The scent that takes me back home: Manabí, my childhood, and Palo Santo

There are smells you never forget. Not because you sought them out, but because they were always there, woven into the fabric of your days without you even noticing. The smoke from the firewood at dawn. The slow-simmering chicken stew. The roasted plantain with fresh cheese melting on top. The mud and the scrubland after the rain. And that aroma, so commonplace and yet so peculiar, that I never paid attention to as a child: Palo Santo.

Today, when I light it, I don't smell a product. I smell my entire childhood.

The Heart of the House

My grandmother's kitchen wasn't just another room. It was the center of everything. And in the center of that kitchen was the wood-fired oven—not in a corner, but right there in the middle, as if the whole house had been built around it.

On its embers rested the clay pots, blackened by years of use. In them lived the peanuts, roasting slowly to that precise point where if you were distracted, you'd lose them forever. The broth that had been simmering for hours. The stew that didn't apologize for needing more time. Everything came from that oven: the warmth of the house, the smell of the house, the life of the house.

And in a corner, there were always branches of Palo Santo. Not placed there with ceremony. Placed as one places what has always been placed there. They burned slowly, without a flame, releasing that soft, sweet smoke that mingled with the steam from the pots and with the smell of wood and hot clay. I saw them there as a child and didn't ask them anything. They were part of the landscape. They were part of the air. They were, though I didn't know it then, part of me.

Five in the afternoon.

When the sun began to set, the rhythm of the house changed with it. The pots were set aside, the work slowed down, and almost without anyone organizing it, we all finished together, letting the afternoon slip away slowly. Someone lit Palo Santo at the entrance—always, like someone doing something that's been done forever and needs no explanation. To "scare away the mosquitoes," they said. And, incidentally, to ward off the occasional spirit, one of the many that roamed the countryside according to the elders' stories.

I remember my grandparents in their chairs, my uncles chatting, my aunts having those long conversations that mixed recipes with laughter. And us children wandering back and forth, without anyone chasing us. There was no rush. There was no time. Just the afternoon slowly unfolding and that soft smoke floating above us all, doing its work—the work that was visible and the work that wasn't.

The long tables, the cousins, and always one more plate.

What I miss most, I think, are those long tables.

The great-grandparents at one end. Their children. Their children's children. And at the end, all mixed up and boisterous, all the cousins. Me among them, always the last to sit down, because there was always something else to do before eating.

We never asked how many of us there would be, because in my family that question didn't exist. There was always an extra chair, one more plate, and the same joy for the first person to arrive as for the last. That's Manabí. That was my home.

The food came from that oven that had been lit since early morning. The clay pots had been filled all day with seasoning and patience. When I visited my family up north, I always had to have viche with river shrimp, and for dessert, those frog eggs—that confit cheese that few things in the world can replace. And here in central Manabí, there was seco and chicken soup with plenty of green plantains, served without haste, with that generosity that in my land isn't learned because you're simply born with it.

Freedom, completely freedom

After eating, the world was ours.

We climbed trees. We rode horses. We ran through the fields without anyone telling us how far to go. We'd reach the river with our hair all messed up and our feet covered in mud. And then there were the bets on huevos mollos or alfajores—a game that only the bravest could win, the one who reached the cemetery first without backing down. I competed. Sometimes I won. Sometimes I didn't. But I always ran.

Afternoons in the town park were like that: we'd all meet up without having made plans, because back then, there was no need to make plans. That's simply where life was, and we knew it.

We were children being children. Completely free. Without knowing that those moments were a treasure we would one day want to reclaim.

What I Unknowingly Kept

No one told me: save this moment. No one warned me.

I didn't pay attention to the Palo Santo because it was simply part of the air I breathed. Like the smell of firewood, like the warm clay of the pots, like brewed coffee with corn tortillas in the morning, like hot chocolate with starch bread. All of that was so normal, so everyday, that I didn't feel there was anything special to save.

But memory saved it for me. Without asking my permission, it filed away every aroma, every afternoon, every laugh around the oven. And now, when I light Palo Santo or when I smell roasted peanuts or green plantains, those files open on their own. And I return. For a moment, I return.

What then had no name now has one: longing. That strange mix of joy and sadness you feel when you remember something that was so good that it hurts not being able to go back to it.

