Animal Farm - Otavalo Style

April 26^th

Susie and Jacky (Mike's sisters) contemplating breakfast?

     Those of us who are meat eaters  in the western world (we are aspiring vegetarians who can’t quite make the leap) rarely confront the connection between the cute animals we see on farms, and the concoction served on our plates in restaurants or at home.  There are exceptions of course – those who hunt, and those who actually work in slaughter-houses, but any moral objections we may have about the treatment of animals is conveniently shielded by societies that do a good job of masking the more unpleasant aspects of our lifestyles.

     The Otavalo animal market does not expose us to the actual slaughter animals, but it is an incredible display of the trading relationship between people and the animals we eat.  Held on Saturday mornings in a field on the edge of town, it is a feast for the photographer, as well as a preparation for feasts to come.  Walking to the market early in the morning (between 6 and 7 is good), the first awareness of something different is the sight of people walking away from the field carrying chickens or walking a pig. Then we come to the main road where large numbers of people are gathered, either arriving or waiting for a ride to leave with their new lively purchases. The entrance was a narrow gap in the fence on the side of the road, so we clambered through along with others making their way in. There were a handful of observers such as our selves, but it seemed that most people were there to trade. The rough field was divided up according to animal type – chickens along one side, pigs in the middle (surprise!), cattle at the far end, a handful of sheeps, goats and llamas, and other assorted small animals such as cats, dogs and guinea pigs near the entrance. 

 

     People selling animals simply stood there waiting for prospective buyers to come and make their bids.  A lot of Quechua was being spoken, so it was hard to understand the process.  The small animals traded quite quickly – perhaps for fairly standard prices, but haggling over the larger animals appeared to be a longer process, with people engaged in focused, though not very intense discussions.  In some cases, children were there selling animals.  Indeed, our host, Margot told us that when she was quite young, she would go to the market with a small collection of pigs and be expected to sell them there.

 

     This really isn’t Sainsbury’s or Stop-and-Shop.  Apart from the fact that the products are still alive, all of the activity is overlooked by the surrounding mountains and, when we were there, the sun rising above the mighty Imbabura.  The noise is different too.  No piped music or intercom calls for Brian on lane 2.  Here there is the excited buzz of conversation, cocks crowing, a megaphone delivering a repetitive sales pitch on what sounded like proper pregnancy testing, and the frequent squeals of pigs being pulled away to their new owners.  We could only wonder if they were upset at leaving the home they knew, or if they understood the fate awaiting them.

 

Cuy - Guinea Pigs

  Around the field, other traders gather to take advantage of the crowds.  A line of cafés serve the hungry, and one can also find baskets, sweets, underwear, soap and other goodies.  Trucks come and go.  On my second visit, I learned more about the selling technique.  About a dozen pigs were jammed in the back, released one by one to the ‘display’ area, while some people would come to the truck to examine the range of pigs available.

-->

     I am not familiar with the real inner workings of the meat industry in the West, though I do know that those of us who do eat meat could all probably eat a whole lot less.  How do we reconcile our love of pets with the battery farming of chickens? Where do we draw the line between the desire to eat meat, and the huge contribution that such habits make to climate change and irrational agricultural policies? The answers to such questions are not obvious here in Otavalo.  What is most apparent is the need to make a living.  The woman holding a sack of a dozen guinea pigs which one can peer into and make a choice is presumably more concerned with what she can afford once she has sold her animals.  While still a meat eater, I am reassured by the habit we have seen here which is that a little meat goes a long way. 

     

Otavalo - Where Ruminawi Meets Bolivar

-->

April 24^th

^{(Pictures on the way soon)}

     Last Sunday morning, I sat in the Parque Bolivar here in Otavalo, watching and listening to the town band play a selection of Ecuadorian and Bolivian music. A hundred or so other people were there almost entirely locals, spread around the civic square under the watchful gaze of Simon Bolivar high up on the front of the town hall A few palm trees wavered in a light breeze and the volcanic edifice of Imbabura guarded the town.  It was such a rich and restful atmosphere – one that I long to bottle and bring home so that I might recapture the flavor. Maybe I cannot use a literal bottle, but I spent every moment soaking up all that I could, leaving a few tears as payment for the pleasure.

