Flower Trails Through the Andes: A Journey into Ecuador’s Blooming Heart

Comma Bloom Founder’s intimate exploration of flower symbolism, culture, and identity from the cloud forests to the Amazon

Prologue: First Encounters

I arrived in Quito on a February morning when the city was draped in that peculiar Andean light—thin, crystalline, almost otherworldly at 2,850 meters above sea level. My taxi from the airport wound through streets where flower vendors had already set up their stalls, buckets overflowing with roses in colors I’d never seen: deep burgundies that looked almost black, apricots bleeding into coral, whites so pure they seemed to glow against the volcanic stone buildings.

“Rosas,” my driver said, catching my stare. “Ecuador tiene las mejores del mundo.” Ecuador has the best in the world. It wasn’t boastfulness—just statement of fact, delivered with the quiet confidence of someone who knows his country’s secrets.

That conversation was my first introduction to Ecuador’s extraordinary relationship with flowers—a story I would spend months unraveling through mountain villages, rose plantations, indigenous markets, and conversations with everyone from Quechua flower sellers to third-generation growers whose grandparents had cultivated carnations when the industry was born.

This is not a conventional guide. It’s a travelogue, a cultural exploration, and a love letter to a country where flowers are simultaneously sacred offerings to Pachamama, major economic drivers, symbols of resistance, and everyday beauty so abundant it becomes almost invisible until you learn to see it again.

Part One: The Geography of Flowers

The Avenue of Volcanoes

Alexander von Humboldt called it the “Avenue of Volcanoes”—that spectacular corridor of peaks running through Ecuador’s central highlands. It’s here, in the valleys between Cotopaxi and Chimborazo, between Cayambe and Antisana, that Ecuador’s flower industry was born.

I spent a week driving this route, from Cayambe in the north (the self-proclaimed “rose capital of Ecuador”) down through Cotopaxi Province, where carnation farms stretch toward snow-capped peaks. The altitude—between 2,400 and 3,000 meters—creates perfect growing conditions. The equatorial sun shines for twelve hours daily year-round, intense at this elevation. Days are warm; nights are cool. It’s eternal spring, the kind of climate that makes roses grow stems as thick as pencils and produces flowers with more petals, deeper colors, and longer vase life than almost anywhere on Earth.

“We joke that God designed Ecuador for roses,” María Elena told me. She manages a farm outside Cayambe, overseeing forty hectares of greenhouses that from the air look like lakes of silver plastic reflecting the sky. “Twelve hours of sun every day, no seasons to confuse the plants, volcanic soil, glacier water—what more could a rose want?”

The farms cluster around specific towns: Cayambe and Tabacundo for roses, Latacunga and Salcedo for carnations and gypsophila (baby’s breath), Ambato for flowers of all kinds. These aren’t quaint family operations—many are sophisticated agricultural enterprises with climate-controlled greenhouses, hydroponic systems, and direct connections to Miami, where Ecuadorian flowers arrive within 24 hours of cutting.

But surrounding these industrial operations, in ways that create fascinating tensions and synergies, are the traditional flower cultures of Ecuador’s indigenous communities, where the same roses that will be shipped to Manhattan florists tomorrow morning might be woven into ceremonial wreaths for Inti Raymi celebrations today.

The Cloud Forests: Wild Abundance

If the highlands are Ecuador’s cultivated flower kingdom, the cloud forests are its secret wild garden. I spent several days in Mindo, northwest of Quito, where perpetual mist creates conditions for staggering botanical diversity.

Here I met Javier, a naturalist guide who specializes in orchids. “Ecuador has maybe 4,200 orchid species,” he said, leading me along muddy trails where everything dripped with moisture. “Maybe more. We’re still discovering them.”

He showed me orchids no bigger than my fingernail growing on moss-covered branches, and others with blooms as large as dinner plates. Some looked like insects, others like birds, some like nothing I could compare to anything else. The Dracula orchid, endemic to Ecuador’s cloud forests, has petals that resemble a bat’s face. The Anguloa, called “baby orchid,” has flowers that look disturbingly like wrapped infants.

“The indigenous peoples here have used orchids in medicine for centuries,” Javier explained. “Some as aphrodisiacs, some for treating coughs and fevers. But mostly, they’re sacred—connected to the spirit world, to transformation, to the thin places between worlds.”

The cloud forests also harbor bromeliads, heliconias, gingers, and countless flowering plants that exist nowhere else on Earth. This is where Ecuador’s cultivated flower industry draws genetic material for new hybrids, and where traditional knowledge about plants meets cutting-edge botanical science.

The Amazon: Ritual and Healing

In the Oriente—Ecuador’s Amazon region—flowers have entirely different meanings. I traveled to a Kichwa community near Tena, where my host, Rosa (named for the flower but unconnected to the commercial rose trade), explained that virtually every flowering plant has spiritual and medicinal significance.

The ayahuasca vine, when it flowers, produces small, pale blooms that shamans consider especially potent. The toe (Brugmansia), with its massive, pendant trumpet flowers, is teacher plant and poison both—used in controlled amounts for visions, lethal in larger doses.

“Here we don’t separate plants into food, medicine, and decoration,” Rosa told me as we walked through her forest garden. “A flower that beautifies your house might also cure your child’s fever and connect you to your ancestors. They’re not separate things.”

She showed me the fragrant white flowers of ishpingo (Amazonian cinnamon), used in love magic. The bright red blooms of achiote, whose seeds provide dye and medicine. The shy flowers of guayusa, the holly relative whose caffeinated leaves energize morning ceremonies.

In the Amazon, the commercial flower industry is absent, but flowers are perhaps more present than anywhere else I traveled—woven into the fabric of daily and spiritual life in ways that urban Ecuador, for all its flower markets and rose plantations, has partially forgotten.

The Coast: A Different Palette

Ecuador’s Pacific coast offers yet another flower culture. I spent time in Guayaquil, the coastal metropolis where tropical heat replaces Andean chill, and in smaller beach towns where flowers adapted to salt air and sandy soil.

Here I found bougainvillea in cascades of magenta, orange, and white climbing over walls. Hibiscus hedges separating properties. Frangipani trees dropping creamy, fragrant flowers onto sidewalks. The coastal aesthetic is more tropical, more exuberant, less refined than the highland rose culture.

In the markets, I noticed different flowers: bird of paradise with their orange and blue beaks, gingers and heliconias from nearby fincas, orchids that tolerated warmth better than their cloud forest cousins.

