It’s not Morgana in Excalibur…..or Oklahomans at Grand Lake or Carlton Landing. I’m talking about South American, indigenous women at a lake in Ecuador.  It is stunning, educational and epiphanic all in one. The confluence of tribal people and their surroundings is the imagery that always permeates my experiences as a traveler. As in many cultures, divisions of social classes are apparent in the communities. “Indigenas,” “mestizos,” “longas,” “gringos,” and “gringuitos” are various names given to describe different people; natives, mixed-race, Indian girls, Americans, etc.

Regardless of the labels, what struck me most were the actions and vocations of the natives in their communities and the interaction with their natural resources. One particular day as we were traveling back from the Otavalo textile market in Ecuador, our guide drove us through magical backroads and villages. We saw the tall reeds of cornfields and feathery, tussock grasses rustling in the northern highlands of the Andes. We saw spiky aloe vera bordering the fertile patchwork of farmlands. It was a sensual experience to pass a town perfumed by the abundance of roses grown there. This went on for a while and it felt comfortable to enjoy it from the comfort of our car in the misty weather.

At one fork in the road, our driver/guide pulled up alongside San Pablo Lake. He asked us if we wanted to exit the car to walk up to the shore of the lake. As tempting as it was to stay in the car after a long day of sightseeing at the equator and Otavalo, we made the right decision to power through it. We exited the car to experience the lake up close. Walking down a gravel road, we saw grazing hogs and simple cottages. In the distance, I saw an authentic Ecuadorian man’s hat. “Panama hats, bowler hats, and stovepipe hats”—there are various styles the men and women wear in South America. All I saw at this point was the hat on a figure standing under a shack of some sort. I looked at my husband and said something to the effect that I knew we stumbled upon something significant. As we approached the man, we made eye contact. I asked if I could take his photo. He beamed a huge smile as he stood there in a bright, blue cape under the shelter of the shack.

The man looked out onto the expanse of the lake where he seemed to be supervising the work of three ladies engaged in a rustic task involving buckets of quinoa, rocks, and a colorful, little rowboat nearby. How could I have almost missed this? Just the glint off the smoky blue lake was an unforgettable sight and added a whole new dimension to our Ecuador experience. It was the first lake we encountered on this trip before we found the famous Quilotoa Lake. In a swath of mauve light shimmering off the distant hills, the incandescent glow provided a halo around this entire lake scene. It was ghostly and preternatural… and I was in awe while trying to act quickly with my camera settings.

The spectrum of smoky blue and mauve colors of the hills, sky, and rippling waves was punctuated by a striking teal and yellow rowboat floating nearby. It appeared to be suspended and floating there without a visible tethered rope. Adding to the elements of this ethereal scene, I photographed the lone boat. I thought of so many possible captions to this picture of the singularity of it amidst the huge expanse of the lake. We approached the ladies and our tour guide realized quickly that they could not speak Español so he said a few Quichua words. (In Ecuador, it’s called Quichua; in Peru, it’s called Quechua.) From that point on, we communicated in body language. I asked if I could take their photos and I tipped them. They seemed amused that anyone would find their menial labor important and giggled as they stuffed the money into their blouses. They pounded and churned the moist quinoa over a stone they were huddled over in their headscarves and bare feet.

Ornate gold or copper beaded necklaces hugged their necks and red beaded bracelets graced their wrists. Delicate white blouses and long skirts were their “work uniform” as they ferociously tackled their tasks. When I photographed the elderly ladies, I found myself touched by their enduring femininity. The advanced years of life formed deep creases on their expressive faces from years of toiling in the heat and years of smiles and joy. Their faces were wind-swept by the breezes coming off the Andes mountains. Their complexion was browned by the high altitude and a life lived outside in the fertile highlands. Their life’s work was done by their hands, their hearts, and their psyches using the natural resources around them. It surely doubled as built-in therapy. While many people flock to resorts and spas for rest and relaxation or to recharge, the indigenous people exist and thrive in a bucolic environment already.

There were many questions we had for the ladies about this process but the language barrier denied us that discovery. I relinquished myself into the visuals of it all. Some things do not have to be so tangible or experiential. Some can just be visceral. The energy alone would be the emotional souvenir of this experience. As we walked off, the satisfaction I felt came from the realization that we seized this moment by keeping up our momentum of discovery. Instead of remaining in the car for shelter from the frequent sprinkling, we immersed in magical San Pablo lake. We witnessed indigenous people at work and we spread goodwill by taking an interest in their vocation and tipping them for their photos. This wasn’t on the itinerary and it wasn’t a planned excursion. It was the spontaneity and authenticity of indigenous “tourism” and understanding how the natives use their resources. A bonus for me was to truly appreciate and witness how women in the world age gracefully while not letting go of the rituals of adorning themselves in ornate jewelry, barefoot and all! I simply refer to that visual as the “ladies of the lake” because of the mythical quality that the scene provided in that setting.

©Gina Michalopulos Kingsley

photos by Gina Michalopulos Kingsley

Stories like this can be found in the book Vagabonderie by Gina Michalopulos Kingsley. Published by Design Vault Press.