story

I’ll set the scene:

Me (purple, floaty trousers, black and green Hawaiian shirt, slightly tanned, curly hair tied back), lying in my hammock in the “porch” of our “mansion”. It is HOT today, so hot in fact that I got in the “shower” earlier fully clothed just to cool down a bit. The sun is shining and the river flows idly, the grass is quite overgrown and bright, little seeds cling to my socks and trousers whenever I walk anywhere. Insects are constantly buzzing about, jumping up from the grass and circling through the air which hangs heavy and still with humidity. Frogs and mice occasionally peep out from their homes and the geckos in our “mansion” crawl silently across the walls and the ceiling. The crickets are buzzing and the birds chirping and every so often the rumbling of a motor crawls past as members of the community travel up and down the river. The giant leaves on the banana trees rustle slightly in a gentle breeze, and the sound of the shallow water dancing over the rocks in the river floats up from the bank. I can smell the rich scent of tropical nature, almost cloying and almost sweet. And I feel calm. The heat has soaked into my bones and it is bliss to lie here, embraced in the warmth of the air and the peace and serenity of the trees.

I have spent the morning working on my project. Hours and hours and hours of data collection and analysis, with hours and hours and hours to go. My ears are ringing from listening to my music too loudly, my mind is buzzing with thoughts of work, and my fingers are sore from clicking and dragging and typing. I’m taking a break. Whether it’s well-deserved I’m not so sure, but the heat and limitless time we have make it hard to concentrate.

Heather and I have been at the station for 9 days now. Just us. Here. Alone. In our paradise-like prison, or prison-like paradise; depending which mood we’re in. We’ve been on rations for a few days now because our food supply is dwindling so meals have been delightfully creative or completely boring. The flies are out in full force so we’re both covered in bites, but I think we’re more used to them now so they don’t bother us as much. Evening is settling in, the air is cooling slightly and the sun getting lower.

I’ll get back to work now. The tab of my spreadsheet is staring at me disparagingly from the bottom of my laptop screen and, as much as I wish they would, the photos won’t start sorting themselves.

*”quotation marks” used to indicate the metaphorical nature of these descriptive nouns. We don’t actually live in a mansion, but a 4 roomed, open, wooden building built on stilts. The porch refers to the area at the front of said building. We have a structure which does a very good imitation of a shower, but in reality is 3 small concrete walls and a shower curtain with a barrel that we pump full of river water when it gets low, and a tap coming out of it.

So it is (almost) that time again. The time to leave my family and friends behind in England and live in another country and culture for a significant period of time. This is, in fact, the 5th time I have taken off to another country with no return flight booked. The shortest period of time away has been 4 months, the longest, 10 months. This time I’m going for an intermediate 6 and a half months, planning to be home sometime at the end of July.

Something I hadn’t really expected to happen, was that each time I go away, it gets harder. It’s meant to get easier, isn’t it? Although I think I was probably at my most reckless and adventurous when I was 18, and so realistically it couldn’t have got any easier. Back then I couldn’t wait to travel, I was more than excited to leave the island and explore a different country and had absolutely no fear. Potentially due to the blissful ignorance of having never done anything like this before, and the fact that at that point in my life I felt really trapped somewhere I didn’t want to be. But things are quite different now. I’m 4 years older, I’m an awful lot happier and I’m actually sorta enjoying being at home, who’d have thought?

After a month of easy living, the prospect of having to go back to the rainforest actually gives me a little bubble of nerves in the pit of my stomach, something I’ve never felt before. It’s been quite emotional being back at home with my family, we’ve had our ups and downs which we always do, but it’s been a joy being surrounded by loved ones and I’ve had complete freedom. I haven’t had to work, or had any responsibility of any kind actually. It’s been wonderful. I’ve spent lots of quality time with our new kitten and my bunny, I’ve been writing a lot more, playing the piano, seeing my friends, being cold, having hot showers, forgetting how it feels to be constantly sweaty and itchy, you know… all the normal stuff.

I really ought to be packing right now. I leave Wednesday lunchtime so that gives me a meagre two days to sort my life out. And that is no easy task. For anyone thinking to themselves, what is she worried about, this experience sounds incredible! Read this: Rainforest frustrations and jungle revelations. It’s not so much the place or people or situations I’m worried about, it’s more the physical experience of living there. The water that tastes so strongly of chlorine I’ve had dehydration sickness twice now, the constant itching, scratching and scabbing, the humidity that is so high I’m almost never dry, the fact that communication is dependent on how many hours a day I sit at an uncomfortable table and try and learn Spanish.

I am, of course, completely neglecting to mention all the really awesome things about living there. When I am back in Ecuador and super inspired and in love with the rainforest, I will write a post about how completely amazing it is to be living there and make you all sick with jealousy. But for now my overriding emotions are nervousness and a deep aversion to my suitcase.