In the crisp, morning air of Cotacachi, Ecuador, the Plaza de Ponchos stirred with life. The ancient cobblestones, worn smooth by centuries of booted feet and hoofed llamas, glimmered dully beneath the first rays of dawn. Stallholders, many of whom were Kichwa-speaking artisans, arranged their colourful wares—hand-stitched textiles, intricately carved wooden flutes, and, most famously, supple leather goods fashioned from the hides of local cattle. Above them rose the ever-watchful silhouette of Volcán Imbabura, its snow-tipped peak gleaming against an impossibly vivid cerulean sky.
Yaritza Cañicucha, aged twenty-three, moved among the stalls with an ease born of lifelong familiarity. Daughter of a respected midwife and a former community leader, she possessed both quiet confidence and unshakeable compassion. Her ink-black hair was neatly braided and fastened with small, colourful bands; her dark eyes, though framed by a gentle stillness, held an unmistakable wisdom that belied her years. She wore a simple white blusa, embroidered along the collar with intricate geometric motifs, and a deep-blue pollera that swept the tops of her well-worn leather shoes. Over her shoulder was slung a small cross-body bag of tanned leather—her most cherished possession—which contained a thin notebook filled with reflections, folktales, and remedies gleaned from her mother’s teachings.
Since early childhood, Yaritza had instinctively absorbed the rhythms of her community. She had learned Kichwa from her grandmother, María, listening nightly to stories whispered by lantern light in their adobe home on Calle Bolívar. She carried in her heart the legacy of the Inti Raymi festival—how elders once gathered on the edge of Laguna Cuicocha to carry offerings to Pachamama and Inti, the sun deity. But she had also been shaped by a modern twist of aspiration: a scholarship had sent her to Quito to study social anthropology for a term, instilling in her a broader understanding of indigenous identity, as well as the conviction that Cotacachi’s traditions could survive in harmony with the wider world.
On this particular Sunday, the Plaza was especially bustling. Merchants came from Otavalo, Ibarra, and distant Peguche to sell their wares, and travellers ambled through like drifting leaves. Every few minutes, a plumed bus from Quito would disgorge new passengers, eager to browse the famous leather shops of Avenida 10 de Agosto. Overhead, an old radio mounted on a thin wooden post crackled: a broadcast of traditional sanjuanito music mingled with the rumble of passing motorbikes. Saffron-yellow walls of colonial houses radiated warmth, each painted hue echoing the vibrant embroidery and proud culture that had endured under Spanish rule, through the republic’s early years, and into the twenty-first century.
It was amid this mosaic of colour and sound that Sebastián Gálvez first noticed her. He was a traveller from Buenos Aires, though he would later say that he felt more like a nomad than a tourist. At twenty-seven, he was tall and lean, with a dusting of stubble along his angular jaw. His eyes, a cool grey-blue, often sat behind battered Polaroid sunglasses, but his gaze was earnest whenever he let them rest upon something worth capturing. He carried a single, well-loved leather satchel—his only checked luggage on this trip—filled with a DSLR camera, a compact tripod, and a leather-bound journal where he chronicled fleeting impressions, sketches of faces and places, and recipes of dishes he delighted in discovering. It was said that ever since he’d seen the old galleries of Frida Kahlo’s Casa Azul, he had vowed to wander Latin America in search of stories beneath the bright surface.
On that Sunday, Sebastián had arrived early, determined to document the market’s dawn rituals. He strolled slowly through the Plaza, admiring a stall where a wrinkled artisan was meticulously embossing a pattern onto a pair of dancing masks (mascarillas ceremoniales). Farther along, he paused to admire a display of intricately woven mantas, their crimson and emerald threads echoing the hues of the Andean foothills just beyond Cotacachi’s limits. He clicked a few photos, adjusting his lens to capture the play of morning light on the terracotta rooftops.
Then, in one fluid motion, his camera swung towards a figure who stood almost serenely, as though time itself hesitated in her presence. It was Yaritza, leaning against a low wall, delicately sketching in her notebook. She was gathering thoughts for an essay she intended to publish in Quito’s university bulletin—a reflection on Cotacachi’s historical role in resisting colonial exploitation of its leather trade. He felt compelled to record her likeness, not out of intrusive curiosity but because there was something incandescent in the way she observed her surroundings, as though she were both anchored to the land and touching some deeper current beyond it.
As he raised his camera, Yaritza sensed he watched her. Their eyes met for an instant, and he lowered the device with a soft apology, raising a hand in greeting. She responded with a gentle nod, closing her notebook.