Simon Bolivar - the Great Liberator Overlooks the Parque

     I truly love this town. Walking around here is a daily adventure into a mystical book where one never quite knows how the plot will twist.  Curiously, for a place that is listed on almost every tourist guide of Ecuador, we see relatively few other Blancos, except perhaps during the Saturday market when the streets around the main square overflow with additional stalls. Even then, the vast bulk of human activity is among locals, or people from the nearby towns. 

     Otavalo is truly a trading town.  Typically, we take the 20-minute bus ride from Esperanza de Azama, arriving at the main bus depot which is alive with people carrying anything from a few personal possessions to large sacks of potatoes or reams of fabric. There may be a selection of goats or chickens for sale by the exit to the street, where a line of food stalls serves travelers a selection of hot food – rice, corn, soups, and some bubbling oily vats of the parts of animals not normally served in any western street restaurant.  We walk along the street towards the main market – the Plaza del Ponchos – past street vendors selling fruit from wheelbarrows, jewelry from carefully arranged portable trays, or even underwear from the back of a truck parked on the side of the road.

     Most noticeable to the eye of the visitor is the clothing worn by the people here, the majority of whom are indigens. At least half of the women wear a long navy blue or black skirt, a white blouse embroidered with flowers, and a scarf or shawl over one shoulder.  Older women often wear a head-dress of some kind, often a shawl that has been folded a balanced carefully on the head.  

 Fewer of the men wear ‘traditional’ clothing.  Those that do wear white trousers and typically a blue poncho, topped off with a hat.  Interestingly, of the women who choose to wear modern clothing, very few can be found wearing skirts or dresses.  Almost all have on slacks, long-sleeved top, and given the cooler weather here, a sweater or shawl.  Most of the young men wear slightly baggy jeans, T-shirt and a light jacket.  Meanwhile, many of the teenagers, as everywhere, seek their own identity, experimenting with a variety of fashions, but it is not uncommon to see a boy sporting a carefully quaffed hairdo, expensively ripped jeans and rock star t-shirt walking hand-in-hand with a girl wearing traditional clothing.  Such a mix is part of what makes this town so rich.

     Otavalo is a relatively wealthy town, as witnessed by mostly good roads, regular garbage collection, bustling activity, and main streets in which there are no empty stores (though a walk through some of the outer areas reveals more dereliction). If wealth were to be counted by the number of women wearing the traditional gold necklaces, it would be very high. The busy traffic consists mostly of smaller cars, vans and taxis, with SUV trucks being the flashier choice of vehicle for some.  At night they can be seen and heard driving around town with music playing loud enough to shake the eyeballs, and an array of lights flashing on the underside of the car.  We see very few, if any Mercedes, Audis or other such luxury vehicles.

     The Plaza del Ponchos is the main tourist venue where one can find a vast array of blankets, jewelry, art-work, scarves and, of course, ponchos. Walking through by day, it is a maze of dozens of stalls packed tightly together so that the first time visitor can easily lose sense of direction. Walking through, the vendors will call your attention to their wares, but they are not aggressively pushy.  Indeed, the only vendors we found who actually follow one down the street have come from Spain or Italy, and are not locals.  It is difficult to comprehend the true nature of the economy of this market.  Each day, dozens put in a huge effort to set up their stalls, carrying in great bags either by hand, or on carts.  They may spend anywhere from 8-10 hours here on a normal day (more on a Saturday) with not too many people passing through, then pack everything up in the evening.  The setting up and breaking down of the market are both the most interesting times to watch it.  Time-lapse film would show a market square jam packed with a vast array of color being packed into the huge bags, and secreted into various doorways and trucks around the edge of the market where they are stored until the next day.  By around 7:00, the market square seems smaller, though still busy.  Groups of men sit in the permanent stalls playing cards or board games.  Children play tag, and along one side of the square, a line of orange tents is erected, playing host to a range of temporary restaurants at which the locals gather to eat and perhaps contemplate their day.

     On Saturdays, and to a lesser extent Wednesdays, the market expands enormously. The animal market deserves a separate story, so I will write about that later.  Suffice to say that one early Saturday while staying in town, the first thing I saw out of the window was an elderly couple walking a pig on a leash along the street as if it where a Labrador. The somewhat sleepy plaza becomes just the center of a bubbling hive of activity as many of the surrounding streets are taken over by so many more vendors. Depending on which street you venture down, you may find more of the touristy offerings, jewelry, musical instruments, or a vast array of clothing of all kinds.  This is the day when, especially in the summer months, bus-loads of Blancos are brought in from Quito, but even so, the overwhelming human presence is still Ecuadorian. It is quite liberating to have the opportunity to walk the markets without the need to buy any of the stuff – we can do that on other days when it is more peaceful, and the prices are rumored to be better. Instead, one can amble the streets soaking up the sights, sounds and smells of a huge social event and be constantly curious about what is around the next corner.

