A sensory day in Salinas, Ecuador—where the Andes dawn, salt mirror fields, herb gardens, firewood warmth, and starlit baths become a quiet poem of the earth.
05:00–07:00 | Awakening in the Andes’ Dawn Air
On the terrace table, I placed both a peppermint and a chamomile tea bag into the kettle and poured hot water over them. Then, I added a generous swirl of honey. A soft sweetness filled the air—somewhere between floral nectar and golden syrup. I sipped slowly, blowing gently, letting the warmth roll through me. Without realizing it, my eyes drifted toward the distance, where the mist lingered between stone rooftops like a dream still hanging in the air. The mug, warmly cradled in both hands, stood in perfect contrast to the coolness of the morning—it glowed with a quiet, comforting heat.
The second day in Salinas began in the clearest and most silent of dawns. The air inside the room felt like cold water in a glass—transparent, fresh, and still. When I cracked open the window just slightly, the breath of the Andes—gathered through the night—gently slipped into the room. It brushed against my face with a chill, but strangely, there was a softness in that cold, something calm and almost tender. I rose quietly, wrapped in that stillness, feeling like I had awakened not just from sleep, but into something sacred.
🥾 07:00–09:00 | Walking Toward the Salt Flats
I slowly stepped out of the hotel and began my walk toward the vast salt flats. Along the path, between wide-open fields and patches of tall grass, roosters from nearby homes began to crow one by one. In the distance, children with schoolbags slung over their shoulders walked playfully, their laughter echoing through the morning air. The scent of damp earth—fresh from the gentle rain the night before—rose with each step I took, reminding me that I was standing within a living, breathing world of nature.
After walking a little farther, the edge of the village opened up, revealing the great expanse of the salt flats beyond. On one side of the flat, an old man was quietly scraping the surface with slow, deliberate motions. His loose clothes fluttered faintly with the breeze, and in the stillness, he seemed to be the only figure moving within a giant, motionless mirror. The shallow water beneath my feet rippled gently, and the sky’s clouds reflected across the surface of the salt like playful children asking, "How do I look?"—smiling in silence.
The salt flats stretched wide like a mirror, calmly holding the endless sky within. With each breeze, the reflection of the clouds shimmered softly across the surface, casting a strange stillness and an almost sacred calm. Walking through this mirror-like world gave me a surreal feeling—as though I were drifting through a dream. The salty breeze carried not only the briny scent of the earth, but something deeper—something oceanic and ancient, like the sea itself condensed into the air. It drifted over me, swirling like clouds warmed by sunlight, filling my senses completely.
🧂 09:00–11:00 | Salt Crystals Under the Morning Sun
One side of the vast salt flats was delicately sectioned off like a small garden. In those quiet corners, the salt had already evaporated into pure white crystals, sparkling under the morning sun like scattered crystals of light. In other parts, the evaporation was still in progress—slowly turning into the same pristine formations. These small pools, each in a different stage of transformation, painted a gentle mosaic of nature’s quiet work: some were glistening with ready salt, others still shimmering with water.
After a while, a local woman named Donatella greeted me warmly. She looked as though she had lived her entire life here—her sun-kissed skin and salt-worn hands told a story of many years under the same sky. A soft smile lingered in the creases of her eyes, where time had left gentle traces. She scooped up some salt in her hands and invited me to do the same. I dipped my hand into the shallow pool and grabbed a handful—and to my surprise, the salt felt soft, almost alive, like fine mud. Seeing my amazement, she said with a smile, “This is the edible jewel made by the sun. It’s a gift from the sky, gathered little by little each day.”
We stood there for a moment, laughing together, our white teeth catching the light like the crystals around us. Within this grand landscape, the two of us felt like tiny grains of salt—small and fleeting beneath the immensity of nature. Above us, the clouds shifted and shimmered, reflecting the sunlight and casting gentle shadows across the endless sky. The salt flats, like a great mirror of the heavens, spread on and on, blurring the boundary between earth and sky.
🌿 11:00–13:00 | The Garden of Herbs and Kindness
As I was walking back toward the hotel from the salt flats, a delicate scent drifting through the air made me turn my head. There was no sign, no indication—but in a small garden filled with herbs, three young men were trimming and sorting leaves with quiet focus. Around them bloomed clusters of mint, lavender, chamomile, and rooibos—so abundant they looked like clouds of blossoms, soft and overflowing. On a shaded worktable, bundles of dried herbs were neatly stacked under the sun, while others were spread out in long lines to dry gently in the breeze.