“The coast has always been Ecuador’s door to the world,” explained Don Julio, an elderly flower seller in Guayaquil’s market. “These tropical flowers—they traveled. They went to Europe on ships in the 1800s, came back as hybrid varieties. The highlands, they stayed more… traditional. Different histories, different flowers.”

Part Two: Ecuador’s Commercial Flower Revolution

The Beginning: 1980s Transformation

To understand Ecuador’s flower industry, I needed to go back to its origins. I met with several pioneers who remembered the beginning.

Pedro, now in his seventies, worked on one of the first rose farms established near Cayambe in the early 1980s. “Before flowers, this was dairy country,” he told me, waving toward fields now covered with greenhouses. “My father milked cows. Then some foreigners came—Americans, Colombians—saying we could grow roses for export. We thought they were crazy.”

They weren’t crazy. Ecuador’s unique conditions—that combination of altitude, latitude, and climate—produced roses of exceptional quality. The U.S. market, traditionally supplied by Colombia and increasingly by Israel and the Netherlands, was ready for a new supplier.

The industry grew explosively. By the mid-1990s, Ecuador was exporting hundreds of millions of dollars worth of flowers annually. By 2000, it had surpassed Colombia to become the world’s third-largest flower exporter (after the Netherlands and Colombia, depending on the year and measurement method). Today, flowers are Ecuador’s third or fourth most important non-petroleum export, providing jobs for over 100,000 people directly and supporting perhaps 500,000 more indirectly.

Inside the Greenhouses: A Day at a Rose Farm

To truly understand the industry, I needed to see it from the inside. Through connections, I arranged to spend several days at a rose farm—I’ll call it Finca Esperanza, though that’s not its real name.

At 5:00 AM, I joined the workers arriving for the morning shift. Most were women, ranging from teenagers to women in their sixties. They wore rubber boots, thick gloves, and long sleeves despite the greenhouse heat—protection against thorns and agrochemicals.

The greenhouses stretched seemingly forever, row after row of roses in various stages of growth. Some sections held young plants barely ankle-high. Others had bushes nearly as tall as me, heavy with blooms ready for cutting.

“We harvest by grade,” explained Fernanda, a supervisor who’d worked there for fifteen years. “Premium roses go to special orders—weddings, luxury hotels. Standard grades go to supermarkets and general florists. We cut to order, usually working two or three days ahead of shipment.”

I watched women move down rows with practiced efficiency, cutting stems at precise angles, stripping lower leaves, sorting by length and bud size. The speed was remarkable—experienced cutters could process hundreds of stems per hour.

The roses themselves were stunning: traditional reds and pinks, but also specialized varieties in burgundy, lavender, peach, yellow, orange, even pale green. Some were enormous—”Freedom” roses with blooms the size of softballs. Others were smaller, spray roses with multiple blooms per stem.

“Ecuador is known for big roses, long stems, deep colors,” Fernanda said. “That altitude intensity. The roses are… more themselves here. More red, more fragrant, more petals. Buyers in New York or Moscow or Tokyo, they know Ecuadorian roses.”

But the work was grueling. Eight to ten hours daily in humid heat, repetitive motion injuries common, exposure to chemicals despite safety equipment. Later, I would grapple with the ethical complexities of an industry that provides crucial employment but under conditions that labor activists and environmental groups frequently criticize.

The Supply Chain: From Andes to Everywhere

Following the roses from farm to final destination revealed an intricate global machinery.

After cutting, stems went to processing rooms kept at 2-4°C. Workers sorted them again, removing any imperfect blooms. Then they bundled them—usually 25 stems per bunch—and placed them in water-filled buckets.

Refrigerated trucks picked up harvests daily, driving through the night to Quito’s airport. I followed one such shipment, arriving at the cargo terminal at midnight to watch a carefully choreographed operation.

Flowers from dozens of farms converged here, moving through customs, phytosanitary inspection, and packing into refrigerated containers. By 3:00 AM, containers were being loaded onto cargo planes bound for Miami, the hub for North American distribution.

“Roses cut yesterday morning in Cayambe will be in a New York florist by tomorrow afternoon,” explained Roberto, a logistics coordinator. “That’s what makes this work—we’re closer to North America than the Netherlands, our flowers are fresher, and our costs are lower. For now.”

That “for now” hung in the air. Competition from Kenya, Colombia, and Ethiopia grows constantly. Climate change threatens water supplies. Labor costs increase. The industry that transformed rural Ecuador might not last forever in its current form.

The Economics: Blessing and Curse

The flower industry’s impact on Ecuador is complicated.

On one hand: It brought significant foreign currency to a country that desperately needed it. It created employment in rural areas where options were limited—before flowers, many men migrated to cities or abroad for work. It empowered women, who make up about 60% of the workforce. It sparked development of infrastructure—roads, cold storage, technical education.

I met María, a single mother in her thirties who’d worked in flowers for twelve years. “Before this job, I cleaned houses in Quito,” she said. “I was away from my children all week. Now I work near home, I see them every night. The pay isn’t great, but it’s steady. My daughter is in university because of this work.”

On the other hand: Labor conditions often fall short of international standards. Wages hover near minimum wage—around $450 per month when I visited, barely sufficient for basic needs. Chemical exposure causes health problems. Women report sexual harassment and discrimination. Unions face resistance. The environmental impact—pesticides, water consumption, greenhouse waste—is significant.

And there’s a deeper critique I heard from indigenous activists and environmental advocates: The flower industry represents a particular kind of development model, one that makes Ecuador dependent on Northern consumers’ whims, locks workers into low-wage labor, and converts land that once grew food into monoculture greenhouses producing luxury goods for export.

“We call them ‘flowers of exploitation,’” said Patricia, an activist I met in Cayambe. “Beautiful flowers, yes, but who benefits? The foreign companies that own most farms. The distributors in Miami and Europe. The florists in rich countries. The workers get scraps. The land gets poisoned. And when the industry moves to somewhere cheaper—which it will—what then?”

I didn’t have answers to these questions, only the gnawing awareness that beauty and injustice can grow from the same soil.

Part Three: Traditional Flower Cultures

Indigenous Flower Wisdom

Away from the commercial farms, Ecuador’s indigenous communities maintain flower relationships stretching back centuries or millennia.

I spent time in Otavalo, the famous market town, arriving on Saturday when the plaza explodes with color. Among the textiles and ceramics, flower vendors created temporary gardens—buckets and baskets overflowing with blooms both wild and cultivated.

I met Mama Rosa (many women are called Rosa; the flower name is popular), an elderly Kichwa woman selling flowers she’d gathered from her chakra—the traditional mixed agricultural plot combining crops, medicinal plants, and flowers.

