Tucked between a few rolling hills on the coast of Ecuador, 14 kilometers from a small, two-street surf town, lies Rio Muchacho Organic Farm.

After a ride in an open-air bus, a bouncy truck bed, the back of a dirt bike, or on an old horse… you will eventually arrive at the gate of the farm, my home for the next seven months.

Spread across these 10 hectares of land is not only my home but the home for numerous herbs and vegetables, various animals, Ecuadorian workers and volunteers from around the world.

I’m here to work for Rio Muchacho as a marketing intern to promote the farm and other ecotourism opportunities through websites, blogs and social media. Since most of my work requires internet, which is not available on the farm, I spend about three days a week in a nearby town and the rest of my time working with the animals and in the garden.

While studying journalism in college, I never imagined I would be waking up every morning to shovel poop in peg pens, but this lifestyle seems to work out.

Days here start early at 6:30 a.m. for morning chores with the animals. Each animal (cows, pigs, chickens, guinea pigs, horses, dogs, a rabbit, a goat and a boar) serves a particular role to keep the farm running. And most of these roles involve poop.

Rio Muchacho is a self-sustaining, organic, pescatarian (we eat fish!) farm. We grow the majority of our food and use organic resources to build and survive. While the goal of the farm is to be sustainable, it also strives to educate people within the community as well as across the world with ideas of how an individual can avoid negatively impacting the environment.

So we begin each day shoveling poop. The food we eat comes from the garden. We feed all scraps and leftovers to the pigs. The pigs digest the food and we scoop their poop to mix with sawdust and excrements from other animals for compost. The compost eventually gets used to fertilize the soil in the garden where the process starts all over again.

The way we live works in circles. Everything we take from the Earth eventually gets returned.

I went bowling a few weeks ago with my hometown friends. The bowling alley where we spent
summer nights as kids. The same fluorescent lights. The same grey haired man behind the counter. The same ugly clown shoes. And the same group of friends I’ve grown up with over the last decade.

While sipping my beer and throwing numerous gutter balls, I realized how much I enjoy the time I spend with these people.

Sure, I’ve made many friends while traveling, throughout college and as a “young adult.” They are, with no doubt, great people. Hilarious. Motivated. Fun.

But for some reason they don’t pinch my heart like this hometown group. Maybe because I have never wrestled them in the basement. I have never locked their arms and ran into a winter ocean. I have never snuck in or out of the house with them or carpooled to the movies in their mom’s mini van.

This all must have something to do with why the friends we make in our “adult-ish” years are never as close as the ones we make as kids. I’ve shared so many “firsts” with these people I don’t think I’ll ever be able to let them go.

We didn’t know anything as kids, but thought we knew it all. We were awkward and confused. Our emotions were fresh and we explored them with our friends.

I’ve learned a lot with these people and have many times I wish I could forget. But instead we can look at those memories today and burst out laughing, or crying, or just shake our heads at the simplest things.

They will be the ones forever smiling in pictures on my wall. Even when, years from now, a new friend will glance at the photo and have no clue who the happy faces belong to, I still want to look at them everyday.

And when we’re back in the same town together, from different cities or time zones or countries, we’ll get together over a few cases of cheap beer and waste away the night. And laugh. Because I never seem to laugh the same way with other people.

That's what I get when I see my old friends. Cheep beer, bad jokes, good memories and a sense of home. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

When I first landed in Quito, my legs were shaky. The airplane was unable to touch ground due to strong winds above the city, so we flew South to Guayaquil to get fuel and sit in the runway... and wait.

At midnight on September 2nd, three hours after my scheduled arrival, I walked alone through the crowds in the Quito airport. Spanish conversations buzzed around me, but I couldn't seem to recall a single phrase I had learned in the previous weeks. I needed to take a taxi to find a hostel in La Mariscal District (A.K.A. Gringolandia), but thoughts ran through my head of dangerous cab drivers and petty crimes in the city.

A woman working the desk recommended the taxi of one older man, so I hopped in his van and trusted he would take me where I asked. While we drove through the desolate city, I sat clutching my backpack and attempting to swallow the knot that was forming in my throat. I couldn't help but question why I had chosen to move to this unfamiliar country where I had no friends and could barely speak the language. I had never felt so alone.

A combination of jet lag, frustration with my Spanish and a bit of confusion made me want to curl up in that backseat and cry. It took complete concentration to hold in the tears and convince myself that these uncomfortable situations help you to grow into a stronger person.

So, I sucked it up, checked into a hostel and fell asleep in the top bunk of a room full of strangers. $7 for a bed, a warm shower and free breakfast.

The next morning I staggered down to the dining room for toast and cereal with several other sleepy backpackers. The good thing about travelers is we are naturally curious people -- Why else would we want to see the world other than to satisfy scratching the itch of curiosity?

And quick friends are easy to make when staying in hostels. Everyone has their own unique stories to share of where they've been, what they've done and of course where they're going. So conversations at breakfast naturally flowed and initial plans for a walk in the park with some Ecuadorians also led to a trip to the outdoor market, sharing a burrito with an Australian girl, cervezas and broken Spanish around a patio table, failed attempts at salsa dancing and a secret after-party at an underground diskoteka.

Quito is a mix of the old and new cultures of Ecuador. La Mariscal district is full of young people, hostels, modern restaurants and bars, while the old town has colorful plazas, rows of old buildings and historic churches watched over by El Panecillo, the virgin angel statue.

Along the street, little boys with dirt on their faces want to shine your shoes for a quarter and young girls selling Chicklets look up at you with sad brown eyes. It's not easy saying no.

After spending a week in the capital city, I was able to get somewhat accustomed to the Ecuadorian lifestyle and also register my visa. But seven days of commotion left me eager to get to the tranquillo atmosphere of the farm.