The top of the hill was in sight.
We’d already climbed one seaside peak, ungracefully slipping up the sandy trail, and we were rounding the second one when we saw the old hotel complex. I called out. “¿Hola, hay alguien por acá?” Is anyone there?
From one of the cabins wandered a man, compact and spry, gray bristles written across his chest and arms. He smiled.
“Are you volunteers here?” he asked, jettisoning straight to English as he looked at us, three women from California, Oklahoma and Switzerland.
“No, we just wanted to check out the space.” We’d hiked to this point to visit a permaculture farm; days before, the owner had extended an open invitation. He was out for the afternoon, but it appeared we had another host.
The man beckoned us toward an open courtyard, and we turned our gaze to the view. Bordering the cliff, dense tropical shrubbery stood in front of nothing but ocean. Cresting waves, boats in motion, and just barely in view, the iconic rocky island that serves as the symbol of Ayampe, Ecuador. The four of us sat together on garden chairs, already placed in semicircle around a coal-filled fire pit. Facing the waves, we chatted idly.
After several minutes, the man turned to us. “Want to see more?” We nodded in response.
Peace at Sea
The property wound down the hillside, dotted by a handful of straw-roofed cottages. We walked toward one without walls: asphalt flooring, four posts, two couches and a table with chairs. Abutted to the hillside, the cabaña opened toward to the sea, the town of Ayampe in one corner.
“I spend most of the day here,” the man said. “I do yoga, or I’ll read a book. I like to watch the sunset from here.”
We wandered around the outdoor living room, touching woven blankets and commenting on the array of blooming succulents around the edges.
“There’s more,” he said, stepping back on the dirt pathway.
He led us further down the hill to another cabaña, this one with a bathtub and seashell curtain. From there we walked past an empty tiled pool and a bamboo chicken coop. “I could live there,” I offered. The man looked over his shoulder and chuckled. He showed us the kitchen and dining room, and another outdoor living room, this one with wind chimes standing in for chandeliers.
As the afternoon dipped toward sundown, we walked back down the hill and settled in for the show. We sat in silence.
With all that we’d seen on the hillside, I had to know something. “How did you end up here?” He laughed.
From Ashram to Ayampe
The man told us he’s from California. He’s traveled around the world, lived in Europe and Asia, all over the States. He worked in financial services. Now we laughed. I kept my gaze on the sunset, admiring its spooling azure and quartz and electric orange.
When the man retired, he felt a tug toward a different lifestyle. As we age, he said, we begin to leave behind our material self and connect with our spirit. In pursuit of this, he moved to an ashram and lived there for two years. Afterward, he spent 10 more years next door.
The man told us about living in silence, presence. He described the higher Self, which guides us down one path and not another. Our higher Self, he said, can see the destination even when we cannot.
After his years around the ashram, he sought a place to settle down. He wanted surf, serenity. Property came cheap in Ecuador, so he hired a translator to help him find a location. He was told of Ayampe.
Once he arrived to the beach, he knew he’d found the right place. He asked everyone in sight if they knew of a parcel. There he learned of the shuttered hotel, where the owner’s children planned to create an intentional living community. The property extended beyond the old hotel complex, further along the hillside — far enough for him to build his own remote, glass-walled home. It would be close enough that he could still watch sundown from the cabañas, could still spend his afternoons with the community’s residents and traveling volunteers.
“These are my people, this is my tribe,” he said, eyes fixed on sundown. “This is where I’ll die.”
As the sun slipped behind the horizon, the sky welcomed muted shades of eggplant, cobalt, gunmetal.
Into the long silence I ventured, “Perhaps we should start to think about thinking about heading back.” The other women nodded.
We stood, and stretched, and stepped back up the hillside to the front gate. “You can follow the road back down to town,” the man said, pointing toward the darkening pathway.
“What’s your name?” asked the woman from Switzerland.
“Rudy.” He smiled. I asked for his contact information; he handed me his phone to send him an email. We all added our addresses and hit send, the subject line reading “Email from Rudy.” There was no body text.
Rudy opened the gate. “I’ll walk you part of the way,” he offered. After 500 meters, he gave us directions: “Continue down this path, take a left and follow the highway to town.” We thanked him.
He raised his hand in a still wave and then turned around, bobbing back down to the arched entryway, the only illuminated shape in a sea of darkness.