     There are other markets around town too.  For the first few weeks, we favored a vegetable and fruit market uptown where we could collect two great bags of produce, spending just two or three dollars. We have tended to stick with the conventional fruits – apples, pears, and bananas, but we have tried some of the more local ones, including babacos, pitahayas, chirimoyas, guanabanas, maracuyas (passion fruit), tree tomatoes and moras (a local type of blackberry).  I know that in the coming months when we must venture into the supermarkets at home, I will miss the flavor and character of these kinds of markets.  A big part of it is the sense that we are dealing not with a faceless commercial enterprise such as Whole Foods, but with individual family concerns. It is quite normal to buy from a woman who is not only managing the stall, but tending to her children as well, making it easy for us to resist haggling for the sake of it, and provide an extra tip on occasions.  As we learned from the markets in Quito, these are people who work incredibly long hours for very little return. It is humbling to be in their presence given an awareness of opportunities we have that they can only dream about.

     More recently, we discovered another produce market on the other side of town that has the advantage of being closer to the bus depot.  This one is close to an old railway line along which we found the potato market – I counted at least twenty different types of potato one day, although there are many thousands grown in Bolivia, Peru and Ecuador. Most of them do not see the market, but are often grown and shared between families and communities.  Alas, I have not taken the time to explore the flavors and textures in cooking, but simply being in the home of the potato is rewarding.

    

     There is the old saying about many cities such as Chicago that if you don’t like the weather, just wait a couple of hours.   In Otavalo it seems that if you get tired, wait a while, and a live band will perform, or a parade will pass by.  We have lost count of the number of parades we have seen – the most notable of which was on Good Friday, and written about a few weeks ago.  A few evenings ago, we went into town to meet our new friend Jesu, a merchant in the market here who we first met in Maynard at the October Fest of all places.  Sure enough, while walking into the town, we came across a large parade of many dancing groups in elaborate costumes and groups of school children carrying lanterns.  It proved to be the 75^th anniversary of one of the schools in town.  There are many schools in Otavalo so presumably each gets their own parade.  The next morning, I passed through the town on my way to visit a school in another community. The taxi taking me there had to divert around yet another parade, albeit a smaller one, much to the annoyance of the driver who yelled at the policeman directing the traffic.

Another parade waiting to start

     Life is not all sweetness here of course.  Much as Otavalo is a wonderfully romantic Andean location for us to visit, like any other city, there are problems.  There are those on the street who may be homeless (hard to tell), and areas of poverty in the outskirts of town.  Returning from Jesus’ home the other night, we became partially embroiled in an undercover police operation where they stopped a vehicle right next to us, hauled people out of the car, giving one in particular a hard time, and prevented us from moving away from the scene immediately (after a few minutes, they finally let the taxi back out and take us home another way).

     This entry is perhaps already too long, but we have to return to the Parque Bolivar, just a few blocks up the Calle Sucre from the Plaza del Ponchos.  We walk past an assortment of stores – electronics, restaurants, mini-groceries, clothing (both modern and traditional) and even a few instrument shops in one of which I finally bought myself a charango – details to follow. The Parque Bolivar is now one of my favorite places.  Piped music plays quietly from discreetly placed speakers, even when the band is playing. People of all ages and cultures amble slowly along the pathways, nibbling at ice creams, fruit or pastries that are for sale from street vendors. The busy fruit and veg market is just one block away, and some people wander in and out of the renaissance church of San Luis. 

     In the center is a large statue of the head of Ruminawi, one of the last Inca warriors who tried to resist the Spanish invasion of this land. Defeated in battle, he still managed to order Quito to be burned, and the temple virgins to be killed to ‘preserve their honour’. He was tortured by the Spanish in an attempt to reveal the location of the presumed Inca gold, but never divulged the secret. Three hundred years later, Simon Bolivar and Antonio Sucre led the struggle for independence from Spain and two of the main streets are now named after them.  Such violence seems so far removed from the mood of the square now, especially when the town band adds the magic of great music to the ambiance of a leisurely Sunday afternoon. Perhaps we can linger a little longer – just one more song.