“Each flower has its purpose,” she explained in Spanish mixed with Kichwa words. She pointed to claveles (carnations): “For graves, for altars, for respect to ancestors.” Pensamientos (pansies): “For love spells, for young girls making wishes.” Margaritas (daisies): “For children, for innocence, for simple happiness.”

She showed me flowers I didn’t recognize—native Andean species without English common names. Some were medicinal: treating digestive problems, headaches, or “mal aire” (bad air—a folk illness concept). Others were purely ceremonial, used in specific rituals at specific times of year.

“The commercial farms, they don’t grow these,” she said. “These don’t ship to Miami. But these are our flowers, our ancestors’ flowers. When we forget them, we forget ourselves.”

Inti Raymi: The Festival of Flowers

I timed part of my journey to coincide with Inti Raymi—the Inca sun festival celebrated across the Andes in late June. In Ecuador, particularly around Otavalo and other highland communities, this becomes an explosion of flowers.

In the village of San Juan, I watched preparations for the festival. Young women wove intricate wreaths and garlands from fresh flowers—mainly roses, carnations, and daisies, but also wild flowers gathered from hillsides. Men created elaborate headdresses combining flowers with feathers, colored cloth, and sometimes mirrors or other decorative elements.

“The flowers are offerings to Inti, the sun, and to Pachamama, Mother Earth,” explained Segundo, one of the festival organizers. “We wear them to show respect, to show we are part of nature, not separate from it. And to show beauty—that we can create beauty even in hard times.”

The festival itself was overwhelming: processions of dancers in flower-adorned costumes, musicians, chicha (corn beer) flowing, and everywhere, everywhere, flowers. They carpeted walkways, decorated doorways, were thrown like confetti, placed at the feet of musicians, woven into dancers’ hair.

Children ran through the streets collecting fallen petals, then throwing them at each other. Elders sat in doorways, crowned with flowers, receiving visitors. The entire village smelled like a garden—the sweet scent of roses mixed with carnations’ spicy aroma, underlaid with wood smoke and cooking food.

“In the city, flowers are business,” Segundo said as we watched dancers spiral past. “Here, for today at least, they’re prayer and party both. This is what flowers are meant for.”

Day of the Dead: Flowers for the Departed

Another flower festival brought me to Ecuador’s cemeteries on November 2nd—Día de los Difuntos, Day of the Dead.

Unlike Mexico’s famous celebration, Ecuador’s observance is quieter, more contemplative, but equally flower-intensive. Families converge on cemeteries carrying armloads of flowers—mostly chrysanthemums (the traditional funeral flower), but also roses, carnations, lilies, and whatever blooms the deceased favored.

At the cemetery in Latacunga, I watched families transform graves into gardens. They cleaned headstones, painted crosses, then arranged elaborate floral displays. Some graves received simple bunches; others became works of art with flowers arranged in patterns, words spelled in petals, or entire flower carpets.

Women sold not just flowers but complete grave decorations—wreaths, crosses made entirely of flowers, flower-covered frames surrounding photographs. The air was heavy with chrysanthemum scent and marigold—that particular smell that anywhere in Latin America means death and remembrance.

“My mother loved yellow roses,” a middle-aged woman named Lucía told me as she arranged dozens of them on a grave. “Every year, I bring yellow roses. It’s how I talk to her now.”

Families stayed for hours, eating colada morada (a traditional purple fruit drink) and guaguas de pan (bread shaped like babies), sharing stories about the departed, maintaining that thin connection between living and dead that flowers somehow facilitate.

Part Four: Flowers in Ecuadorian Art and Expression

Colonial Art: Sacred Flowers

Ecuador’s colonial period produced remarkable art, much of it featuring flowers in ways that blended European Catholic iconography with indigenous symbolism.

At the Museo del Carmen Alto in Quito, I studied paintings from the Quito School—that distinctive colonial artistic style that flourished from the 16th to 18th centuries. Many depicted the Virgin Mary surrounded by flowers, but these weren’t just European roses and lilies. Hidden among familiar Catholic symbols were Andean flowers—indigenous lilies, native orchids, plants that would have been meaningful to indigenous viewers in ways the Spanish priests might not have intended.

“It’s called ‘strategic syncretism,’” explained Dr. Martínez, the museum’s curator. “Indigenous artists and viewers could see their own sacred flowers in these apparently Catholic paintings. The colonizers saw European religious art. But multiple meanings coexisted.”

She pointed to a painting of the Virgin: among the roses and lilies were flowers that looked suspiciously like Brugmansia—the powerful, dangerous teacher plant of Amazonian shamanism. “Accident? Or quiet resistance?” she asked. “We’ll never know, but it’s worth wondering.”

Modern Art: Politics and Petals

Ecuador’s modern and contemporary artists have used flowers to comment on everything from political oppression to environmental destruction to indigenous rights.

Oswaldo Guayasamín, Ecuador’s most famous 20th-century artist, occasionally included flowers in his powerful, often anguished work. In his painting “The Flower Seller,” flowers become burden and livelihood both—a woman carries an impossible load of blooms, her face showing the strain of survival.

I visited the Guayasamín Museum in Quito, where his son explained: “My father saw how flowers represented different things for different Ecuadorians. For wealthy Quiteños, a luxury. For indigenous women, a way to survive. For workers in the flower industry, exploitation. One flower, many meanings.”

Contemporary Ecuadorian artists continue this tradition. I saw installations using rose petals to create messages about labor rights. Photographs documenting the environmental impact of flower farms. Paintings that juxtaposed traditional flower offerings with commercial greenhouse operations.

Literature: Flowering Words

Ecuadorian literature, while less internationally known than Mexican or Colombian, has its own rich tradition of flower symbolism.

Jorge Icaza’s “Huasipungo” (1934), the brutal novel of indigenous exploitation, includes scenes where flowers become poignant symbols of dignity maintained despite crushing poverty. Indigenous characters gather wildflowers even as their land is stolen, their lives destroyed—small acts of beauty as resistance.

Jorge Enrique Adoum’s poetry often employed flower imagery, particularly in his masterwork “Ecuador: Señas Particulares” (Ecuador: Distinguishing Signs). He wrote of roses that grew from blood, of flowers that wilted under the heat of oppression, using botanical metaphors to explore Ecuadorian history and identity.

