August 30, 2025, Ecuador. The trip into Intag took far longer than I expected. The road was rough, winding through steep valleys and mountain ridges, and the final stretch seemed to go on forever. It took nearly three hours to reach Cuellaje. Along the way, Kurt got off the bus after Apuela, while I continued on toward town.

When I finally arrived, I asked a few people where to find Río Lindo. Directions were somewhat vague—everyone seemed to know where it was, but nobody explained it quite the same way. Eventually I spotted Kurt again in the plaza. He needed to pick up supplies at the market, so we walked together. I bought yogurt and fruit while he finished his errands, and then he helped me carry my things to the community health center where I would be staying.

From the beginning, I liked him. He was thoughtful, easygoing, and seemed genuinely invested in the community.

At the center I met his mother, Janet, who immediately struck me as practical, organized, and attentive. She wanted to make sure I knew where everything was, whether I was eating enough, and what time I preferred meals. It was obvious she took hospitality seriously.

That evening I joined Teresa, another guest and former teacher, for dinner. Before long Janet and Kurt joined us, and what began as a simple meal turned into a long, lively conversation about education, politics, travel, and life in Ecuador.

After dinner I asked Kurt if he would show me the nearby trails.

We set out with flashlights and walked quietly through the darkness. The forest seemed alive with sounds. We looked for snakes, watched insects moving through the undergrowth, and eventually found ourselves standing in a clearing filled with fireflies.

For several minutes neither of us said much.

We simply watched.

The tiny lights drifted through the darkness like floating embers.

It was a beautiful introduction to Intag.

August 31. I woke around 7:30 and stepped outside to take in the view.

The valley stretched away below me, green and misty in the morning light. It was difficult to imagine a more peaceful setting.

Breakfast introduced me to one of the young women working at the center, who wanted to practice her English. Janet joined us and, before long, conversation drifted toward people we both knew.

She spoke candidly about Curtis, Evelyn’s former boyfriend. Janet had met him during his time volunteering in the area and felt he had spent much of that time focused on himself. She described him as young and somewhat immature, a perspective that helped me better understand some of the stories Evelyn had shared.

Later, Kurt and I walked uphill toward San Pablo.

The climb was steep but beautiful. Along the way we met an older woman carrying a basket on her back. She told us about growing up in the region with little access to education. She never learned to read or write, but she knew how to count, manage money, cultivate crops, and weave baskets. As she explained the basket-making process, I was struck by how much knowledge exists outside formal schooling.

Farther up the road we met a man selling strawberries he had grown himself. He spoke little, but his kindness was unmistakable. Later Cecilia, one of the teachers, told me she often bought fruit from him and confirmed that he was known as a particularly generous person.

The higher we climbed, the more expansive the views became. Deep quebradas cut through the landscape, and native trees filled the valleys below.

Unfortunately, my lingering digestive issues reminded me that travel isn’t always glamorous. At one point I had to make an unscheduled stop before continuing.

Eventually we returned to the center, and later that day Kurt, Teresa, and I headed into town.

It was market day.

The streets were filled with people buying supplies, catching up with neighbors, and conducting the ordinary business of life. I found myself enjoying the rhythm of the place more than any particular activity.

By evening I felt increasingly settled.

I was no longer just passing through.

September 1. That morning I met Elisa, one of the cooks at the center. At first she seemed quiet and reserved, but once we started talking, she opened up. Our conversation eventually expanded to include Nelson, a local resident with experience in construction, development projects, and environmental issues.

The discussion ranged widely.

Nelson spoke passionately about mining and encouraged me to learn more about the work of environmental activist Carlos Zorrilla and the decades-long effort to protect Intag from large-scale mining projects. He described the region’s ongoing struggle to balance economic opportunity with environmental preservation.

Kurt added another perspective.

During a recent four-month stay, he explained, Ecuador had suffered severe electricity shortages because drought conditions reduced water levels at hydroelectric facilities. Since much of the country’s energy comes from hydroelectric power, the effects were widespread. Farmers who traditionally burned fields to improve soil fertility were increasingly discouraged from doing so because of the risk of uncontrolled wildfires.