The moment everything fell into place

Years later, on a trip to southern Manabí, I ended up inside the dry forest without having sought it out. And for the first time, I paid attention to a Palo Santo tree. It's not that I'd never seen one before, but that's when I understood that I really knew almost nothing about this mythical tree, whose aroma has been with me since childhood.

I still remember what my guide explained to me then: “…Palo Santo lives for thirty years or more. When it dies, it falls alone in the forest—and that's not where its story ends, but where the magic begins. During the years it rests in the earth, the resin accumulated throughout its life slowly ages in the dry wood, and it is precisely this process that generates its essential oil, that aroma unlike any other. A tree cut down too soon doesn't have it. A tree that hasn't rested long enough doesn't either. Time isn't a detail: it's the main ingredient...”

Standing among fallen trees that no one had touched, I understood that it wasn't just about wood. It was about a way of understanding the world. The same logic as my grandmother's wood-fired oven. The same as the clay pots. Things that are worthwhile require time. And that time is precisely what makes them what they are.

From Understanding… to Doing It Right

When you truly understand what lies behind Palo Santo, you can no longer do things haphazardly. You stop seeing it as just another resource or product, and begin to understand that its value is deeply linked to its origin and how it reaches your hands. That's why, at EcuadorianHands, the Palo Santo we work with comes exclusively from trees that have fallen naturally. This isn't a decision based on rhetoric or a marketing strategy, but rather on consistency.

Because when the origin isn't respected, everything else loses its meaning. It doesn't matter how the product is presented or how it's communicated; if the foundation is flawed, the rest won't hold up. On the other hand, when that origin is respected, something much greater than simple production happens: the dry forest is protected, the work of those who are part of this chain is sustained, and entire communities that depend on this balance are strengthened.

This isn't a theory or an abstract idea. It's a direct and concrete relationship between how things are done and the possibility of those same things continuing to exist over time. It's understanding that every decision has an impact, and that this impact determines whether what we value today will still be there tomorrow.

What unites us all in Manabí

From north to south, from the coast to the countryside, there are elements that unite all Manabí residents in a way that isn't always explained, but is clearly felt. It's in the table that always has room for one more, in the food that isn't rushed because it understands that time is also part of the flavor, and in that natural way of welcoming others, without calculations or conditions.

It's also in the aromas, which often speak louder than words. The smell of Palo Santo among the embers, the smell of roasted peanuts, the smell of grilled plantains; all of them are part of a shared memory that doesn't belong to just one house or one family. They are smells that are in the air, that transcend generations, and that, in some way, belong to us all.

That's why Manabí isn't just a geographical place. It's a feeling that stays with you, a more open, lighter, and more human way of life. It's the kind of experience you don't learn, you live, and that over time becomes part of who you are, even when you're far away.

What Palo Santo Keeps Telling Me

Today, every time I light Palo Santo incense, I close my eyes for a moment. I don't do it as a ritual or a learned practice, but because in that instant something inside me returns. I go back to the wood-fired oven, to the front door at five in the afternoon, to the long table, to the river, to those late-night drinks after long surf sessions, to that little boy who ran around unaware that he was living some of the best moments of his life.

It's a brief return, but profoundly meaningful. It needs no explanation or effort; it simply happens. And in that small instant, everything makes sense again in a simple, almost obvious way. It's as if time itself adjusts for a second and allows you to see clearly what you previously took for granted.

And there I understand something that isn't always easy to say, but that is felt strongly: sometimes you don't need to go far to return. Sometimes, you don't need to rebuild everything or search for grand answers. Sometimes a scent is all it takes to open that door and remind you exactly where you come from.

To return, even if just for a moment

The Palo Santo we work with at EcuadorianHands comes from that same dry forest in Manabí, from trees that lived their full lives and fell when they were meant to. These are trees that, even after completing their cycle, continue to tell a story, transforming into something that keeps their essence alive in a different way.

That's why it's not just a product. It's a way to return, to pause, to remember. It's an experience that connects with something deeper than what's visible, something that can't always be explained but is recognized when it happens.

And there are days when that's enough. Days when you need nothing more than that warm, familiar scent to return, even if just for a moment, to that place where everything made sense.