I met with a contemporary poet, Gabriela (she asked me not to use her full name), who writes about the flower industry. She shared a poem that began: “My hands smell of roses / My blood tastes of pesticide / I give beauty to women in New York / While my daughter breathes chemical fog…”

“Flowers in Ecuador can’t be innocent,” she said. “They’re too entangled with economics, with power, with survival. When I write about flowers, I’m always writing about something else too—labor, gender, imperialism, whatever. A rose is never just a rose here.”

Music: Songs of Flowers

Ecuadorian music—from traditional pasillo and sanjuanito to modern pop—frequently features flower references.

The pasillo “Sendas Distintas” (Different Paths), a melancholy classic, uses flowers to represent lost love. Sanjuanitos—the traditional Andean dance music—often have flower references in their lyrics, connecting celebration to natural beauty.

I attended a concert in Quito where a folk music group performed traditional songs. Between pieces, the lead singer explained: “In our music, flowers usually mean one of three things—love, death, or Pachamama. Sometimes all three at once. That’s very Ecuadorian, I think. Everything connected, nothing simple.”

Modern Ecuadorian pop and rock musicians sometimes reference the flower industry ironically. I heard one song that played with Ecuador’s “rose capital” status, turning it into commentary on globalization and inequality.

Part Five: The Symbolism of Specific Flowers

The Rose: From Sacred to Commercial

The rose’s journey in Ecuador encapsulates the country’s broader relationship with flowers—from indigenous sacred plant to global commodity.

Traditional Andean cultures didn’t have roses; they’re Old World plants that arrived with the Spanish. But they were quickly adopted and given new meanings. In colonial times, roses became associated with the Virgin Mary and Catholic devotion. Indigenous communities incorporated them into syncretic religious practices.

Today, the rose is simultaneously:

• A major economic engine (Ecuador’s rose exports exceed $800 million annually)
• A symbol of love and romance (adopted from global culture)
• A funeral flower (particularly red roses for tragic deaths)
• A festival decoration (Inti Raymi, weddings, celebrations)
• A political symbol (red roses for left-wing movements)
• An environmental concern (representing agribusiness impact)

I spoke with Jorge, a third-generation rose grower whose grandfather planted Ecuador’s first commercial roses in the 1980s. “My grandfather saw roses as the future—a way for Ecuador to join the modern world,” he said. “I see them as… more complicated. Yes, they brought prosperity. But at what cost? I look at my greenhouses and wonder if my grandchildren will forgive us.”

The Carnation: Humble but Essential

While roses dominate Ecuador’s export market, carnations (claveles) hold special cultural significance.

Carnations are the primary funeral flower in Ecuador. Cemetery flower sellers told me they sell ten carnations for every rose. White for purity and children’s graves, red for adults, pink for women, mixed colors for general respect.

But carnations also appear in celebrations—woven into festival garlands, given to teachers and mothers, placed before religious images. They’re more democratic than roses, more accessible, more everyday.

“Roses are for special,” one Quito flower seller told me. “Carnations are for life—for remembering, for thanking, for showing up. They last longer than roses too. Like the people we don’t forget.”

The Orchid: National Pride

The orchid is Ecuador’s national flower—specifically Phragmipedium pearcei, though most Ecuadorians would be hard-pressed to identify this particular species among Ecuador’s thousands of orchids.

Orchids represent Ecuador’s incredible biodiversity, its cloud forests and Amazon, its position as one of Earth’s megadiverse countries. They’re symbols of what Ecuador has that larger, richer countries don’t—evolutionary treasures found nowhere else.

But orchids also represent conservation challenges. Illegal collection threatens many species. Habitat destruction continues despite protected areas. Climate change pushes orchids toward extinction faster than botanists can catalog them.

I spoke with conservation botanist Dr. Ramírez, who’s spent thirty years studying Ecuadorian orchids. “Every orchid contains millions of years of evolutionary history,” she said. “When a species goes extinct—which happens here regularly—we lose that forever. Future roses might be bred. Extinct orchids can never be recovered.”

She showed me preserved specimens of orchids now extinct in the wild, existing only in botanical collections. “These are ghosts,” she said quietly. “Beautiful ghosts, but ghosts nonetheless.”

The Sunflower: Hope and Pragmatism

Sunflowers aren’t major commercial crops in Ecuador, but they’re common in home gardens and small farms—practical flowers that produce edible seeds while adding beauty.

In indigenous communities, sunflowers often grow at field edges—useful plants that also mark boundaries and attract pollinators. Children snack on the seeds. Dried seed heads become crafts or animal feed.

But sunflowers have also become symbols of hope and resilience. After the 2016 earthquake that devastated Ecuador’s coast, sunflower murals appeared in damaged towns—symbols of rebuilding, of faces turned toward light despite darkness.

“Sunflowers are optimistic flowers,” said Don Carlos, an elderly farmer whose small plot outside Ambato included a patch of sunflowers. “They follow the sun, they stand tall, they produce something useful. That’s what Ecuador needs to be—optimistic, useful, turning toward light.”

The Calla Lily: Elegance and Death

Calla lilies (calas in Spanish) occupy an interesting cultural space in Ecuador—associated with both high-end floral arrangements and death.

White callas are funeral flowers, particularly for middle and upper-class funerals. Their sculptural elegance suits formal mourning. But they’re also increasingly popular for weddings, the same flowers serving opposite life events.

“It’s because they’re beautiful but serious,” explained Carmen, a Quito florist. “Not frivolous like daisies, not romantic like roses. They have… gravity. They suit important moments, whether sad or happy.”

Ecuador produces fewer callas than roses or carnations, but they’re grown specifically for export to markets that appreciate their elegance—Japan, Europe, high-end U.S. florists.

Native Flowers: Forgotten Symbols

Perhaps most interesting are flowers most foreigners never see—Ecuador’s native species that exist outside commercial channels.

The chuquiragua, a spiky orange flower that grows at high altitudes, appears in Ecuadorian folk songs and poetry. It symbolizes perseverance, beauty in harsh conditions, Andean identity.

The chocho (lupine), with its purple flower spikes, is both food crop and festival decoration in highland communities.

Countless orchids, bromeliads, heliconias, and other natives carry meanings within specific communities—medicines, ceremonial plants, markers of seasons or places.

These flowers are Ecuador’s deep cultural heritage, but they’re threatened by habitat loss and cultural change. As young people move to cities, knowledge of traditional flowers fades. As commercial agriculture expands, wild flower populations shrink.

“We’re losing our flower language,” said an elderly Kichwa woman I met in a village near Chimborazo. “Young people know roses—they see them in greenhouses, in stores. But chuquiragua? They don’t know what it means anymore. And when the last person who knows dies, that meaning dies forever.”