Later, Elisa shared stories about Venezuelan immigrants.

She knew several families who had arrived in Ecuador after economic collapse made life increasingly difficult in Venezuela. Some had been professionals—teachers, engineers, and other skilled workers—but were willing to take whatever jobs they could find. According to Elisa, many worked extraordinarily hard simply because survival required it.

The conversation offered a window into realities rarely captured in travel guides.

Economic hardship, migration, environmental conflict, and resilience all existed alongside the extraordinary beauty of the region.

That afternoon I walked with Elisa toward her home and continued up the hillside with her daughter and Kurt. The views were stunning.

Everywhere I looked, steep green mountains folded into one another.

By evening I returned to the center feeling as though I had learned more about Ecuador in a single day than I had during several weeks of sightseeing.

The country’s story was far more complicated—and far more interesting—than I had initially understood.

September 2. For the second morning in a row, I woke to the sound of chainsaws. Workers were cutting alder trees on the hillside above the road. The mayor believed the trees posed a danger during the rainy season, but from where I stood it seemed equally possible that removing them would increase the risk of landslides. I wasn’t qualified to judge the decision, but hearing chainsaws echo through the valley all morning made me uneasy.

After breakfast I called Shawn to wish him a happy birthday. Then, noticing that Oscar and the others were heading uphill to inspect the coffee plants, I decided to join them.

The climb was far steeper than it looked from below. We scrambled up a slope that felt nearly vertical before reaching rows of coffee plants loaded with cherries. Some were bright red Geisha coffee cherries, others yellow Bourbon varieties. Until then, I had never paid much attention to how coffee looked before it became coffee.

For the next four hours I picked coffee beans.

The work was far harder than I expected. Standing on steep slopes required constant concentration. The basket hanging from my neck grew heavier with each handful, and the cord dug into my shoulders. Gradually I learned how to identify ripe cherries by touch and how to remove them without damaging the branch. There was a rhythm to it, and eventually I found myself enjoying the process. Every so often I would pause, listen to birdsong drifting through the valley, and admire the view.

It was exhausting work but deeply satisfying.

Back at the farm, we washed the harvested coffee and rested.

Later I met Fausto, Oscar’s older brother, who worked on another finca in Rosario. Like many conversations in rural Ecuador, ours soon turned to economics, employment, and opportunity.

Fausto and Oscar spoke about illegal gold mining operations near Buenos Aires, Ecuador, close to the Colombian border. According to them, competing criminal groups fought for control of the mines, and local people sometimes accepted dangerous jobs because there were few alternatives. They described a region where poverty, violence, and lack of opportunity had created conditions that many felt powerless to change.

The discussion left me reflecting on how often economic desperation shapes people’s choices.

For visitors, Ecuador can seem idyllic. For many residents, the reality is more complicated.

That evening I sat quietly on the terrace watching clouds drift across the mountains. My muscles ached from coffee picking, but it felt like the pleasant fatigue that comes from doing something real and tangible.

September 3. I woke around 7:30 and moved into a more rustic cabin to make room for a large group that was arriving later in the day.

Before breakfast I climbed to a viewpoint and watched swallows busily constructing a nest beneath the roofline of the main house. The valley was peaceful, and for a while I simply stood there enjoying the morning.

Afterward I helped Kurt gather sheets and towels and did a bit of sweeping. During my time at Río Lindo I had become accustomed to spending time with the staff, helping where I could, and sharing conversations throughout the day. With Janet back and a large group arriving, the atmosphere felt different.

I decided to spend much of the day exploring.

I walked toward San Alberto along the same road Kurt and I had followed earlier. The river looked inviting, but I wasn’t eager to soak my shoes crossing it, so I turned back and returned to town.

Janet had arranged for me to meet Ned, the mayor.

When I arrived at the municipal office, he wasn’t there. Someone directed me to his house, where I found him having lunch with his family. I felt awkward interrupting, but Ned immediately stood up, welcomed me, and hurried back to his office so we could talk.

We ended up speaking for more than an hour. He was thoughtful, reflective, and unusually candid.

