘ contas questas?’. Equivalent to about $9USD, Carlos’s eyes widened; one third days wage was the asking price for his lunch, and he instantly changed his mind to the soup for $2.50. His body stiff and rigid, our driver had likely never been to a restaurant like this before, and surely was unable to read. The telltale signs of this oversight hit us and our ignorance was replaced with a sense of relief. Once the food was brought to the table and bread shared, the air was immediately lighter. We shared our meal with Carlos, and slowly, shared our stories. Broken Spanish crisscrossed the table as if two old friends occupied our seats- maybe not always as clear as one would hope, but the reality of our table was that food and the desire to understand transcended our fluency for language.