Part Six: Ethical Tangles and Future Paths

Labor and Rights: Conversations in the Fields

No exploration of Ecuadorian flower culture would be complete without confronting the industry’s labor issues directly.

I arranged to speak with workers away from management supervision—not easy, as farms understandably control access. Through connections with labor advocates, I met small groups of workers in their homes or community centers.

Their stories were nuanced. Yes, conditions were difficult. Yes, wages were low. Yes, chemical exposure caused health problems. Yes, workers faced pressure to meet quotas, limited bathroom breaks, and sometimes harassment.

But they also complicated simplistic narratives. Many workers appreciated having formal employment in rural areas. Women valued earning their own money and gaining a measure of independence. Families depended entirely on flower wages.

“Do I wish it was better? Of course,” said Ana, who’d worked in flowers for twenty years. “But do I want the farms to close? No! Then what? Go back to having nothing? The solution isn’t ending the industry—it’s making it better. Fair wages, safe conditions, respect. We don’t want pity. We want rights.”

Labor organizers I spoke with emphasized that Ecuadorian flower workers aren’t helpless victims waiting for foreign saviors. They’re organizing, demanding better conditions, fighting for rights—but they face significant challenges, including farm owners’ resistance to unions and government policies that often favor business over labor.

Fair trade certifications have made some difference. Farms with certifications generally provide better conditions, though workers note these improvements are often modest. And certified flowers represent a tiny fraction of Ecuador’s exports—most roses in foreign supermarkets come from uncertified farms.

Environmental Costs: Water and Poison

The flower industry’s environmental impact looms large.

Water consumption is staggering. Roses are thirsty plants, and greenhouses use vast quantities of water—much of it drawn from glacial meltwater or underground aquifers. As climate change reduces glacier mass and changes precipitation patterns, water conflicts intensify.

I visited communities near Cayambe where residents complained that flower farms diverted water that had traditionally been used for food crops and household use. “They take our water to grow flowers for rich foreigners,” one community leader said bitterly. “Meanwhile we struggle to irrigate our food gardens.”

Pesticide and fungicide use presents another concern. While better than in earlier decades (thanks to both regulation and consumer pressure), chemical use remains heavy. Runoff affects streams and groundwater. Workers suffer exposure despite protective equipment.

A health clinic doctor in Cayambe told me she regularly sees flower workers with respiratory problems, skin conditions, and other ailments likely related to chemical exposure. “We can’t prove direct causation—that would require long-term studies nobody funds,” she said. “But the patterns are suggestive.”

Some farms are moving toward more sustainable practices—integrated pest management, reduced chemical use, water recycling. But these improvements cost money, and farms operate on thin margins. Without consumers willing to pay premium prices for sustainably-grown flowers, changes happen slowly.

Alternative Models: Fair Trade and Beyond

I visited several farms attempting alternative approaches.

Finca Verde (again, not its real name) was a mid-sized organic rose operation supplying European fair trade markets. The difference was immediately visible: workers looked healthier, moved less frantically, smiled more. The farm had a medical clinic, a daycare center, and provided above-minimum wages.

“We pay about 30% more than conventional farms,” the owner, Ricardo, told me. “We invest in worker welfare and environmental sustainability. We can do this because our buyers pay premium prices. But it’s a tiny niche market—maybe 5% of flower sales. The other 95% is cost-driven.”

He acknowledged the challenges: “Fair trade is better than conventional, but it’s not perfect. We’re still exporting luxury goods while Ecuador has poverty and hunger. We still use resources that might grow food. We still depend on foreign markets. Fair trade makes exploitation less brutal, but it doesn’t fundamentally change the system.”

I also met farmers attempting to develop domestic markets—selling flowers to Ecuadorian consumers rather than exporters. These operations were small, often family-run, growing diverse flowers for local markets and events.

“The profit margin is smaller,” admitted one such farmer, “but I like knowing my flowers stay in Ecuador, that they bring joy to Ecuadorian celebrations, not just foreign ones. It feels more… dignified somehow.”

Indigenous Alternatives: Flower Sovereignty

The most radical reimagining of flower culture I encountered came from indigenous activists and communities developing what they called “flower sovereignty”—growing, using, and celebrating flowers according to their own cultural values rather than export market demands.

In several communities, groups of women were cultivating traditional flowers—native species and heritage varieties—for local use and cultural preservation. These weren’t commercial operations aiming for profit, but cultural projects aimed at maintaining traditional knowledge and practices.

“The commercial industry tells us which flowers have value—the ones that export,” explained Blanca, who coordinated one such project. “We’re saying no, all flowers have value. The chuquiragua that grows on our mountain has value. The wild orchids in our forest have value. Our grandmothers’ flower knowledge has value. Not everything is measured in dollars.”

These projects faced challenges—limited resources, competing demands on women’s time, difficulty reaching younger generations more attracted to urban life and modern culture. But they represented an alternative vision: flowers as cultural heritage and community resource rather than global commodity.

Part Seven: Regional Flower Journeys

Ambato: The City of Flowers and Fruits

I spent a week in Ambato, a mid-sized highland city that calls itself the “City of Flowers and Fruits” and hosts Ecuador’s most famous flower festival.

The Festival de las Flores y las Frutas, held in February around Carnival, transforms the city. I arrived to find preparations in full swing—enormous float constructions in warehouses, families practicing dances, flower growers arranging displays.

The festival itself was spectacular excess. Parades featured floats covered entirely in fresh flowers—millions of blooms creating intricate designs, company logos, and images. The waste seemed appalling until I learned that afterwards, flowers were distributed to hospitals, nursing homes, churches, and cemeteries. Nothing wasted, in a country that can’t afford waste.

“This festival started in 1951,” explained Don Hernán, a local historian. “It was meant to celebrate Ambato’s recovery after an earthquake. Flowers represented rebirth, hope, beauty emerging from tragedy. Now it’s also commercial—showing off our flower industry to buyers—but the original meaning remains. Flowers as resilience.”

I watched the parade from a balcony with Hern

án and his family, as floats depicting everything from pre-Columbian history to cartoon characters rolled past, each one an impossible garden on wheels. Children scrambled for petals thrown into crowds. Bands played traditional music mixed with pop hits. The entire city smelled like roses and carnations and exhaust fumes—a very Ecuadorian combination.

Between parade sessions, I wandered through complementary exhibitions: flower arrangement competitions where professionals created dramatic displays, fruit sculptures carved with astonishing skill, photography exhibits documenting the flower industry, cultural performances by indigenous groups.

