Oranges in the Ecuadorian Highlands

It's six in the morning when I wake to birdsong in Baños de Agua Santa, a colourful town of bold reds, blues, and greens, nestled in amongst the mountains of Ecuador’s central highlands. A breeze skirts the awakening streets, shifting the wares of the market traders setting up for breakfast and bringing with it the damp, lush scent of morning mists from the mountains, and a wild, heady hint of the nearby Amazon.

Breakfast is on a wooden veranda, painted blue, with a view of the bustling street beyond. I fill up my plate with fresh local fruits and enjoy the unique tranquility of being a solo traveller in a new town. I set my plate down at a wobbly table and unfold a tourist map, my long hair drying in the sun.

I trace my finger over a curving footpath that winds around an artist’s rendering of the surrounding mountains, and estimate out a cyclical hike that will take much of the day. It begins between the dusty back gardens of two little farm houses, and then onwards with a sharp ascent, around a corner and into the wooded foothills beyond.

I set off on foot from my bright little hostel with water and a sandwich in my bag, heading for the far edge of town. For the first hour it’s quiet as the clangs and calls of the town fall away, the higher I trek. I hum a bit for company, but stop mid-tune when a clearing in the trees affords me a sudden, unexpected view. From here I can see the whole town, a multi-coloured miniature in the shape of the valley: the very last stop before the jungle, known in the travel guides as “the gateway to the Amazon.” Beyond, there's nothing but green for as far as the eye can see.

It’s as I’m admiring this vista that an elderly couple appear behind me, their arms laden down with bags of supplies that they’ve carried up from the town below. “Hola!” the gentleman calls, grinning toothlessly to reveal a handsome set of pink gums. “¿Cómo estás, chiquita?”

They’re older than my grandparents, but they’re nimble on the steep path, catching up to my viewpoint in no time at all and lugging the supplies along like they're nothing. They cast a glance over the town below, and then the lady grins, asking “¿turista?”

I tell them that I am a tourist in Baños, but that I live in Guayaquil—the largest city in Ecuador—which seems as distant to them as the idea of London, England. “But how did you get here?” they keep asking, like the sight of me here in their mountains makes no sense at all. My Spanish is far too basic to detail the complex life choices that have led me to this point, so I tell them instead, “El autobús,” and they laugh.

They are farmers, they tell me, and they grow oranges on their land, further along the track. I agree to walk with them a while, and it’s pleasant and easy, navigating the meandering tributaries of a conversation about life and how strange and good it is. Then we reach a fork in the trail, and the lady stops me with a hand on my arm, saying “It's this way for oranges.” And so, I forget about the trail etched out on my tourist map for an hour or so, and I follow them down an overgrown track to see the citrus trees for myself.

It’s strange and good, and I go away with a backpack full of little Ecuadorian oranges.

Morning Mists over Baños

Enjoying the solitude of the foothills