“Buenas días,” she said, her voice steady but warm.
“Good morning,” he replied, mysteriously accenting English words with a subtle Argentinian lilt. “I’m sorry if I startled you. I didn’t mean to intrude.”
Yaritza looked at his camera and then back at the lively market around them. “No te preocupes. Many visitors are drawn to Cotacachi’s soul. You were just… capturing it.” She allowed a brief smile to curve her lips. “I’m Yaritza.”
“Sebastián,” he answered, extending a hand. When their fingers touched, an odd sensation passed through him, as though he had been stranded in flat terrain and suddenly glimpsed a distant mountain.
“How long have you been in Cotacachi?” she asked, tilting her head slightly.
“Only a day,” he admitted, offering her a rueful shrug. “I arrived yesterday from Quito. I plan to spend a month exploring Imbabura Province—learning about the indigenous communities, their arts, rituals, and ways of life.” He paused and then added, “I’m a photographer. I write, too, in my journal.”
Yaritza’s eyes brightened. “Photography is like a window onto the soul.” She tapped the small notebook at her side. “I write. I’m studying anthropology briefly in Quito, but I live here. I help my mother with her work as a midwife, and I keep this notebook.” She held it out—its worn cover embroidered with a small Quechua cross. “I write stories and gather herbal remedies. I want to tell the world about our traditions.”
Sebastián’s gaze lingered on the intricate cross stitched into the fabric, then he accepted the notebook reverently. “I’d love to read your words,” he said quietly.
She lowered the notebook, but her cheeks flushed faintly. “Perhaps later. Right now, I help my mother at the clinic.”
Their conversation lingered until the first church bells tolled nine. She gathered her things, and he respectfully offered to accompany her when their paths diverted. Together, they stepped away from the riot of the Plaza de Ponchos and walked along Calle 10 de Agosto, past the austere façade of the Parroquia San Francisco, its white walls dotted with creeping vines. The air was thick with the scent of roasting corn—maíz tostado—sold by an elderly woman whose wrinkles spoke of countless harvests. A pair of children kicked a tattered football near the steps of a local café where marimbas played softly on a battered radio.
As they parted near Yaritza’s home—a modest adobe duplex with jade-green window shutters—she turned to Sebastián with a look that was both shy and knowing. “If you’re free tomorrow, you’re welcome to come to the chicha ceremony at Peguche. We’ll celebrate the completion of the harvest. It’s at sunset.”
He smiled—a genuine curve of happiness. “I’d be honoured.”
With that, they separated—two lives tethered by curiosity, destined to move along distinct yet intertwining courses.
The following day, as the sun dipped low behind Volcán Cotacachi’s gentle slopes, Sebastián set out along the winding road to Peguche, a small hamlet named for the waterfall that crashed down nearby, reminiscent of a thousand giggling brides cascading to earth. The chicha ceremony, Yaritza had explained, was a time-honoured tradition marking the end of community planting season. Families came from neighbouring hamlets—Apuela, La Esperanza, and the highland community of Atuntaqui—bearing jugs of fermented corn beverage (chicha), bowls of humitas, and the best of their artisanal handiwork: retablos painted with saints, carved gourds, and scarves of vivid alpaca wool.
As he navigated the narrow dirt path, he reflected on Yaritza’s reputation for wisdom. She was known in Cotacachi not only for her mother’s lineage of midwives but also for her own quiet counsel. Even elders would turn to her for guidance. He recalled how, when he mentioned a plan to photograph several ceremonial masks that week, she had gently cautioned him to ask permission from the community elders first, lest he offend their beliefs. To his surprise, she had seemed more familiar with local customs than most outsiders would ever deign to be.
Reaching the clearing near the waterfall, he found villagers circling a large wooden bonfire as strings of woven lights swayed in the breeze. The waterfall’s roar mingled with the spirited melodies of panpipes and guitars; dancers in billowing polleras and embroidered ponchos whirled with sprightly joy. Smoke from the fire formed a slender column that twisted toward the cloudy dusk sky.
Yaritza waited for him at the edge of the circle, wearing a crimson shawl over her shoulders and a simple woven headband. Her eyes shone with excitement. “I knew you would come,” she said, guiding him toward a low seating area carved from fallen logs. “Tonight, we honour Pachamama before planting season starts again. Soon, the rains will come. But tonight is a time to celebrate abundance and give thanks.”