...and the band plays on.

More!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Which Hotel Would Darwin Choose?

-->

April 14^th - 20^th

^{Galapagos Islands – Santa Cruz and Isabella}

     Charles Darwin was in his early twenties in 1831 when he set out on his voyage in the Beagle, and returned some five years later.  Only 24 years later did he publish “On the Origin of the Species”, and even that was somewhat rushed for him.  It is difficult to imagine now how it could take so long to synthesize the observations and ongoing studies, but there is something very comforting in the notion that he was able to go through his investigations and thought processes without being pressured  for the sake of commercial gain.  

     We crossed Darwin’s trail in the Galapagos, albeit with the comfort of hotels to stay in, cameras and notebooks to record some of what we saw, and experienced guides to inform us on more details than we can possibly remember about the biology, geology and social history of these islands.  I certainly left in even greater awe of what he and others were able to accomplish.  While we felt a certain sense of personal discovery whilst being here, it is truly remarkable to get a more intimate understanding and appreciation of the world in which real discovery and intelligent thinking took place.

     We had originally planned to visit the islands in early June when the weather is a little cooler, and after more research about different ways to travel here.  Circumstances changed however.  We woke up a week ago not quite sure about our plans.  By the end of the day we had booked flights and a hotel, and by 6:00 a.m. on Sunday morning, we were on our way to Quito airport for the flight to Baltra Island.  Cruises are the most touted way to see the Galapagos.  In the event, we spent six nights here – three in the main town of Puerto Ayora on Santa Cruz, and then three more on Isabella.  Each day provided opportunities for day trips to other locations and activities, and it did prove to be considerably cheaper than cruising. While I was left gazing wistfully at some of the cruise boats, wondering what we might have missed, such thoughts were quickly labeled as petty when lined up against all that we did experience.  As the reader can tell, we are not taking twenty-five years to consider the experiences before publishing, but then we have little to offer in the way of ground-breaking scientific theory – merely the reflections of privileged travelers.    

      So what did we see?   Lava – a lotta lava.  Yes, there are a lot of animals too – many of them tourists, but it is the lava that has made the most indelible impression on me.  OK, so swimming alongside a turtle was pretty darn cool too – perhaps one of the coolest minutes of my life, but I have seen Finding Nemo, and so had some idea of what to expect.  The lava fields and the life associated with them were really not too much on my radar, other than the knowledge that these islands are volcanic in origin.

Hawks overlook Bartolome - one of the 'newest' islands

Looking across to Bartolome from Jaime Island

Nan on Las Tintoras Lava Field

 

     No doubt some readers are more than partially educated on vulcanology.  In recent months, we have experienced the form of the Andes, marveled at the scale of the caldera of Quilotoa, while the great hulks of Imbabura and Cotocachi have been a constant presence over our home near Otavalo.  But these are much older volcanoes. The Galapagos islands are much newer, especially the ones on the western edge where there are several active volcanoes, though not immediately so in our presence.  Most amazing to me is the stunning variety of color and form of the lava flows, qualities dependent of the mineral content, the rate of cooling, and the age of the lava. 

Where tourists, locals and the animals meet - Fish market on Isabella

     Biogeographic diversity, endemic species, mantle plumes, species vulnerability…. There is a lot of science to learn about right here. I don’t think Emma yet fully appreciates the scope of what she has to digest for her upcoming ‘report’ that she will compile, but she did comment yesterday on the value of being able to write about things she has actually seen rather than simply reading about or watching on electronic media.  It is difficult to pin down the real difference between first-hand experience and simply reading or watching somebody else’s account.  We can learn at least as much in the way of facts and understanding without actually traveling.  Our pictures pale in comparison to those of expert photographers, and one can argue that our money could be better spent elsewhere.  It is the multi-sensual experience that is so rewarding however – something that pictures and words can only convey occasionally.  To breathe the air, to hear distant calls from the birds, and to feel the clammy sweat of the midday climate is to become, even if only for a brief period, part of the lifeblood of new worlds.

Female (I think) Lava Lizzard

Marine Iguana

A cool dude - don't know what it is yet.