One of the young men smiled and waved me over. With large, weathered hands, he carefully handed me a warm cup of tea infused with mint and other herbs. The scent was deep, fresh, and alive—just like the overgrown garden itself. As I inhaled the tea’s aroma, I was suddenly reminded of the mirror-like salt flats—both held something vast, something vivid. The warmth of his smile, the sun-darkened creases around his eyes, the herb-filled breeze, and the lightness of our brief meeting made everything feel new, fresh, and deeply alive. Just like the salt held the ocean’s breath, the herbs held the sun, wind, and soil in each leaf.
When I finished the tea and handed the cup back, he smiled again and offered me a small gift. It was wrapped in simple paper inside a tiny clear bag—small, but surprisingly weighty. “It’s a blend of dried herbs and salt from the flats,” he explained. “Just a pinch in food gives it a rich, earthy aroma.” Behind him, lavender and marjoram swayed in the light, their purple hues glowing under the sun. I smiled wide and thanked him deeply—for the tea, for the gift, and for the warmth. There weren’t many tourists in this village, and in that rare encounter, I could feel the sincerity and quiet generosity that lived in the people here.
🍲 13:00–15:00 | Lunchtime in the Village Kitchen
I placed the small bag of herb salt, gifted to me in the garden, carefully into my bag and continued walking toward the next path beyond the herb garden. Over the fence, bright pumpkin blossoms spilled out in tangled vines, blooming with cheerful wildness. Nestled among them were pumpkins of every size—from baby greens to hefty golden ones hanging heavily on the stems. As I wandered along a narrow, winding dirt path, children kicked a soccer ball nearby, their laughter riding the breeze with the dust. Around a patch of yellow wildflowers, a mother hen trotted ahead, her line of tiny chicks trailing closely behind.
As I walked deeper into the village, the scent of lunch slowly thickened in the air like a soft morning fog. From a half-opened clay-brick house, I saw people seated casually on wooden benches, enjoying pumpkin soup, handmade pasta, and grilled corn that seemed to have just come off a smoky fire. When they saw me, they smiled warmly and waved me in, pointing to an empty bench with a gesture that felt like a long-lost welcome. A few moments later, I was served a hearty plate of the same dishes—pumpkin soup, rustic pasta, and golden corn, all arranged simply but beautifully. Even before tasting, I could sense the depth of care and the fragrance of herbs woven into the food.
While eating, I chatted with a young-looking woman beside me. She told me that the past two years had been painfully dry due to drought, but somehow, this year, the pumpkins and potatoes had flourished beyond expectation. It felt like a blessing, she said, and the evening meal was already being prepared so the children could eat as soon as they returned from school. Her words made me feel that everything in this village flowed with communal care and quiet gratitude. The grilled corn—buttered and topped with a touch of creamy goat cheese—was so tender, sweet, and savory that I knew I would remember its taste for a very long time.
🧶 15:00–17:00 | The Colors Woven by Hand
After lunch, I strolled along a quiet, winding path and arrived at the village cooperative. Inside a low-ceilinged stone building, I saw five women seated side by side, steadily working their foot pedals and shuttles across wooden looms. Threads stretched tight across the looms, and their movements followed a slow, rhythmic pattern—each motion in harmony with the soft, traditional songs they were humming. The melodies, filled with local flavor, seemed to thread themselves into the cloth, weaving colors of the mountains, meadows, and sunlight into the very fabric before my eyes.
The woven cloths carried the breath of nature—coarse yet gentle like wood and grass—stacked neatly in folds, each one marked with care. Nearby, on a wooden shelf, lay small keepsakes: tea sachets wrapped in hand-dyed brown fabrics adorned with dried flowers, and delicate handkerchiefs crafted with love. One caught my eye—a soft green handkerchief bordered in pale yellow, embroidered with a single red flower shining like a drop of sunlight. I picked it up, and another one beside it—a deep purple with green patterns and yellow floral thread. Each was only two dollars, a humble price for something so lovingly made.
It felt as though the spirit of the Andes wind had been captured in cloth—the blankets laid wide across the stone floor fluttered slightly, their texture reflecting craftsmanship nearly indistinguishable from art. The women’s soft humming, the looms clicking gently, the threads dancing in the breeze, and even the birdsong—first a cuckoo, then smaller chirps—blended into one perfect harmony. All around were towering old trees and tender young saplings, and within this humble yet rich space, time seemed to slow, allowing the beauty of every small detail to unfold with quiet grace.
