Salty Emptiness

I took the famous “Route 40” in a spring day in 2009, a day when in the north hemisphere leaves were falling. I arrived to Salta to Northwest of Argentina, and tasted the famous Empanadas in a little family restaurant, under the sun where nobody was in a hurry. Spanish dads (Papas Españolas) – as it was written in the menu – were my dinner.
I took a ride from Salta to Purmamarca, a small town in the outskirts of Seven Colours Mountains. Climbing up to 4000 meters in couple of hours makes you understand the importance of chewing coca. By the road you see little houses when you were fascinated with colours and thinking for who are these houses, your guide tells you these are the commemoration of accidents. While you were wondering if anybody can find your death body you fell into a surrealist desert, into a moment where you feel you are standing at the end of the world: Salinas Grandes. Where there was a strong wind, the strongest I have ever felt. In the Salt Desert in Argentina the wind is angry, rebelling to people who have already forgotten the power of nature. The colours are painting the mountains and there I was standing on a white desert and looking at the blue sky, trying to resist to the wind to not to take me with him. My hair was going with the wind, as my thoughts. I was there alone tasting the ground. I asked to myself if I was on the moon. I asked out loud “who am I” and only the wind replied. Then I realised the importance of my existence has no difference from the mountain people of San Antonio de los Cobres in this salty emptiness.