Land Iguana

Look carefully at what Emma sees

     One aspect of being here that Darwin did not witness too much is the presence of so many tourists.  Having spent much time in recent months with Ecuadorians, it was something of a minor shock to be back in the world of (mostly) white camera-carrying companions.  Biogeographic diversity can be used to describe us as much as the life that we have all come to see.  We met people from the US, Germany, Canada, South Africa, Australia, Argentina, Spain, Britain…. and a few more from Germany.  We all had to be shepherded by the local guides, many of whom were born on the islands.  Almost everybody was friendly, and we engage in the travel banter that mostly typifies such brief encounters.  I learned about fish management in Idaho while trekking across a lava field here, agricultural project management from Chicago, and education in both South Africa and Nepal. Each new conversation adds to the richness of understanding about the World.

    On our last night , after we had packed in preparation for a pre-dawn departure from Isabella, I wandered along the beach to a pier which had a very friendly looking two-story shack on the end, some colored lights, and the word ‘Bar’ in hopefully large letters on the front. With the South-Pacific waves crashing on the beach and stars twinkling, it all seemed tailor-made to represent a cliché.  Walking up to the bar, I was greeted by Dorothy, an older Canadian woman who has fallen in love with Isabella, and with whom we had spent much of the day on a day trip.   

     Also present were a pair of twins plus one husband from Virginia whom we had seen almost every day since arriving six days before – a mutual fixture of our visit. Yet, in the way that such social interactions move, I spent most of my brief time there talking with Joseph, a resident of the island who now helps to manage tour groups here.  He left his home on Mainland Ecuador when he was twelve, and came to Isabella with no immediate family, but simply with a desire make a new life for himself here.  He talked about the gender problem for men of his age here (early thirties I think) – about four times as many men as women.  In his job, he meets many tourists, most of whom pass through in just a few days with little chance of building long-term friendships. He seemed both wistful for a more fulfilling social (love?) life, yet also deeply in love with the island. 

     As one might expect, the Galapagos have many stories to reveal about the past and present while leaving us to determine what we can do about the future – if we have the wisdom to learn from what we see.  

Dia del Maestro - Ecuador Style

April 6^th - 13^th

     There is little that is settled about our lives here in Ecuador right now, though it has to be said that part of the intent of coming here was to shake things up a bit. We received difficult news from Arizona last week. Nan’s Dad Lou and his wife Bernadine are staying there for a winter retreat, but Bernadine has had to go into the intensive care unit with serious heart problems. At the time of writing, she is improving, but still in the ICU. Our thoughts are obviously with the two of them and the rest of the family. 

     Also, we have just heard the news of the bombings in Boston.  Bad things happen everyday around the World, but it is somehow harder to believe when they happen closer to home. With a deep sense of inadequacy under the circumstances, our thoughts are with the families and friends of those who were killed and hurt in such a monstrous way. (Update:  Now, Friday morning, a few days later it feels very surreal to be sitting on a Galapagos beach early in the morning – sun rising – knowing that other people are in such a dangerous situation as the suspects are being hunted down.)  

     We returned to Otavalo from the rainforest a little over a week ago.  My sister Susie had little time to adjust.  After a last minute shopping trip to the market here, and a final lunch in one of our favorite Otavalo restaurants, she ventured back down to Quito airport and her long trip back to the U.K.  The rest of us stayed low key for a day, readjusting to life in the city after five days in the jungle.

         Sunday brought another day of unexpected events, though we have more or less come to expect the unexpected. Margot from Esperanza de Azama invited us to a celebration of our time there, which officially came to an end recently. (Under current circumstances, we may return there for another week, but we didn’t know this at the time.)

     After lunch, we went into the school building where a group of parents and children were there to greet us.  A group of four girls did a modern dance routine for us which, while lacking in practice, was certainly full of enthusiasm.  Then, in came a child wearing a traditional mask bearing a bowl of fruit.  She and Margot danced a kind of circular shuffle for a minute or two before the child came over and gave us the bowl of pineapple, papaya and bananas.  She took off the mask it revealed herself to be Maria, one of the girls we have got to know a little.  