“Ambato has complicated feelings about flowers,” Hernán said. “Pride, certainly—we grow some of Ecuador’s best. But also anxiety. What happens when the industry moves elsewhere? When climate change affects production? When younger people don’t want to work in flowers anymore? This festival is celebration but also… whistling past the graveyard, maybe.”

The Galápagos: Flowers at the End of the World

My journey took an unexpected turn when I traveled to the Galápagos Islands, expecting little flower culture in that stark volcanic landscape famous for finches and tortoises, not blooms.

I was wrong.

The Galápagos has unique endemic flowers found nowhere else—testament to the islands’ isolation and evolutionary distinctiveness. The Galápagos cotton (Gossypium darwinii), with its yellow hibiscus-like flowers. The scalesia trees, giant daisies that create misty forests on highland slopes. Dozens of other flowering plants that evolved in splendid isolation.

But I also discovered a strange cultural phenomenon: imported flowers.

On San Cristóbal, I found a small floristry shop selling—improbably—roses and carnations flown from the mainland. “For special occasions,” the owner explained. “Galápagos weddings, funerals, Mother’s Day. We can’t grow these here, so we import them.”

The ecological irony was sharp: Ecuador’s natural laboratory of evolution importing industrial flowers from the mainland. But it illustrated how deeply flower-giving has penetrated Ecuadorian culture—even in the Galápagos, significant moments require flowers.

I spoke with a conservation biologist who was frustrated by this trend. “We’re trying to protect endemic plants while people import roses from the mainland,” she said. “It’s a losing battle against cultural expectations. Galápagos flowers don’t look ‘right’ to people conditioned by commercial flower aesthetics.”

She showed me photos of endemic Galápagos flowers—often small, adapted to harsh conditions, subtle rather than showy. “These are evolutionary miracles,” she said. “But they’ll never be wedding flowers. That’s the tragedy—we’ve been taught what beauty looks like, and these don’t fit.”

Cuenca: Colonial Elegance and Flower Markets

Cuenca, Ecuador’s third-largest city and perhaps its most beautiful, offered yet another flower culture perspective.

This southern highland city, with its cobblestone streets and preserved colonial architecture, maintains a more conservative, traditional culture than Quito or Guayaquil. The flower market reflected this—less chaotic than Quito’s, more carefully curated, with an emphasis on arrangement and presentation.

I spent mornings at the Mercado 10 de Agosto, watching vendors arrange their displays with artistic precision. White roses were grouped separately from red, lilies positioned to show their elegant lines, carnations massed for color impact.

“In Cuenca, presentation matters,” explained Doña Beatriz, who’d sold flowers for forty years. “Quiteños might grab a bunch of mixed flowers on their way home. Cuencanos want elegance, coordination. We’re… more formal here.”

Cuenca’s flower culture seemed frozen in an earlier era—a time when flower-giving followed strict rules, when specific occasions demanded specific flowers, when impropriety might result from giving the wrong bloom.

“Young people are changing this,” Beatriz said with mixed feelings. “They want ‘fun’ flowers—mixed colors, wildflowers, casual bunches. The old ways are fading. I’m not sure if that’s loss or progress.”

I attended a Cuenca wedding where flowers were deployed with military precision: white roses and calla lilies for the church, peach roses for the reception, specific corsages for family members based on their relationship to the couple. The bride’s bouquet alone cost more than a flower worker’s monthly salary—an uncomfortable reminder of Ecuador’s inequality.

The Oriente Redux: Shamanic Flowers

I returned to the Amazon region, this time to participate (as an observer) in an ayahuasca ceremony where flowers played unexpected roles.

The ceremony took place in a simple maloca—a traditional circular structure—led by a Shuar shaman named Miguel. Before the ceremony, participants placed flowers at a small altar: white orchids, bromeliads, and other forest flowers I couldn’t name.

“The flowers are intermediaries,” Miguel explained in Spanish. “They help us communicate with plant spirits. They soften the message, make it bearable. Without flowers, the plants would be too harsh, too direct.”

During the ceremony itself (I didn’t drink ayahuasca but observed), Miguel occasionally touched participants with bundles of leaves and flowers, softly brushing them while singing. The floral scent mixed with tobacco smoke and the bitter smell of ayahuasca created a powerful olfactory experience.

Afterwards, participants described visions that frequently included flowers—enormous, impossible blooms, gardens that spoke, petals that became universes. The flowers in the ceremony had primed them to see flowers in their visions, or perhaps the plant spirits genuinely communicated through floral imagery.

“In our tradition, everything that grows is conscious,” Miguel said the next morning. “Flowers aren’t decorations. They’re beings with knowledge, with power. The commercial farms, they treat flowers like objects—cut them, ship them, throw them away. We see this as… spiritually dangerous. Disrespectful to the flowers themselves.”

His perspective challenged everything I’d learned about Ecuador’s flower industry. What if flowers weren’t commodities but conscious beings? What ethical obligations might that create? It was a thought experiment I couldn’t easily dismiss.

Part Eight: Personal Transformations

Learning to See: A Flower Education

Months into my journey, my relationship with flowers had fundamentally changed. I’d arrived in Ecuador seeing flowers as I’d always seen them—pretty decorations, romantic gifts, occasional funeral tributes. Passive objects.

Ecuador taught me to see flowers as active participants in culture, economy, spirituality, and ecology. Every rose carried histories: the workers who cultivated it, the water that fed it, the chemicals that protected it, the labor movements fighting over it, the lovers who would give and receive it, the landfill where it would eventually decompose.

I learned to read flowers like texts. Walking through markets, I could identify which flowers were for funerals (chrysanthemums, carnations, certain lilies), which for romance (roses, obviously, but also specific colors and arrangements), which for indigenous ceremonies (traditional flowers often sold in specific sections), which for simple household beauty (cheaper, more casual bunches).

I learned to see the violence in beauty—how those perfect roses might have cost a worker chronic pain or chemical exposure. How that orchid in a hotel lobby might represent habitat destruction. How even innocent-seeming flowers carried weights of colonialism, capitalism, and environmental degradation.

But I also learned to see resistance and resilience: the indigenous woman maintaining traditional flower knowledge despite economic pressure to abandon it. The labor organizer fighting for workers’ rights in a hostile industry. The conservation biologist documenting endangered species before they disappeared. The family that placed flowers on their grandmother’s grave every week without fail, maintaining connection across the boundary of death.

Becoming a Flower Carrier

I found myself doing something I’d rarely done before: buying flowers regularly. Not for any particular reason—just because they were there, because they mattered to people around me, because I’d learned that in Ecuador, living without flowers is choosing a diminished life.

