April 2017
It was in the early morning and I was out of breath―3700m above sea level. The scene looked as if the snow settled lightly on the road. As I staggered along Av. Ferroviária of a lot of Uyuni tour offices, a local woman solicited me to join the tour; I could not afford to choose a tour company, with a headache and nausea that would not go away. I consented and followed her.
She opened the door encircled by messages on sheets of paper that flapped in the wind, most of which were written in Japanese―I was encircled by the Japanese messages on the numerous papers all aver the walls.
As I did the procedure, “Uyuni Salt Flats Tour 1 day + Sunset,” I noticed a young man, around twenty, sitting on the couch looking down. Maybe Japanese. Then I heard the door open and turned back. Two plump young women in the pink jackets stuck together. Japanese. They were both in her early twenties and looked exactly alike―the same height, long hair and shorts on leggings. The young man looked up, pleased to see the new women in front of him. They were chatting and greeting one another.
I walked right past the plump young women and out of the office. It was a little cold. Noticing there was a cafe nearby, I stepped inside. I could sense I enter a quite different atmosphere at the sight of Westerners having breakfast, who would go to the Salt Flats. I flopped into a green plastic chair at empty table and for a while caught my breath. At the far end, I could see the map and postcards of Uyuni on the cream-colored walls. And I was thinking about where to stay in La Paz tomorrow over fruit juice and mellow music.
When I came back to the office, I found a new small man in his late thirties mingled with them. They seemed to establish a friendship group. It was none of my business. I was a loner and preferred to get involved with foreigners who accepted various values, but this tour would be for Japanese.
We got into the jeep, I sat in the front passenger seat and the driver started the engine. We edged forwards on the rutted road like melted snow. In the back seat, there was an attempt to strengthen a sense of Japanese unity: “So do I,” “I think so,” “I agree,” “You’re right,” “I’m with you,” and so on.
The small man, who was such a lame, said, “I’m a programmer and engineer.” It was a kind of boasting. “That sounds great,” exclaimed both young women, who must like players, feigning their emotions.
“Look, they’re Korean, unmistakably,” one of the young women said in a harsher tone, feeling proud of being Japanese. I glanced out at three men standing side by side. “Judging from their hairstyles.” she said, looking down at them. They had straight bangs of voluminous black hair. I felt somewhat uncomfortable with her words―a haughty demeanor, as many Japanese have, as though they are an extraordinary race.
On the way, the jeep came to a halt in front of the hotel. And then a couple emerged out of there and rode in. “Nice to meet you,” they said, bowing toward us and the man sat in the seat behind me. There followed a few words of welcome. They were newlyweds―the groom looked gentle and sincere; the bride was plain either in modesty or shame. Both young women, who tried to look so good, had turned their own language into something a little more formal.
There appeared to some interaction between Japanese. I was isolated in the front seat, not talking to anyone except the driver, who was never much of a talker. But only the groom paid a little attention to me, so I occasionally looked back, to make small talk; the bride, smiling, nodded along with him, to adapt her husband’s way.
On the way, we all were having lunch around a table at the restaurant. I felt myself exchanging a word or two―either “excuse me” or “thank you”―with all of them, simply to move plates or pour water into glasses. I did not have appetite, not only because I had altitude sickness, perhaps because I was with “the Japanese,” which made me feel more stifling.
As I was idling around the restaurant, I noticed someone speaking to me. “Hey, I saw you at Machu Picchu. You were hiking along the rail,” said a woman with long black hair behind her ears. She looked slender. “I got caught. Machu Picchu and Uyuni are the regular tourist spots. But what a coincidence.” “Yeah,” she widened her eyes. “We might happen to meet somewhere.” “I think so,” she laughed, disappearing; I felt the human warmth.
The jeep with splashes continued to run on the salt reflecting a ray of sunlight. Arriving at the small island in the center of Uyuni lake, Isla Incahuasi, we saw directly a lot of cactuses. They would hike in two groups: the two young women and the young man and the small man, and the newlyweds. Of corse I was going to do alone.
I ascended the stairway to the top of the island, where the newlyweds hold hands and looked happy―I became distance from them so as not to intrude on them. As I overlooked a lot of cactuses, they suddenly came right up to me. “I’ll take photos for you,” he was about to reach out my phone. “Sorry for the trouble,” I said. Then we enjoyed taking photos of one another. “I could take your photos anytime, so please, feel free to talk to me,” he said in a calm tone. “Thank you. That’s very thoughtful of you.”
As I had descended the steeply slope, I encountered the young man climbing up. He told me that the departure time got closer and pointed to the jeep far below. It was he who had translated what the driver had said in Spanish into Japanese. He was a good man and knew a lot about the world; I was curious as to how he did his business in Patagonia.
In the lake, we had driven to the certain point to see sunset. I could no longer see anything but the salt carpet with splashes out of the wheels. When we got there, the sky was clear. There was white after white all the way to the volcanos.
I walked on the salt for a while, squatted and touched the salt. “Why don’t we taking trick photos?” The groom said softly, the bride smiled a little, and I was glad I had a chance to take perspective photos―I stood in front and raised my arm, palm upward, he posed far back and she took my photos: I manipulated a dwarf on my palm.
“Excuse me. Would you please join us?” a small man spoked to me for the first time. “We will have to make the poses together.” I did not want to waste my valuable time. I had never seen such a sight in my life. I wanted to sense the mystery of nature to my heart’s content. “I’m afraid I can’t. I don’t like having my photo taken.” I made an excuse. Not having anticipated that I said this, he took a little back and said nothing else.
I tried jogging on the lake. I felt good, so I ran as fast as I could. The huge void and cool air engulfed me―turning back, I could see them in the distance, posing for the camera on the tripod and after a moment, I stopped with my back to them. I raised my arms above my head, inhaling deeply; my heart filled with happiness. Suddenly I heard an exclamation, designed to be in a scarcely audible voice.
“It’s insane, that jerk. He must join us, or else get lost!”