Sebastián nodded, admiring how she moved with graceful certainty. Among the villagers that night were men from the local Cocha Collective—an association of boatbuilders who harvested totumo gourds from Laguna San Pablo to craft musical instruments and utilitarian containers. Nearby, young musicians from Otavalo tuned their charangos, anticipating playing sanjuanito pieces in synchrony with the Volcán. An elderly woman approached their circle with a large wooden bowl of steaming mote (hominy), dipped in cheese, a staple for the evening. Men and women offered him shots of golden chicha, its sweet, fermented aroma reminding him of spiced honey.
They conversed at ease, though an invisible current of curiosity passed between them. Yaritza spoke of her mother’s practise of collecting medicinal plants from the páramo near Rumiñahui, describing how she used lupines and múdalo for treating ailments ranging from altitude sickness to aching joints. Sebastián, in turn, described his own upbringing: a childhood spent sketching buildings in the San Telmo district of Buenos Aires, discovering corners of that city where European baroque designs met the relentless motion of urban life. He recounted stories of tango dancers who—they said—moved with the same bittersweet longing that he felt whenever he stepped onto a dusty highway in search of new horizons.
At one point, a group of children arrived with small hand-painted retablos depicting San Antonio de Padua, fashioned from reclaimed wood. They offered for sale to support their school in Salinas. Yaritza insisted Sebastián buy one—a humble tribute, but one that captured the forested hills and adobe houses around Cotacachi. He hesitated, uneasy about extravagance, but she pressed a few notes of local currency into the vendor’s hand and then pressed the retablo into his chest. “Keep it to remember tonight,” she whispered.
Hours later, as the final notes of mandolin and quena drifted away, the villagers hugged and shared warm embraces. The bonfire, now reduced to embers, glowed faintly while a hazy moon peered through broken clouds. Sebastián and Yaritza embarked on a slow stroll back toward the town, the forest’s underbrush rustling with the footsteps of nocturnal foxes. Torches lit the pathway; frogs croaked in nearby wetlands; beyond, the silhouette of Volcán Imbabura loomed as a silent guardian.
They paused near a slender footbridge arching over a small tributary of the Lagoons of Intag. The night air was cool, the moonlight sipping through the canopy.
“Thank you for inviting me,” he said softly, turning to her. “This… this is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.”
She regarded him with unmasked sincerity. “Our traditions exist because they bind us together, reminding us where we come from. It is not just ritual; it is connection—to the earth, to each other, and to our ancestors.”
He studied her face, marveling at how the lamplight danced in her eyes, lending them a deeper intensity. “I feel connected to you, too,” he admitted, though the words trembled on his tongue.
Yaritza shrugged, as though brushing away the gravity of his confession. “Maybe tomorrow you’ll change your mind,” she teased gently, but her smile held a luminous warmth.
He leaned closer, and for a moment, nothing existed beyond them: neither the waterfall’s distant roar nor the festival’s fading echoes. Yet when their lips finally met, it was not a clumsy brush of novelty—rather, it was imbued with a quiet reverence, as if they both recognised that something had shifted irreparably in that moment.
In the days that followed, Sebastián and Yaritza became inseparable. He accompanied her to visits with her mother, Doña Rosa, in the small clinique tucked behind their home. He watched as Rosa tended to expectant mothers, administering tonics distilled from coca leaves and chamomile, counselling them beneath the soft glow of oil lamps. Yaritza helped by transcribing case notes, suggesting supplementary therapies based on her studies in Quito. Observing them, Sebastián felt the humbling weight of ancient wisdom—and the pressing urgency of preserving it.
One afternoon, they drove in Sebastián’s rented sedan along Ruta Viva, heading east toward Otavalo. He wanted to photograph the fabled Sunday market there—the sprawling labyrinth of stalls where textiles cascaded like waterfalls of colour, where jewellery of filigree silver caught the sunlight, and where vendors from neighbouring pueblos bartered corn for beans, or textiles for pan de yuca. Yaritza, eager to introduce him to her cousin Carlos, who was a renowned weaver in Otavalo, guided him through labyrinthine streets. They hopped onto a local colectivo bus, painted in flamboyant hues of turquoise and orange, and rode past the vast expanse of Lake San Pablo, whose glassy surface reflected the outline of Volcán Imbabura.