I bought flowers from Mama Rosa in Otavalo whenever I passed through. I bought from the women outside Quito’s churches who sold flowers to people visiting family graves. I bought from the small organic farm trying to build domestic markets. I bought flowers and gave them to hosts who welcomed me, to interview subjects who shared their stories, to guides who showed me hidden places.

Each purchase was complicated by everything I’d learned about the industry. But not buying flowers meant not participating in this fundamental aspect of Ecuadorian culture. The perfect ethical choice didn’t exist—only choices that were more or less problematic, more or less aware.

Conversations with Roses

Late in my journey, I spent an afternoon at a rose farm just sitting in a greenhouse, surrounded by thousands of blooming roses, trying to reconcile everything I’d learned.

The roses were objectively beautiful—deep reds, soft pinks, vibrant yellows, each bloom perfect in its way. They represented human ingenuity: centuries of selective breeding, sophisticated agricultural techniques, global logistics that could deliver these exact flowers to Tokyo or Toronto within 48 hours.

But they also represented extraction: water pulled from aquifers, labor extracted from workers, nutrients mined from soil, chemicals synthesized from petroleum, all to create temporary beauty for wealthy consumers thousands of miles away.

They were both—and neither. They were just roses, doing what roses do: blooming, regardless of human meanings projected onto them.

A worker found me sitting there and looked concerned. “Are you okay?” she asked.

“Just thinking about flowers,” I said.

She laughed. “Don’t think too hard. They’re flowers. They’re beautiful. That’s enough.”

Maybe she was right. Maybe the problem was overthinking rather than under-thinking. Maybe flowers could just be flowers sometimes—beautiful growing things that humans have always loved, will always love, for reasons deeper than economics or ethics or symbolism.

But I couldn’t quite convince myself. In Ecuador, flowers are never just flowers.

Part Nine: The Language of Ecuadorian Flowers

A Practical Guide to Meaning

Through all my travels and conversations, I compiled a sort of lexicon of Ecuadorian flower meanings—not comprehensive (that would require a lifetime), but a beginning:

Roses (rosas):

• Red: Passionate love, but also funerals for tragic deaths
• White: Purity, innocence, weddings, children’s funerals
• Pink: Gentle love, gratitude, appreciation
• Yellow: Friendship (though some older people consider them bad luck)
• Orange: Enthusiasm, energy, modern preference
• Burgundy/dark red: Deep commitment, mature love

Carnations (claveles):

• White: Funerals, purity, remembrance
• Red: Respect for deceased adults
• Pink: Motherhood, feminine honor
• Mixed: General goodwill, affordability making them popular

Chrysanthemums (crisantemos):

• Almost exclusively funeral flowers in Ecuador
• Carrying a chrysanthemum to someone’s house would be deeply inappropriate
• Color variations matter less than the type itself

Lilies (lirios, azucenas):

• White: Funerals, Easter, formal occasions
• Colored: Less traditional, more decorative
• Calla lilies: Elegance, formality, both weddings and funerals

Orchids (orquídeas):

• National pride, biodiversity
• Luxury, exotic beauty
• Specific meanings vary by indigenous community

Sunflowers (girasoles):

• Optimism, happiness, practical beauty
• Casual, friendly occasions
• Less romantic than roses

Daisies (margaritas):

• Innocence, childhood, simplicity
• Appropriate for children’s celebrations
• Love divination (pulling petals: “he loves me, he loves me not”)

Baby’s Breath (gypsophila):

• Filler flower, accompaniment
• By itself can mean “you are insignificant” (unintended insult)
• Usually paired with more important flowers

Occasions and Their Flowers

Funerals: Chrysanthemums, white carnations, white roses, white lilies. Never yellow flowers (associated with betrayal by some), never bright colors unless specifically requested for a child’s funeral.

Weddings: White roses, calla lilies, orchids (if budget allows). Increasingly, couples choose personal preferences over tradition, but white remains dominant.

Mother’s Day (second Sunday of May, huge in Ecuador): Red or pink roses, carnations, any beautiful flowers. Shops sell out, prices spike, daughters scramble to find anything left.

Valentine’s Day (also huge): Red roses dominate, with prices tripling. Men who forget face serious social consequences.

New Year’s: Yellow flowers (despite some superstitions) for prosperity and happiness in the coming year.

Visiting someone’s home: Never chrysanthemums. Otherwise, any nice flowers appropriate. Bringing flowers when invited to dinner is expected.

Courting/romance: Traditionally red roses, but younger generations are more flexible. Number matters—one rose is romantic minimalism, a dozen is serious intention, three is casual interest.

Apologies: White roses (for sincere remorse), pink roses (for gentle apologies), never yellow (might be interpreted as “we’re just friends”).

Get well wishes: Bright, cheerful flowers, avoiding white (too funeral) and chrysanthemums (definitely funeral).

Regional Variations

These meanings aren’t uniform across Ecuador. Coastal regions tend to be more relaxed about flower symbolism. Highland indigenous communities may follow entirely different systems. Young urban Ecuadorians often import meanings from international (especially U.S.) culture via media.

But certain fundamentals hold: chrysanthemums are funeral flowers, roses are romantic, carnations are respectful, and bringing the wrong flowers to the wrong occasion marks you as ignorant or disrespectful.

Part Ten: Climate, Crisis, and Future

The Glacier’s Retreat

My journey’s final stage took me high onto Cayambe volcano, where glaciers that have fed flower farms for decades are rapidly retreating.

With a guide, I hiked to the glacier’s edge—now hundreds of meters higher than where it terminated just twenty years ago. The exposed rock showed clearly where ice had been, the landscape raw and wounded-looking.

“This is the flower industry’s future crisis,” my guide, Patricio, said. “These farms depend on glacier water. What happens when the glaciers are gone? Climate change isn’t coming—it’s here.”

Flower farms are beginning to panic. Some are drilling deeper wells, tapping aquifers that might not be sustainable. Others are investing in water recycling and rainwater collection. A few are considering relocation—though to where?

“We could move production to higher elevations,” one farm manager told me, “but that means converting paramo—high-altitude grassland that’s critical habitat and water source. Or we reduce production, which means reducing jobs. There are no good options.”

The cruel irony: The flower industry contributes to climate change (greenhouse heating, refrigerated transport, petrochemical inputs) while being simultaneously vulnerable to it. And the workers and communities most dependent on flowers did least to cause the problem.

Pandemics and Fragility

I was in Ecuador when COVID-19 began spreading globally. I watched the flower industry nearly collapse as international demand crashed—weddings canceled, funeral restrictions preventing flowers, luxury spending eliminated.