At one point we discussed the personalities often drawn to politics. Ned suggested that many politicians are either narcissists or people who have spent their lives dealing with narcissists. The conversation eventually drifted toward childhood experiences, family dynamics, and how deeply our early years shape us. We didn’t agree on everything, but I appreciated his willingness to think openly about difficult subjects.

I also asked him about the alder trees being cut down.

He explained that some were planted species grown as a cash crop for furniture production and were typically harvested every ten to fifteen years. Janet was selling some of hers to the town, which would remove them and advise her on replacement plantings. The explanation didn’t completely ease my concerns, but it helped me understand the reasoning.

Back at Río Lindo, a meeting was underway between health center staff and a visiting evangelical group. Janet made it clear that the discussion was private, and although my curiosity got the better of me briefly, I respected the boundary.

Fortunately, the evening offered other opportunities.

I met a biologist named Toni, who showed me photographs of frogs, birds, and wildlife from the region. He was particularly excited about a large eagle nesting somewhere in Intag and shared images from a camera monitoring the nest. If I ever returned, he promised to show me the birds in person.

I also met Eric, an American from Florida who had married the director of the community health center and now lived locally. The two men shared stories about adapting to life in Ecuador, and I found myself fascinated by the different paths that had brought people here.

By the end of the evening, the terrace was quiet.

The stars appeared one by one above the valley, and despite the bright moon, the night sky was still impressive. I lingered outside longer than usual, enjoying the cool air and hoping to spot more fireflies.

September 4. The morning was chilly. I had left all the windows of my rustic cabin open and woke to cool mountain air. Before breakfast I booked a room in Mindo, my next destination, and then joined Janet for one final excursion.

She planned to visit the school above town and invited me to come along.

As we climbed the hill, Janet entertained me with stories about former guests. Some were wonderful. Others were memorable for entirely different reasons. Her favorite involved a group of teenage athletes who managed to get drunk during a community celebration, while another concerned a guest whose enthusiasm for discussing salvation eventually convinced Janet that a different lodging arrangement might be best.

At the school we met Cecilia. I was delighted to see her. There were only about ten students that day, all Indigenous children from the surrounding area. Janet had prepared a lesson about helping a lost traveler. Her plan involved me.

After she taught the vocabulary, I walked into the classroom pretending to be lost. The children immediately sprang into action. They offered help, directions, food, water, and a place to sit. Their kindness was instinctive and genuine.

We repeated the exercise several times and then reinforced the lesson through games. Watching Janet teach reminded me how skilled she was. She managed to make the children feel both confident and engaged.

Later, Cecilia spoke about communities in the region and their hopes for the students. Both she and Janet shared the same goal: helping as many children as possible reach university. Given the obstacles many faced, it was an ambitious dream, but one they pursued with determination.

I spent part of the afternoon watching birds near the dining area and photographing those that visited the banana feeder. I kept hoping to see the spectacular Andean cock-of-the-rock, but it remained elusive.

Later, over lunch, I talked with Oscar while he hacked away at thick vines overtaking coffee plants behind the kitchen.

Oscar seemed incapable of sitting still.

As we talked, he told me about a serious motorcycle accident that had left him with a badly broken leg and required a difficult journey by horse to reach medical care. Then he told me about his brother Luis, who survived an even more horrific machete injury and spent six months recovering in the hospital. Their stories were matter-of-fact, told without self-pity, but they revealed the realities of life in remote mountain communities.

He also described growing up in Piñán, where electricity had arrived only about a dozen years earlier and internet service even more recently. Before then, families gathered around the kitchen fire in the evenings to talk, plan, and share stories. Communication between distant communities sometimes relied on signal fires in the mountains. It felt like listening to someone describe a different century, yet for Oscar it was simply his childhood.

As the day ended, I found myself reflecting on how much I had learned in Intag.

The region’s beauty was undeniable, but what stayed with me most were the people—the teachers trying to open doors for their students, the farmers adapting to difficult circumstances, the community leaders protecting what they loved, and the families whose stories connected the present to a very recent past.

September 5. I woke at 7:30 and took one last short walk down to the river. The morning was peaceful, and I was savoring my final hours in Intag when Patrizia came running toward me with urgent news.