At the Plaza de Ponchos in Otavalo, Yaritza led Sebastián to a small covered area where vendors from Peguche displayed their own lacework and musical instruments. Carlos, a broad-shouldered man of thirty with a welcoming grin, embraced her as she introduced him to Sebastián. Over empanadas de viento and frothy glasses of licuado de mora, they discussed weaving techniques, the symbolism encoded in each stitch, and the centuries-old traditions passed down since pre-Inca times. Carlos invited Sebastián to witness a weaving demonstration, where he showed how he dyed yarn in vats illuminated by the midday sun, using cochineal insects for crimson and indigo-leaf sap for deep blues. Sebastián snapped photographs, his lens capturing every droplet that clung to the rickety wooden spindle.
Yet beneath the day’s merriment lay an undercurrent of tension. Yaritza had confided to Sebastián that a shadow stretched over Cotacachi. There were heated debates about modernisation: some wanted to expand the leather industry—long Cotacachi’s economic lifeblood—into a large-scale export venture, while others feared the loss of artisanal integrity and environmental harm. Doña Rosa had been involved in a community meeting where elders argued that if multinational companies moved in, the water sources might be jeopardised by tannery pollutants. Yaritza, for her part, believed that sustainable development was possible but only if guided by local voices. She had begun drafting proposals to present to municipal authorities, hoping to find a balance between innovation and preservation.
Late that evening, they returned to Cotacachi, riding the winding path at the base of Volcán Cotacachi. The air was pungent with the scent of eucalyptus and damp earth. Yaritza gazed out of the window, her slender fingers tracing shapes on the glass. For months, her studies had consumed her, yet each time she emerged from her thoughts, she saw Sebastián’s vigilant gaze, filled with concern and admiration. He had begun to plan a photo-essay entitled “Cotacachi: At the Crossroads of Past and Future.” He wanted to juxtapose images of traditional curanderas and modern urbanites, reflecting the complex tapestry of life in Imbabura Province.
But with increasing time spent together came the inevitable anxieties. Could such young love endure cultural divides? Sebastián’s parents in Buenos Aires—his father a retired university professor and his mother a ceramicist—expected him to settle in the city, work in a gallery he had secured through connections. Yaritza’s parents, though loving, held deep-seated doubts about a relationship with an outsider. Some whispered that he might be seeking a tourist’s fantasy: a wise indigenous partner to fill a void in his own modern life. Yaritza, though secure in her identity, feared they might see her as having abandoned familial duties in favour of romance.
Their first disagreement surfaced swiftly. On a drizzly afternoon, Sebastián approached Yaritza at the local municipal library, where she was studying maps and demographic records for her proposal to the town council.
“I think we need to move faster,” he said, flipping through his camera’s display to show her a series of photographs of tannery runoff seeping into a nearby stream. “If we don’t raise awareness, by next year toxins could kill off aquatic life in the Pisque River. We could publish these photos in a national magazine, force the issue.”
Yaritza frowned. “Our community meetings haven’t even begun. We need the elders’ support before publishing anything. If we go to the press prematurely, the municipal office will accuse us of stirring panic.”
He sighed, brushing rain-damp hair from his forehead. “But people need to know now. Every day we wait is another day the environment suffers.”
“People here work in tanneries,” she replied, her tone soft but firm. “My cousin Luis has saved enough to send his children to university because of leather exports. If we attack the industry outright, we risk impoverishing families.”
Embarrassed, Sebastián nodded slowly. “I… I understand. But I feel helpless watching the rivers turn brown.”
Yaritza placed her hand on his arm. “I know you come from a place where change is swift. Here, things move at the pace of tradition, of seasons. I promise that if we present a balanced plan—one that safeguards livelihoods and water sources—the council will listen.”
He exhaled, then drew her into a brief, consoling embrace. While the moment dissolved tension, it also underscored the gulf between their worlds: the urgency of an outsider’s outlook, the patience and communal intricacy of indigenous customs.
Winter in the Northern Andes, though mild by European standards, carried its own crispness. The nights grew longer, and Cotacachi experienced sporadic hailstorms that dusted the flanks of the Volcán Imbabura with glistening crystals. In the workshop of Don Antonio Ibarra—an octogenarian leather-craftsman famous throughout Ecuador—Sebastián spent afternoons documenting the process of tanning, from soaking hides in vats of oak bark to stitching seams with sinew. Don Antonio’s shop, nestled along Calle Sucre, echoed with the rhythmic slap of hide against wooden benches, the scent of balsam oil, and the faint whirr of sewing machines. Yaritza accompanied Sebastián, quietly translating the old man’s recollections of how, in the mid nineteenth century, Cotacachi’s tanneries supplied leather to the Gran Colombia army, and how those same workshops had endured through wars, earthquakes, and socioeconomic upheavals.
