Canary in the Coal Mine

This following story was written by my friend Lewis ‘Lucho’ Wheelwright. I met Lucho in Cuenca, where he has been working for the last year as a study abroad program coordinator. He writes about some of the very sentiments that I have written on in the past, and presents a really nice and reflective voice on his perceptions of his place in Cuenca. So I offered to publish his story on Travel Guy, so that more people would be able to read it. Take a look, and leave some comments so he can get some feedback on his writing, which I think shows a lot of potential, considering he just started.

I think that every traveller at heart feels restless. It’s the kind of feeling which originates from passion, and is driven by unrelenting desire. It grabs you, lets you know it’s there, and shakes you by the shoulders as if to tell you to return yourself to the unknown. It is a time when majestic photos of sprawling white mountain ranges, every word of Kerouac or Thoreau speaking of the great vastness and the “ success unexpected in common hours,” and every leathery  sun-worn local face leaves us with a deep and inexplicable aching of the soul. The feeling from the gut, much as if jumping unknowingly from a plane, giving one the mentally confused, sensory overloaded, stomach dropping feeling which slaps you into a stupor. The legs bounce and a primordial voice whispering “move.” The heart beats, and then it passes until subconsciously stimulated again.


I am not a stagnant individual, nor am I one who is willing to settle. I would not fall, even though I might wish, under the category of “mochilero” or backpacking vagabond. Although I dream of the worn travellers shoes, with toes ignobly poking out, a road-weathered face only broken by the circular 1950s goggle shape from too much foreign road dust. No, no such nomadic meanderings have I completed, yet I would describe myself as itinerant; rather, ‘pata caliente’ or literally, hot-footed and restlessly adventurous, but stable for periods at a time.  

It is when the internal sands stop moving that this inner goliath grabs you and screams for something new. It burns to be let out of its comfort zone and begs to be placed on the wire. If to be just running for a bus, wide-eyed and nervous. The only real answer is to feed its insatiable hunger for something. Perhaps just a lick of burned earth wafting through a window, a lazy, loosely connected ceiling fan blowing in rank humid city air, or the jittery feeling of unfamiliar streets is that prescription which kills the voracious beast. Perhaps just a new type of frosty brew, maybe one like Ecuador’s Pilsener, which is Ecuatorianamente Refrescante, or “Ecuadorianally Refreshing” might cure all that ails.


Last week I completed my first full year here in Ecuador. A milestone in my book of international living. This day seemed to touch a nerve or re-awaken something sleeping. Now, the big elephant of a question that sits in the small room in my head, who normally is at peace, has decided to move into a fragile antique shop of my memories. It blithers non-stop about my past adventures, weighing in on the shoulds and should nots, asking “Where next?” and “How?” threatening to bring up every last great memory I had.  It comes on fast like a badly poured beer, rushing to the top while you unsuccessfully struggle to sip off the excess froth before running out of breath. Too much, too fast and you find yourself more confused than before.

If I have realized anything throughout my last year here, it’s that the simple things in life are what I miss. Although, I might go so far as to say that it’s the simple things in life that keep me here as well. True, a brilliant, colorful fall will never been seen in Ecuador,  but  the pace of life, the fingertips of the wild creeping at the city’s edges, and the forever lasting summer is one of the things that makes this second home so appealing. 


I frequently wonder why I left the amenities of my New England life behind. Perhaps I love being able to play with the Spanish language and to see a shocked face when I speak the local lingo, or it might be that I see people on the street, and they recognize me as if I at were home. Maybe I wait for my South American epiphany—Kerouac style—breaking through the clouds to provide momentous clarity on life. Or perhaps I am still waiting to take my Che Guevara motorcycle ride through the Andes, hoping for my moment of soul searching amongst the Incan ruins, travelling the dusty road, my thoughts vividly transposed into experiential writings.


Even as I wait for these possibly unattainable desires I realize that perhaps this is not the goal. There is ample time down here on the equator, plenty of warm faces, as well as rich communities and history in which I can peaceably pass my time. Yet I am feeling my feet itch and I am no longer passing my time peaceably. It’s as if to have a great urge to use the bathroom on a bumpy road, jammed between 5 non-English speaking passengers in a hot and overcrowded car. Uncomfortable at best. So the true question that lies at the heart of all of this is how to pass this feeling. The truth really is that I am living it in this moment, and my thoughts of returning to my homeland, moving to another country, or just a simple vacation are all running through my head. Which one will calm the urge, and tame the beast I do not know. I feel that this is a point which many arrive to, can perhaps delay for a while, but must eventually face. The challenge is with what, and more importantly, when will our “hot-feet” cool down, and allow us peace and tranquillity in being comfortable somewhere. Or better yet, do we want this?  

By Lewis Wheelwright 

Is "Tourist" a Dirty Word?

I deal in a world of tourism. It started as an interest and hobby, grew into a project with my writing, and now is my profession. I work in travel and tourism, yet I hate the word tourist. I hate the word because it conjures up so many negative images and stereotypes. The out of place dad with knee-high white socks and sandals, a camera around the neck, map sticking out of the back pocket, and guidebook in one hand while another points up at some landmark, holding up pedestrian traffic. No one really wears those I ♥ NY shirts anymore, but the same sentiment is felt in wearing the jersey of the national team or the local beer company.

The more that I’ve traveled, the less and less I’ve wanted to be associated as a tourist. Though it’s impossible for me to blend in as a local everywhere, I still try to at least make it less obvious that I am there on vacation, both for security and convenience reasons. Nothing is worse than walking down a busy pedestrian street with 30 vendors trying to get you into their restaurants or to see a “special tango show.” So I take a picture quickly and sneakily, and then I put the camera away. Or I act as if I know where I’m going or have a meeting to catch, even if I’m lost or just killing time. But that’s just me.

Yet as a part of my job, I write information for tourists. In one of the guides I was writing, I found myself replacing the word “tourist” with “guests” or “group members.” Maybe it’s because to me, the word “tourist” almost sounds like an insult. You can hear it being used in so many negative sentences. “Traveler” seems to have a much nicer ring to it. A traveler goes to a place to experience something or to open up cultural understanding. A tourist just shows up for a few days to drop some coin and pull away some souvenirs. I wrote about similar sentiments while still in Cuenca in July, noting the differences seen in the gringos that passed through the towns. A lot of expats feel the same way, and as my friend Amy put it, the reason we hate them is because we see a reflection of ourselves never truly being able to blend in. So really, we hate ourselves.

No matter where I am when I’m traveling, I hate the idea of being a tourist, even though it’s basically what I am. There’s no escaping from it, because even if you don’t feel like that stereotypical tourist, in the eyes of the local, that is exactly what you are. It’s kind of ironic then, that I should be writing about traveling, working at a travel agency, and love to travel. A love/hate relationship, in a way.

I can’t say for sure if at some point the word itself took on a new meaning, or if it’s always seemed kind of rotten. Anywhere in the world at any time period, I’m sure, locals have resented visitors for being able to just show up and leave freely, and visitors have resented locals for hiking up their prices and acting superior. There are examples all over the world where this is not the case, but the larger the city you go to, the more obvious it is. Yet go to a small town in the mountains in Ecuador, for example, and everyone will treat you like a friend. It just depends on the situation.

Some people like me though continue to bear the title of tourist as a mark of shame. We are seemingly always trying to run away from it, attempting to blend in more and learn as much about the culture as possible to demonstrate that we really are different. Sometimes the locals see that and appreciate it. Other times not so much. And if not, well then all we can do is wait until we are home and back to being a local. Then we can finally be the ones to mock those damn tourists.

Above: Being tourists