“The two o’clock bus isn’t running,” she said. “The ten o’clock bus is leaving at 9:30.”

Suddenly my leisurely morning disappeared.

I hurried back, packed my belongings, and headed to the dining area to confirm the situation with Janet. She reassured me not to worry.

“The bus won’t leave until ten,” she said confidently.

As it turned out, she was right.

Still, Janet preferred not to take chances and insisted I arrive early. By 9:30, Oscar, Kurt, and I were waiting in town. We spent the time talking and watching the activity around us until what I came to think of as the Intag cattle truck arrived—a pickup-style vehicle used to transport both passengers and cargo through the valley.

Oscar, as always, was thoughtful. He encouraged me to ride in the front seat rather than in the back with my pack. The ride was still uncomfortable, but I appreciated the gesture.

Saying goodbye was harder than I expected.

During my short stay, Janet, Oscar, Kurt, Dayana, and the others had made me feel genuinely welcome. Before we parted, Oscar invited me to visit him when he was back home. I hope someday I will.

I ended up sitting next to an older teacher for the ride toward Apuela. We spent much of the journey talking about the community, local schools, plants, and daily life in the valley. It was exactly the kind of conversation I had come to value in Ecuador—informal, unhurried, and unexpectedly educational.

When we reached Apuela, another small transportation drama unfolded.

The bus that had supposedly been reserved for teachers never appeared. Instead, the regular bus arrived already crowded with passengers. Fortunately, Dayana had saved me a seat. Many others weren’t as lucky and had to wait for the next bus.

The ride gave us several hours to talk.

Dayana was curious about life in the United States and asked thoughtful questions about salaries, housing costs, politics, and the economy. Like many people I met in Ecuador, she was trying to understand what everyday life in America was actually like, beyond what she saw in movies and social media.

We also talked about travel. She showed me photographs from a trip to Miraflores, Peru, and spoke enthusiastically about future plans. Bolivia and Brazil were high on her list.

I was glad to have her company for the journey.

When we reached Cotacachi, we said our goodbyes, and I boarded another bus for Otavalo. I thought I would have plenty of time to kill before checking into my apartment, but everything connected perfectly. I arrived almost exactly when I had predicted, shortly after one o’clock.

Alberto met me with the keys.

I told him about my time in Intag and some of the people I had met there. He seemed genuinely pleased that the visit had gone so well.

After dropping my bags in the apartment, I headed back out and barely returned indoors for the rest of the day.

Otavalo was in full festival mode.

Marching bands filled the streets around Plaza Bolívar, their music echoing off the buildings. Curious, I wandered over to watch. The musicians were energetic and enthusiastic, though the volume was overwhelming. Later I walked to Plaza Cívica, where crews were preparing for an evening concert. One of the groups was rehearsing, but neither the music nor the deafening sound system inspired me to stay.

Instead, I returned for the six o’clock parade.

What I expected to be a brief stop turned into four hours.

The parade was colorful, lively, and endlessly entertaining. Dancers, musicians, elaborate costumes, decorated vehicles, and community groups streamed through the streets. Much of the time I found myself recording video, trying to capture the atmosphere.

The celebration was wonderful, but it was also astonishingly loud.

Many of the vehicles carried enormous sound systems with subwoofers mounted in trunks and truck beds directly in front of the dancers. Even wearing earplugs, my ears were ringing afterward. It was a reminder that hearing loss often arrives one festival, concert, or parade at a time.

By ten o’clock I was exhausted.

I stopped at a small Mexican taco restaurant for a chicken-and-cheese taco. To my surprise, Alberto was there as well. His brother worked at the restaurant, and he happened to be eating dinner there.

After chatting briefly, I ordered my food to go, thanked the staff, and headed home.

The evening, however, wasn’t quite finished.

Outside my apartment, the parade continued to pass. Floats rolled through the streets while drivers revved their engines repeatedly as part of what appeared to be an impromptu car show. For nearly half an hour the noise was almost unbelievable.

Eventually the procession moved on.

The streets quieted, and for the first time all day, Otavalo grew still.

I climbed into bed tired, slightly deafened, and happy to be back.