At night, the two of them sat on a narrow balcony overlooking the Plaza de Ponchos, where the cathedral’s twin bell towers rose like guardians in the mist. Yaritza scribbled notes in her journal, and Sebastián developed his film in the small darkroom he had rigged inside his rented room at Hostal Cotacachi. The hostel’s owner, Senora Montenegro, had warmed to them both, believing their love story gave her evening gatherings a touch of romance.
Yet beneath each sunrise, the future loomed uncertain. Sebastián’s departure date neared; his exhibition in Quito was scheduled for two weeks hence. Yaritza, simultaneously, awaited a crucial council meeting to approve her environmental proposal. It was to be held in Cotopaxi Hall—built in 1923, its weathered façade adorned with symbols of Kichwa heritage and Spanish colonial motifs. She needed to secure municipal funding to establish a pilot tannery that used eco-friendly methods. Without it, she feared the rivers would remain at risk.
Two days before the meeting, as dusk settled, a chill infiltrated their small room at the hostal. Sebastián found Yaritza hunched over her notes, lips pressed into a thin line.
“Did something happen?” he asked, sitting beside her on the narrow bed.
She ran trembling fingers through her hair. “I received word that the mayor’s office is delaying the vote. They say they need more evidence—more time. Perhaps they fear the tannery owners, who see sustainable practices as an expensive inconvenience.”
He closed his eyes, frustrated. “That’s dishonest. They’re ignoring the science.”
She closed her journal and turned to face him. “They have politics to weigh: jobs, tax revenue, promises from foreign investors. We both know how such matters unfold.”
He reached for her hand. “But your plan is grounded in data. In precedent. If I publish my photos now, people will see the pollution, the risk. We might force their hand.”
She shook her head wearily. “If you do that, you’ll make powerful enemies. These aren’t faceless corporations; they’re our neighbours, our friends, families who rely on tannery income. To them, you would be a threat. And if I stand with you publicly, I risk losing the trust of my community.”
He stared at their intertwined fingers. “So what do we do?”
She studied his face, discerning the conflict within him. “We keep going. I won’t give up until the council votes. But I cannot stand in front of them with your photos. They will see me as imported scandal, not an indigenous advocate.”
Silence lay between them, suffocating as a morning fog. They drew together and remained entwined, seeking solace in each other’s warmth. Only when dawn approached, and streetlamps flickered toward dimness, did Sebastián rise.
“I will respect your wishes,” he said hoarsely, kissing her cheek. “But I want you to know that I’m here—by choice, not courtesy. My heart is rooted in you, not these photos.”
She reached out, touching his face gingerly. “And mine is rooted in this land—and now in you. But I must stay.”
The night yielded to grey light, and they fell asleep side by side—his arm draped protectively around her, her head resting on his shoulder.
The morning of the council meeting dawned bright but windy. The high-altitude sun burned away fog, revealing the terracotta roofs of Cotacachi’s colonial centre. Citizens filled the streets, garments swirling with indigenous patterns. A long line of leather-clad merchants waited to hear the outcome of the deliberations. Posters, printed hastily in the days prior, adorned the façades of shops and cafes: “Salvemos la Tierra”—“A Free and Sustainable Cotacachi”—read some, while others declared “Protejamos Nuestro Empleo”—“Protect Our Livelihoods.” The tension in the air was palpable as Yaritza, dressed in a sober black blazer over her traditional pollera, climbed the stone steps of Cotopaxi Hall.
Inside the grand foyer, Kichwa and Spanish speakers mingled, voices rising and falling like mountain winds. On one side, protesters from the Tannery Workers United—most of them descendants of Spanish settlers dating back to the 1800s—murmured anxiously, their leather belts and vests standing as symbols of heritage and means of sustenance. On the other, members of the Cotacachi Mothers’ Cooperative held banners depicting rivers teeming with fish; they were led by Doña Rosa and a group of curanderas who vowed to protect the community’s water supply.
Sebastián waited in a quiet anteroom, where volunteers distributed tea brewed from muña leaves to calm nerves. He clenched his camera bag, his knuckles white, torn between his urge to step forward with hard evidence and his commitment to support Yaritza’s diplomatic approach. When she finally arrived—her stride measured, her expression steely—he met her with an encouraging smile.