🪵 17:00–19:00 | The Time of Wood and Fire
As the sun began its slow descent, a wood fire crackled gently at the edge of the hillside village. An old man sat silently on a bench carved from a thick tree stump, his eyes meeting mine with a quiet, knowing smile. The glow of the fire warmed his face in hues of soft red. Without a word, he added more wood to the flames, inviting me to sit beside him with a simple gesture. The fire flared up brightly at first, then began to breathe slowly—glowing warmly, dimming, flaring again—like it was alive, responding to the evening breeze.
From the glowing coals, he began to pull out golden sweet potatoes, gently blowing the ash from each one. There were more than ten, each larger than a hand, caramelized and steaming. He placed them on an old wooden plate, along with thick slices of goat cheese, roasted to a golden crisp. The fire crackled softly. When all the sweet potatoes were out, he added more wood, and this time also tossed in dried herbs. The scent of sweet potato, herbal smoke, and burning wood filled the air, painting everything around us in a gentle orange glow—the moment felt like the exact border between sunset and night.
He spoke at last, slowly and softly: “Time moves slowly here. The wind in the trees, the way we live—everything flows at its own quiet pace.” The fire burned on in silence as we chewed slowly on the sweet potato and cheese, watching the flames dance. We didn’t need words. Darkness arrived quietly, and stars began to bloom in the sky, one by one. Without speaking, we listened to the voice of nature around us—the evening wind, the fire, the roasted aroma, and the hush of everything alive. Eventually, I thanked him with a deep nod and began walking back to the hotel, my heart quietly full.
🌌 19:00–21:00 | Beneath a Salt-Laden Night Sky
As I walked back to the hotel, the village was already wrapped in starlight. Overhead, the sky shimmered quietly—and beneath it, so did the salt flats. Like a vast, motionless lake of mirrors, the salt pools reflected the moonlight and stars, as if the night sky had descended and gently laid itself upon the earth. The reflection was so clear, it was hard to tell where the sky ended and the salt began.
The stars seemed to be embedded in the salt itself, scattered over the crystalline surface like jewels. It was as if they were “salt-stars,” born from the earth yet glowing like they came from the heavens. I couldn't tell whether the stars were made of salt, or if the salt had become stars. The scene was breathtaking—so utterly different from the blinding brightness of day. There was a softness to it, a stillness that shimmered with quiet life.
The salt sparkled like crystal beneath the night sky, whispering stories without words. It didn’t just reflect the stars—it seemed to breathe with them, alive in its silence, alive in its shimmer. The wind moved gently through the air, and in the deep hush, the union of starlight and salt created a harmony that pulled me in further the longer I stood there. It was a deep, luminous quiet—one that spoke straight to the soul.
🌙 21:00–00:00 | A Lullaby of Salt and Wind
By the time I returned, I had quietly arrived at Hotel El Refugio de Salinas. I headed up to the terrace, brewed some mint tea, and poured it into a warm thermos. In the bathroom, I dissolved the herb-infused salt the young man had given me earlier into the bathwater. The lukewarm warmth began to melt away the weight of the day, both from my limbs and my heart. From somewhere distant, I could hear a bird’s soft call, the faint hum of insects, and a distant jingling—perhaps a donkey’s bell, or maybe a sheep’s. I took a deep breath and dipped my face into the water.
The scent of herbs and salt mixed gently with the warmth of the bath, seeping into every cell of my face like a delicate whisper. As I exhaled and lifted my head, I found myself recalling the day—its colors, textures, and emotions—like one might relive a dream through water. The vast salt flats, the mirror of clouds, the stars scattered like crystal salt grains, the smile of the young man, the warmth of the elderly villagers… it all returned, flowing through me again as I soaked, memory unfolding with each ripple.
The more I soaked, the more vivid the memories became—scents reviving, landscapes blooming anew in my mind. It felt as though I was bathing in another world, one shaped from salt, sky, and human kindness. Eventually, after what felt like 30 minutes, the water began to cool. I slowly rose, wrapped in the softness of a quiet body, and slipped into bed. With one last deep breath, I drew in the day once more—then let it go, gently, as I drifted quickly into sleep.
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