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The air does not move here, it holds its breath not wanting to miss a moment of this beauty. I would too, the lush green earth, the calm waters, the mountains, it is all quite breathtaking. I am in a little village in Ecuador, halfway across the world and nowhere near home. My accommodation for the past 3 days has been a tent set up in a tree house along with my fellow travelers. I have hiked into the Amazonian forest, listened to the last shaman of the village express his views on his sons not wanting to take up the family legacy and used half my bottle of bug spray, in 3 days. Life is simple here and I am reminded that the water is my friend. To get to other neighboring villages, our only means of transport is by water. I am from a village by the river too, so in a comforting way, the boat ride feels like home. It is our last day in the village, and we must make our way back to the city. To get to the city on time, we need to take the first boat at the crack of dawn. Our breakfast is a hurried mish mash of last nights leftovers as we hurry to the dock to wait. We watch the sun rise and murmur to ourselves on how we could have easily gotten an extra hour or two of sleep. The boat arrives with no explanations given; no explanation is needed. We are just grateful for the moving air. I smile and repeat to myself the “the water is my friend”. The water connects us in ways we are yet to unravel, deep calls to deep as I close my eyes in anticipation of the long ride back to “civilization.” We finally arrive at the other side of the river, a few short naps and joy-filled conversations later. We are greeted by traders selling their wares, with some eagerly following us in a bid to sell us food, drinks, etc. We walk hurriedly attempting to get out of the chaos while our guide waves them off in Spanish. Except for the occasional smiles I offer the traders beckoning for our attention, my minimal knowledge of the language keeps me mute. We keep walking. A man appears beside our guide. They exchange pleasantries but it does not seem like they know each other. We do not know this man either. He is dark skinned, much darker than the other people we have come across so far. I secretly wonder at the idea of a black Latino and laugh at myself for not considering this possibility till this very moment. We stop and try to get our bearings while attempting to contact our designated driver. The man from before is still here. He walks up to me and offers his hand for a handshake. I shoot my fellow travelers a confused look as I return the favor. He takes my hand, cradling it in his. His hands feel like hard work and sunshine. He inspects my palms carefully, like someone familiar with handling fragile objects, perhaps a potter. After what seemed like eternity, he looks at me with a satisfied smile and says “somos lo mismo” “we are the same”. My skin is the same as his but different. This black is different. I am halfway across the world and no where near home, yet “somos lo mismo” — We are all the same.