“You look radiant,” he whispered, exchanging a quick, lingering kiss that drew a curious glance from a municipal clerk in the hallway.
She allowed a flicker of a smile before steeling herself. “We must be strong.”
They took seats in the front row of the council chamber. The walls were adorned with portraits of Imbabura’s past prefects—men and women who had presided over similar debates throughout the province’s history, from the anticolonial risings of the 1830s to agrarian reforms in the late twentieth century. Through a stained-glass window, the silhouette of Cotacachi Volcano stood framed like a silent witness.
The meeting began with the mayor’s opening remarks, delivered with solemn pride. He thanked everyone for attending, acknowledging the importance of Cotacachi’s leather tradition but also recognising environmental concerns. He invited a series of pamphlets and reports—some commissioned by the municipal government, others by external NGOs—thick volumes assembled to inform the council. Several tannery owners spoke passionately about heritage, tradition, and the economic lifeblood of the town. Their voices rose with fervour, recounting how Cotacachi’s leather had outfitted soldiers in the Ecuadorian War of the Pacific in the late 1800s, how local hides had once been traded across the Andean trade routes linking Quito to Colombia and Peru. They insisted that any alteration to tanning methods would decimate their sales, endanger families, and stain the region’s identity.
When it was Yaritza’s turn, she rose with quiet dignity. She carried only a single folder: her typed proposal, backed by carefully compiled research—data on water-quality tests, economic forecasts demonstrating the viability of eco-tanneries, and endorsements from neighbouring communities that had adopted similar models in Imbabura Province. She addressed the council in Spanish, but frequently interjected Kichwa phrases—“Wiñaypaq Allpa”—meaning “Land for eternity”—reminding everyone that the earth was to be handed to future generations unspoiled.
Her voice, though soft, resonated through the chamber:
“Honourable council members, fellow citizens, my name is Yaritza Cañicucha. I stand here not against our heritage but in defence of it. Cotacachi’s leather has been a treasure since colonial times, when Basque immigrants first established tanneries by the banks of the Pisque River. Our ancestors laboured with skill and care, crafting goods that sustained our economy. But the world has changed. If we do not adapt, we risk poisoning the streams that supply drinking water to our families, fueling illnesses that our clinics cannot treat. In my proposal stands a path forward—where we safeguard the water, provide jobs through sustainable techniques, and preserve the reputation that has made our leather famous from Quito to Europa.”
She spoke for nearly fifteen minutes, alternately using historic references—such as how, in 1846, President Vicente Ramón Roca’s decree named Cotacachi a canton of Imbabura, granting it autonomy to develop local industries—and citing modern environmental reports. She explained that special vegetable-tanning agents, though initially costlier, would reduce the chemical load on rivers by up to eighty per cent. At the conclusion, she spread a thin map on the council table, tracing the course of Río Pisque from its headwaters in the páramo to the downstream communities of San Pablo del Lago.
Throughout her speech, Sebastián watched with pride and admiration. When she finished, the room fell silent, absorbing the gravity of her words. Some council members scribbled notes; others whispered among themselves.
The tannery owners rebutted, questioning the affordability and feasibility of her plan. But when Doña Rosa rose—her back straight, her once-brittle voice resonant—she recounted how, years prior, she had delivered a child born with congenital skin issues, traced to water contaminated by tannery runoff. Her testimony struck many: a matriarch’s suffering demanded moral reckoning.
In the end, the council voted. It was a narrow margin, but the motion passed: Cotacachi would pilot Yaritza’s sustainable tannery project, funded by a combination of municipal funds and a small grant from an international environmental NGO. The chamber erupted in applause—some enthusiastic, others resigned, but undeniably jubilant.
Sebastián slipped out to the courtyard where Yaritza paused to collect herself. As he approached, tears glistened in her eyes. He embraced her, his heart expanding at her triumph. Yet as the evening’s cool breeze rustled the flags overhead—Kichwa, Ecuadorian, and Cotacachense—he felt a pang of anxiety.
Later, as the crowd dispersed, he took Yaritza by the hand. “You changed everything today,” he whispered.
She smiled wanly, pressing her palm to the small of his back. “We changed everything. But now… I won’t be able to leave.”
He nodded, though a heaviness settled in his chest. “My exhibition in Quito opens next week. I’ll have to leave soon.”
Tears slid down her cheeks. “I know.”