     Two or three more groups of parents then each came bearing gifts of food – potatoes, corn, beans and rice.  Each time the group would dance in the traditional circular shuffle.  Nan and I were dragged into the circle to join them –somehow Emma avoided this part of the routine.  The families giving these gifts are typically very poor, so it was a real honor to be treated this way.  They wanted to show their appreciation for even the small amount of help that we have been able to give to the community.  As usual, we can’t escape the truth that it is they who are really helping us with an experience in life.  In response to their generosity and kindness, I gave my first short speech in Spanish which seemed to be understood, unless they were just smiling and laughing politely.

     Families such as these face all kinds of problems finding the resources to educate their children.  Whilst most children do manage to make it through primary school, a significant proportion of them do not manage to finish secondary school.  Girls tend to have children while they are still teenagers, which of course affects their educational prospects, but there are also those whose families cannot afford even the basic costs of uniforms and supplies.  $350 per year is enough to make the difference between a child who will stay home and work with the family, or go to school for another year.  It didn’t take much talk from Margot for Jacky to provide her own sponsorship to a girl from my 7^th grade class named Wendy.  It meant a lot that Jacky and Aimee could meet the family (minus the father who died recently – hence one of the reasons why the family is struggling), and establish a connection which will hopefully last for a long time to come.

     A week later, Nan, Emma and I had returned to the community just to pick up some of our things. Unbeknownst to us, we were about to get another insight into the value of education here. Saturday, April 13^th was Dia del Maestro – day of the teacher. Back in Maynard, there is a teacher appreciation day when many parents prepare a lunch feast for teachers – and it is indeed very much appreciated.  The approach in Ecuador is different, not least because students here are much more involved in the event. In the weeks prior to the day, the 7^th grade students practiced singing a kind of anthem, which is a tribute to teachers. Other children wrote poems and paragraphs of gratitude. Cati, Margot’s daughter, spends every afternoon helping students at the homework club in the community, thereby providing a valuable service to children who otherwise may not get the opportunity to complete their homework after school. In Esperanza de Azama, the Dia del Maestro was a day to celebrate Cati’s unflagging dedication to the students.

    A group of about 100 parents and children gathered by the volleyball court where a seat was set up for Cati (Nan & I were invited to join her, and our family got drawn into the celebrations).  A PA system was brought out, and there followed a series of presentations by students – dances, poetry readings and tributes from students and some parents for Cati. The dances were a mix of traditional Quechua steps, and a more contemporary reggaeton routine by three girls. It was very apparent that these children really value the contribution that Cati makes to the community.  Gifts included cards, flowers, and even a case of beer, which was soon opened and shared, even during the celebration.  I can only imagine the outcry in the local news if we tried that back home in Maynard. 

     After a couple of short speeches, the formality of the proceedings then transformed into more of a fiesta.  Dance music was played at that volume where the line between music and distortion is frequently crossed.  The beer was given out.  I was able to produce a bottle of Jameson’s whisky from Jacky’s suitcase that had been ‘lost’ at Quito airport. Marcelo (Cati’s dad) spent much of the next hour passing around as if it were a communion wine.  It was entertaining to watch the mixed reactions to the taste and sure enough, the bottle was completely shared quite quickly.

     We had to head back to Otavalo before the fiesta was done, but we managed our fair share of dancing and laughter – a fine way to remember the efforts of teachers around the World.  Now, what can we do to bring this tradition back to Maynard?

The dancing begins

     Nan here, with a few thoughts to add. When Emma and I finished volunteering at the school, we were sad to leave our teacher, Margot, and the kids with whom we’d spent so much time. They are so friendly and sweet, just longing for attention and more love. That was easy for us to give. Margot and I had tears in our eyes when we said good-bye. She thanked us many times, and hoped that we will return some day to help her and the children again.

     We didn’t end up teaching them Wheels on the Bus; I was ill for a few days back then, and Emma taught them a different song in my absence. I’m not familiar with the one she chose, but she said the children loved it. Any diversion from their regular schoolwork presents a welcome relief, of course!

     Mike and I are so proud of Emma. After not wanting to leave Maynard in January, she has really turned her frown upside down. She loves the kids just like I do, and she can see their potential for growing into wonderful adults. Her confidence in the classroom has increased to the point of teaching the song when I wasn’t there. Outside the class, Emma loves playing soccer with the children and teaching them gymnastics. And in the wider community, Emma has made many friends with other kids closer to her age, which is something she could not imagine before we arrived. She feels a strong connection there, and I think this community will stay in Emma’s heart for a very long time. I know it will stay in ours as well.