Unusual Roomates

by Ellen Buckland (Spain)

Making a local connection Ecuador

The murky cement walls and corrugated iron door were making me uneasy. It felt a little like I had landed in a prison cell, albeit one with a resident hen roosting in the corner. As I drank in my new surroundings I thought to myself how strange the human mind could be – here I was in the middle of the Andes, thousands of miles from the land I called home, and yet I could swear that the countryside smell was exactly the same. I shook myself and headed for the door, causing the poor hen to gracelessly make a break for the exit herself. Shame, I thought we were roommates. Outside the air was sharp and clean, a freshness that paid tribute to the towering snowcapped volcano which presided over the tiny village. “Se llama Cayambe” the truck driver Fabricio had shouted to me a few weeks ago, gesticulating excitedly towards the mountain as we hurtled down the pothole ridden track at a rather concerning speed. Fabricio´s enthusiasm for Ecuador´s natural beauty had become evident during the ninety-minute drive from Quito to Picalqui, with waterfalls, forests, and even the range of roadkill featuring on his guided journey. Both his chatter and the shifting landscape had proved a welcome distraction from my nerves as we ventured further and further into the mountains, far from city dwellings and creature comforts. Now I longed for Fabricio´s chatter and yet simultaneously resented its memory. The silence in this village was profound and incessant. Not literal silence of course, as the roosters and the packs of dogs, the rustling corn stalks and rattling window panes, the bluebottles and field mice, all contributed to a cacophony of constant sound. No, the silence here was unique, it was human. The building I had lived in for a week housed four young children, who moved with the stealth of cat burglars and spoke in hushed whispers. Every morning they tapped softly on my metal awning and beckoned me to share their bread rolls and fresh milk, unnervingly still warm from the cow´s udder. No matter how many ridiculous faces I pulled, all I could provoke were stifled giggles and averted eyes. The adults in the village were no different. The children´s mother María worked from dawn until dusk picking roses for export on a nearby plantation and arrived home so bone tired that she could barely string two words together. Her husband had set out for Madrid to bring them fortune four years back and had never returned. His picture still held pride of place by the kitchen sink. My quest for human connection persisted while the tendrils of traveller loneliness began to curl around me. Every day I ambled up the track past the local shop (whose stock consisted in its entirety of bananas, eggs, white rice, and lollipops) and eagerly blurted out my greetings to the wearied looking trader in her battered lilac hat, “Buenos días Señora, cómo está usted?”, meeting with no more than a nod or a strained smile. Even the multitude of roaming dogs shied away from me, growling low in their throats when I approached for a cuddle. Then one crisp February morning I jolted awake to find four pairs of bright eyes boring down on me. Once my sleep ridden brain processed that this was neither a horror film nor a nightmare, I pulled myself up and asked what was going on; “Niños que pasa?”. Kevin, the eldest at nine years old, folded my hand in his and silently led me outside, completely unaware of this small gesture´s significance. Pointing to a spot by the property fence I squinted hard. Three other small shapes joined us and I suddenly realised that all the children were shaking and clutching their faces. What was out there?! “Squawwwwk!” The raggedy hen came rushing towards me and I saw it instantaneously. There on top of her feathered crown was draped a strange and devastatingly foreign garment; a pair of lacy women´s underpants which could only belong to yours truly. I looked down at the shaking children as the giggles coursed through their small frames and succumbed myself to laughter too.