They spent the rest of the night wandering through Cotacachi’s streets, now quiet and moonlit. Lanterns glowed from windows; smoke curled from chimneys; a stray dog padded alongside them, seeking scraps. They spoke of dreams: he would return someday to open a gallery showcasing indigenous art; she would expand her environmental project to other cantons. They promised to write letters—handwritten, sealed with wax—just as older generations once had. But beneath every vow lay the unspoken fear of separation.
When dawn approached, Sebastián walked to the bus station, clutching his leather satchel. They hugged on the platform, the wind whipping her shawl around like a living thing. He brushed a stray lock of hair from her face, his fingertips lingering on her cheek.
“Promise me you’ll keep writing,” he said, voice husky.
She nodded, pressing her forehead to his. “Promise me you’ll come back.”
He closed his eyes, fighting back tears. “I promise.”
As the diesel engine rattled to life, he turned toward his seat. She watched, motionless, until the bus bumped away. When it disappeared around the corner, she felt as though the earth had shifted beneath her feet.
In the weeks that followed, Cotacachi settled into a new rhythm. Yaritza immersed herself in the Sustainable Tannery Initiative, liaising with engineers from Quito and negotiating with representatives from the Andean Ecology Fund. She spent long afternoons at the tannery site—a cluster of modest brick buildings perched by the Pisque River—overseeing the installation of a modern filtration system and supervising community workshops where workers learned to replace harmful chromium salts with natural, vegetable-based tannins derived from local quebracho bark. Each day, she wore protective gloves and a simple white hardhat, her pollera tucked beneath a sturdy coverall. At night, she documented every development in her journal, interspersing sketches of the facility’s layout with musings on how the new practices resonated with ancestral Kichwa philosophies of reciprocity with Pachamama.
Sebastián, meanwhile, arrived in Quito to prepare for his exhibition at Galería Central—a renovated colonial mansion on Calle Salazar. He installed large prints: black-and-white photographs of Cotacachi’s elders, close-ups of leather hides drying in the sun, portraits of curanderas gathering herbs at dawn, and sweeping landscapes of Imbabura’s twin volcanoes standing guard above terraced farms. His artist’s statement read:
“Cotacachi is a place of paradox: a town rooted in ancient heritage while perched on the precipice of modernity. These images strive to capture the delicate dance between tradition and transformation, between the rivers that nourish and the industries that threaten. Amidst it all, the people—their stories, their resilience—remain the true heart of this place.”
Opening night arrived with rain gusting over Quito’s red-tiled roofs. The gallery brimmed with critics, art collectors, and journalists from Quito’s leading newspapers—El Comercio and La Hora—each whispering about the authenticity of a foreign photographer centring his lens on an indigenous community. Among them was Señor Jiménez, the gallery’s curator, whose silver spectacles reflected the photographs’ stark contrasts. He took Sebastián’s arm and murmured, “Your work carries gravitas. You’ve given a voice to Cotacachi, bridging worlds.” Sebastián felt pride coiled with longing. He yearned to share this moment with Yaritza; he had sent her a telegram sealed with a wax stamp, bearing the same Kichwa cross stitched onto her notebook.
Yet as the crowd hummed and champagne flutes clinked, his thoughts turned to home. He had received a letter, its envelope worn from travel. Yaritza wrote of partial successes: the first tranche of funds had arrived for the tannery project, but some workers resisted change, insisting that ancient tanning salts—though toxic—produced the leather that Cotacachi was known for. She described a late-night conversation with Doña Rosa, who worried that if her daughter succeeded too well, she might be lured away to Quito or beyond, sacrificing her calling in Cotacachi. The final line, written in Kichwa, translated roughly: “Our roots run deep; the river remembers every step.”
At the exhibition’s close, Sebastián left the gallery and wandered into Quito’s night, the rain pounding on cobblestones. He sat beneath an awning of a café near La Ronda, sipping mate de coca, pondering his next move. He reached for his phone and typed a message to Yaritza, then deleted it. His heart pounded: could he uproot his life to be with her? Could she imagine leaving the land that defined her?
Back in Cotacachi, Yaritza laboured through the rain, coordinating the community’s first batch of vegetable-tanned leather. Alongside her cousin Carlos, she wove a vibrant tapestry—a prototype wall hanging—that incorporated both traditional Otavaleño patterns and photographs Sebastián had sent digitally. They hoped to showcase it at an upcoming feria artesanal in Ibarra. Yet at night, when the wind howled down the flanks of Cotacachi Volcano, she found herself tracing the contours of his promise to return. She wrote poems in her journal—verses that wove imagery of two volcanoes standing side by side, mirroring their souls.