Thousands of workers were laid off. Farms destroyed millions of flowers—no market, no point growing them. The waste was staggering: flowers bulldozed into piles, composted, sometimes just left to rot.

“We grew these roses with such care,” one worker told me, tears streaming. “Every day, tending them. Then suddenly they’re garbage. And we’re not needed anymore.”

The crisis revealed the industry’s fragility. Ecuador’s flower sector depends entirely on export markets, luxury spending, and just-in-time logistics. Disrupt any element, and the system collapses.

Recovery came, but unevenly. Some farms never reopened. Workers who lost jobs often couldn’t get them back. The pandemic accelerated trends toward automation—robots don’t get sick, don’t need social distancing.

Alternative Futures

What could Ecuador’s flower future look like? I spent my final weeks interviewing people imagining alternatives:

The Sustainability Advocate: “We need a complete transformation—renewable energy powering greenhouses, organic practices eliminating chemicals, fair wages and worker ownership, water conservation, domestic markets reducing transport emissions. It’s possible, but requires political will and consumer commitment.”

The Traditional Grower: “Return to smaller-scale, diversified production. Stop trying to compete on industrial scale. Grow flowers for Ecuador, for our own celebrations and needs. Leave the global market to whoever wants that stress.”

The Industry Defender: “Continue improving conditions, but stay competitive. Ecuador needs the foreign currency, the jobs. We can be both profitable and responsible. Technology will solve most problems—better efficiency, less waste.”

The Indigenous Activist: “Flowers should be decolonized. Return land to indigenous communities, let us grow what’s meaningful to us—food, medicinals, traditional flowers. The commercial industry enriches foreigners while our communities stay poor.”

The Pragmatist: “Nothing will change fundamentally. Some improvements around the edges, some farms better than others, but the basic system continues until it doesn’t—until climate change or economics makes it impossible. Then we’ll deal with whatever comes next.”

Each vision had merit. Each had flaws. None seemed likely to prevail completely.

My Last Flower Purchase

On my final day in Quito, I bought flowers one last time from Mama Rosa in Otavalo’s market. She was older than when I’d first met her months ago—or maybe I just saw her more clearly now, noticed the bent back, the gnarled hands, the effort each day’s market work required.

I bought claveles—carnations—because they were what she had most of that day. Red and white, traditional, humble flowers that would never ship internationally but that Ecuadorians have loved for generations.

“For someone special?” she asked.

“For myself,” I said. “To remember.”

She looked at me strangely—foreign man buying flowers for himself—then shrugged. “Flowers are always good. Whatever the reason.”

I carried those carnations through the market, back to Quito, kept them in my hotel room where I was packing to leave. They lasted nearly two weeks, much longer than roses would have—carnations’ gift, their humble persistence.

When they finally faded, I didn’t throw them away. I pressed some petals in my notebook, tucked among interview notes and sketches and observations. Physical memory of a country where flowers mean everything and nothing, where they’re sacred and commercial, beautiful and exploitative, simple and impossibly complex.

Epilogue: What Flowers Taught Me

I left Ecuador understanding less than when I arrived, if understanding means having clear answers. The flower industry wasn’t simply good or bad, exploitative or empowering, environmentally destructive or economically necessary. It was all of these simultaneously, a Gordian knot that couldn’t be cut cleanly.

But I learned to ask better questions:

Not “Are Ecuadorian flowers ethical?” but “Whose version of ethics, and who gets to decide?”

Not “What do flowers symbolize?” but “To whom, when, and in what context?”

Not “Is the flower industry good for Ecuador?” but “Good for which Ecuadorians, at what cost to others?”

I learned that flowers are never innocent. Every bloom carries history, relationships, power dynamics. A rose is never just a rose—it’s water and labor and chemicals and traditions and meanings and markets, all compressed into temporary beauty.

I learned that complexity isn’t an excuse for inaction. Yes, ethical perfection is impossible. Yes, every choice has costs. But some choices are still better than others. Fair trade matters. Labor rights matter. Environmental protection matters. These aren’t complete solutions, but they’re movement in better directions.

I learned to see flowers as subjects rather than objects—growing things with their own existence, regardless of human projections. Flowers bloom whether we give them meaning or not, whether we exploit them or honor them, whether we understand them or remain ignorant.

Most importantly, I learned why Ecuadorians can’t live without flowers, despite their complicated relationship with them. Flowers represent hope—that beauty is possible even in difficult circumstances, that there’s more to life than survival, that temporary perfection is still perfection.

In a country with significant poverty, political instability, environmental challenges, and historical trauma, flowers insist that beauty matters, that celebration matters, that honoring the dead and the living matters. They’re defiant acts of grace.

My taxi to the Quito airport wound through streets where flower vendors were just setting up their morning displays—the same scene that had greeted me months earlier, but now I saw it differently. Those buckets of roses weren’t just pretty flowers but entire worlds: glacier water and worker hands and selective breeding and chemical science and market forces and cultural meanings, all temporarily arranged in blooming form.

“Las mejores rosas del mundo,” my driver said, noticing my attention. The best roses in the world.

“Sí,” I agreed. “Las mejores.“

And I meant it, with all the complications that implies.

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Author’s Note:

This account is based on extensive travel through Ecuador over several months, interviews with dozens of people involved in all aspects of flower culture, research into historical and contemporary sources, and personal observations and experiences. Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect people who shared sensitive information. Finca names are pseudonyms, though the operations described are real composites of multiple farms.

The flower industry continues to evolve. By the time you read this, conditions may have changed—farms closed or opened, regulations implemented or abandoned, workers’ situations improved or worsened. This is a snapshot of a particular moment, not an eternal truth.

If you buy Ecuadorian flowers—and you probably do, whether you know it or not—consider asking where they came from, how they were grown, who grew them. Consider seeking fair trade certified flowers when possible. Consider the full cost of that beauty you’re purchasing.

And when you’re in Ecuador, buy flowers from local vendors when you can. Support the women in markets, the small growers trying to build domestic markets, the families maintaining traditional flower knowledge. Let your flower purchases, however small, support the Ecuador you want to exist.

Finally, remember that flowers aren’t problems to be solved but relationships to be navigated. Approach them with humility, awareness, and openness to being changed by what you learn. That’s what Ecuador’s flowers taught me, anyway—that being touched by beauty doesn’t mean remaining unchanged by its complications.

Quito to Otavalo to Cayambe to Mindo to Tena to Latacunga to Ambato to Cuenca and back to Quito, February-June 2019