Exposure has always been valued in my family. The ability to spend time walking in another’s shoes, to experience the varying lives of others. To understand that the world is an enormous place, with different types of struggles that give rise to different types of problems. Exposure is the key to understanding and developing empathy. For as long as I can remember, my parents have always exposed my sister and me, given us a taste of the best and worst of contrasting worlds, all in hopes of opening our eyes, and molding the two of us into knowledgeable, responsible young women. As part of their plan, this past summer, my family took a trip to Ecuador, which has all of the signs of a developing country. Political turmoil, suppressed locals, pollution, lack of jobs...all the conditions one would expect.

Ecuador’s President, Rafael Correa, is trying to improve the country’s status by industrializing. He has mortgaged the country to China. Roads are being built, power plants are everywhere, the people are facing the consequences of mass development. The largest project is improving the “Pan-American” Highway, which transverses the country. The plan to expand the highway seems like a sound idea at first glance, however, upon closer observation, it is clear that it is hurting the pristine beauty of the country, and one specific group of people, the Kichwa.

The Incas were the largest Native tribe in Ecuador, and their descendants occupy the majority of the country today. Most of them live in the relatively same way their ancestors did almost 1000 years ago but, now in poverty. Nowadays, they are referred to as the indigenous people. The indigenous have no papers for their land, because they were never given any. Furthermore, Correa threatens to expand the Pan-American Highway into their land. If he follows through, the Indigenous will have nowhere to go, and no money to survive. They are trapped.

Lincoln Jabra was our tour guide, our driver, and our translator, a mestizo (a mix of Spanish and Incan) who understands both worlds. He is a short, built man, with a bald head and glasses, and a lot of knowledge to offer. Lincoln is part Kichwa and part Spanish. He knows Ecuador inside and out, has been to every city, famous landmark, and has met people from near and far. His job gives him exposure.

Lincoln was with us everywhere in Ecuador and showed us everything. On the third day of our trip, we were driving in his maroon Toyota 4Runner, toward the Quilotoa Loop, away from Quito, the capital city. Like always, we were driving on the Pan-American highway, our noses pressed against the windows. On our right side, there was a canyon filled with trees, alpacas and wild horses. The left side offered a view of the city, tall, colorful buildings which cast a shadow on the canyon. There was a peaceful aura, no disturbances. Once again it seemed like we had the best of both worlds.

Lincoln broke the silence. “I wanna introduce you to an indigenous family on the way. They live on the side of the Pan-American highway, and they will take you into their house, to show you,” Lincoln told us in his thick Ecuadorian accent and broken English.

“Oh absolutely,” my dad responded quietly, yet enthusiastically in his British accent. An hour or so passed, before Lincoln pulled over on the highway using his stick shift to park the car. I looked outside and saw a man hunched over tending his crops. Two dogs chased each other in front of a small hut-like dwelling with a tiny entrance. Two women were sewing as their children played in the gritty land with sticks.

Before we could leave the car, Lincoln turned around to face us. “Maybe you give them some money to help them. They are very poor.”

“Of course,” my mom agreed as she pulled out her wallet. One by one we filed out of the car, and walked across the road, against the wind. Lincoln stayed ahead of us, and the man tending the crops headed in his direction.

“Mi amigo como estas?” Lincoln said patting the man on the back. The man flashed a toothless, weary smile. His deep, wise, brown eyes drooped down, and when you looked into them, his life flashed before your eyes. His wrinkles dominated his face, and he wore a dusty Panama hat. It was evident how tired and overworked he was. Lincoln introduced us and the man gestured for us to come inside.

One by one we ducked through the tiny entryway and a gaggle of children followed. Immediately, I was shocked. Hundreds of cuy (guinea pigs) covered every straw of hay on the ground making tiny squealing noises. The old man began speaking in Kichwa, explaining every corner of his home. His house was circular, consisting of two levels. The home was smaller than my bedroom, and you could see the top floor from the bottom. The walls were covered in artwork, and the only piece of technology in the entire place was a tiny gas stove.

My mom was intrigued, and she immediately began asking questions. Lincoln served as a dutiful translator. “How many children does he have?"

The old man spoke with a smile.

“He says he has 4 children, and 10 grandchildren.”

“They all live here? How do they manage?” My mom continued. Again there was more sideways conversation.

“No, they have another house about an hour away from here. It is closer to the public school for the children.”

I stepped in to ask a question. “How many guinea pigs does he have?’

“About 150 in here, and 100 more outside.” For a brief moment, the family’s love for the cuy gave me a warm feeling until I realized that they were soon going to roast them and sell them in a market.

Ten minutes into the conversation I became sidetracked by the children, who were unbearably cute. The youngest, who looked about two years old, stood shyly, hiding half of his face behind his grandmother’s vibrant poncho. He had his grandfather’s eyes, a puffy face and chapped lips. I took a picture of him and proceeded to show him. His eyes became large with wonder and I could almost see a smile escape him. Watching him planted a sense of guilt inside me. What was to become of this child? What if the government took away what little he had? I felt dejected and helpless.

I started to listen again to the conversation. “Is he happy?” My mom questioned. I wanted so badly for the answer to be yes. This time, the elderly man’s answer was almost a minute long.

“He says not really,” Lincoln answered, “He makes only five hundred dollars a year and does not have enough money to feed his family or his animals. He has no papers for his land and no place to go. He also fears his time will end soon and he will have nothing to leave his family.” My heart sunk. After all, everything he said was true. I came with a preconceived notion that his simple life was a source of happiness for him, when in actuality it was anything but.

Five minutes later, it was time to leave. My mom handed the man some money and he thanked us and bid goodbye to Lincoln. As we walked back to the car, the children chased behind.

“Un dólar! Un dólar!” a young girl with short braids and a purple, yarn sweater yelled. I turned around to look at her, only to see her holding her hand in front of my face. My mom handed them the rest of her change, which unfortunately did not add up to a dollar. “No! Un dólar!” My mother showed the girl her the empty coin purse, and the children walked away, disappointed. Suddenly I remembered the twenty-five dollars I had in my wallet, which I was going to use to buy my friend a souvenir. I thought about giving it to the family, but something told me not to.

We left and continued our journey on the Pan-American highway, and as I stared at the Ecuadorian landscape and the surrounding volcanoes, I thought about how much twenty-five dollars might have done for the family. Instead of buying a keychain or jewelry, a family could have survived off of the money. It was enough for food, clothes, supplies, gas. To this day I regret my decision, my selfishness. Ultimately, my mind won over my heart and I chose not to do the right thing. I learned something vitally important that day and vowed to myself to never take what I have for granted, to help others in need, instead of giving in to my materialism.