Six weeks later, Sebastián arrived in Cotacachi unannounced. He carried a small knapsack and wore a simple white shirt, frayed jeans, and an expression that was at once triumphant and laden with emotion. He had crossed the Andes, leaving behind his burgeoning gallery prospects in Quito, determined to be with the woman who had become his anchor. He arrived at the Sustainable Tannery site just as Yaritza and her team were preparing for the Ibarra fair. She looked up from a roll of recién curtido leather, her eyes widening, her breath catching.
He approached her without speaking, dropping to one knee in the clay-dust near the vats. From his knapsack, he withdrew a small wooden box carved from elm—the same elm he’d sketched in his journal in Buenos Aires years ago. Inside lay a slender silver ring engraved with Kichwa symbols: “Munaypaq” (“For Love”) and “Hampiykuna” (“Healers”), symbolising their bond and their shared commitment to healing the earth.
Tears glimmered in Yaritza’s eyes as he rose and spoke, his voice trembling but resolute: “Yaritza Cañicucha, you taught me that love is not just a feeling but a responsibility—to our heritage, our community, and to each other. Will you marry me and let us live in Cotacachi, forging a future that honours the past?”
Her chest heaved as the world seemed to hold its breath. She gazed at the river’s edge, where water sparkled with the reflection of distant volcanoes. Then she turned to him, her lips curving into a smile that carried the gentleness of a mountain breeze and the fierceness of a torrent.
“Yes,” she whispered, then pressed a trembling hand to his cheek. “Yes, I will.”
As they embraced, the tannery workers gathered around, raising jubilant cheers. In that moment, the sky overhead cracked open with a sunbeam that illuminated the Pair of Lovers—two souls bound by love, wisdom, and a shared devotion to preserving the land that had nurtured them both.
Years later, Cotacachi bore witness to the fruits of their union. The Sustainable Tannery Initiative, named “Munaypaq Hampiykuna,” became a model for other Andean communities. The river’s water quality improved measurably—trout returned to its shallows, and mothers no longer spoke of skin rashes or leaf-stained bloodlines. The tannery employed over fifty families, paying fair wages and operating beneath roofs of solar panels that powered eco-friendly machinery. Under a large wooden pergola by the riverbank—where sebastián and Yaritza had once sealed their engagement—local musicians performed for visitors who came to learn about the project’s success.
Yaritza, now a respected leader in both indigenous and municipal circles, published papers in Spanish and Kichwa on sustainable development, anthropology, and midwifery. She bore three children—two daughters and a son—each named to honour their roots: Sumak for the eldest girl (meaning “Beauty” in Kichwa), Taita for their son (meaning “Father,” referencing Sebastián’s role as patriarch), and Uma for the youngest daughter (meaning “Water,” a tribute to the river they had saved). With each birth, Doña Rosa offered blessings in a traditional ceremony at the Peguche waterfall, chanting prayers in Kichwa as petals of rose and lavender floated upon the water.
Sebastián’s career as a photographer flourished in tandem with his life in Cotacachi. He documented communities across Imbabura Province, mounting exhibitions in Quito, Cuenca, and Lima. In 2030, he published a book—“Volcanoes and Hearts”—an anthology of essays and photographs chronicling the resilience of Andean cultures and the transformative power of love rooted in respect for Pachamama. The book’s final chapter recounted his meeting with Yaritza in the Plaza de Ponchos, likening their encounter to the fabled Chimborazo sunrise—unexpected, brilliant, and life-altering.
Their love story became legend: an ode to the enduring spirit of Cotacachi. Tourists who visited the Plaza de Ponchos could still glimpse photographs of Yaritza and Sebastián displayed in the leather shops—images of them walking hand-in-hand along la Cascada de Peguche, dancing beneath fireworks at Inti Raymi, and laughing by the shore of Lake San Pablo at dawn. The community’s children recited the tale like a saga: how a wise girl with the soul of her ancestors met a wandering photographer who learned what it truly meant to belong.
And so, in the shadow of Imbabura’s snow-capped cone—where condors writhed in thermals overhead, and the scent of eucalyptus drifted on mountain breezes—two souls entwined in love became the living embodiment of Cotacachi’s past, present, and future. Their story testified that when hearts beat not only for each other but also for the land that bore them, they could transform the very fabric of a community, weaving threads of hope, resilience, and enduring devotion.
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