I found myself seated alongside nine other artists in the middle of the Chilean desert, surrounded by towering Andean peaks ahead of me and the Salt Mountains, or Cordillera de la Sal, behind me. As the early morning sun began to illuminate the desert in all directions, I squinted towards its rays, feeling insignificant in its presence. Our host, Carlos, had spread out a blanket on the warm sand and was preparing a bottle of red wine, a bowl of coca leaves, and four cups for us. Together, we prepared plates of organic offerings, including fruit pods from an algarrobo tree, chañar seeds, and slices of apple and orange. Kneeling in the dirt, we filled the cups with coca leaves and wine, following a specific order. The cups on the right represented women and life, while those on the left symbolized men and death. After completing this ritual, we moved towards a small hole in the ground, symbolizing the mouth of Mother Earth, to leave our offerings and communicate with her in our own words.This ceremony, known as Ayni, is a reciprocity ritual practiced by the Lickanantay, the indigenous people of the region. It is a way of honoring Mother Earth and seeking her protection and guidance. Carlos, a Lickanantay yatiri, or spiritual and medicinal healer, guided us through this sacred ritual, which was deemed too sacred to be photographed.
I had arrived in the small community of Coyo the day before, located in a remote part of the Atacama Desert in northern Chile. I had been accepted into a three-week artist-in-residency program organized by La Wayaka Current, an organization dedicated to the environment, community, and contemporary art. I had come to Coyo with the intention of learning from and immersing myself in the Lickanantay culture, as well as documenting my experiences through photography. After feeling burnt out from my life in New York City, I yearned to understand how ancient wisdom thrived in this part of the world and how I could incorporate these values into my own existence.
Coyo was not exactly a town; it was more like a network of winding dirt roads lined with houses made from clay, rocks, and branches gathered from the surrounding landscape. To reach Coyo, I had flown from New York to the city of Calama in northern Chile, where I joined nine other participants on a bus that took us deep into the desert. As we approached Coyo, our driver and guide, Dago, informed us that the air in this area would cleanse our lungs.
After the Ayni ceremony, I took a stroll through the streets of Coyo, feeling the temperature rise as the morning clouds dissipated under the scorching sun. At first glance, the houses appeared worn and neglected, with cracks and crevices exposing the inhabitants to the elements. However, I viewed them with a sense of tenderness, recognizing that each house had been built with hands deeply connected to the earth. The ceilings were supported by rocks and sticks, and the fences were tied together with plastic rope. Dogs guarded the dwellings.
My thoughts drifted back to my home in New York, with its trinkets and furniture accumulated over the years, collecting dust. I lived in a Brooklyn brownstone with a view of Lower Manhattan reflected in my bedroom mirror. I realized I had no idea who had built that city.
Returning to the sounds of barking dogs in Coyo, I struggled to reconcile the fact that in another part of the world, a city thrived with towering skyscrapers and perpetual light. In New York, I realized I lived a life that felt foreign to this community. While that life existed, this community in the driest desert in the world sought permission and guidance from Mother Earth. Could we continue forward? May we turn to you, Madre Tierra, for answers?
Time felt ethereal in the desert, with days blending into one another. I measured the passing of time through sunsets, sunrises, walks, and encounters with various individuals. Sandra, Carlos’s wife, became a prominent presence in my days. Her energy was contagious, radiating through her vibrant clothes, infectious laughter, and unwavering strength.
Sandra came from a long line of shepherds. One afternoon, I had the opportunity to accompany her as she tended to her llamas and sheep, engaging in conversations about life as we walked across the desert. Each day, under the blazing sun, Sandra and Carlos embarked on long walks to feed their animals, flanking them on either side, using whistles to keep them in order. Sandra carried her grandson, Gaspar, tightly wrapped on her back.
During a break under the shade of trees, clearing the ground of thorns and thistles to sit down while the animals grazed, Sandra shared that our base in Coyo used to be their home. However, due to the impact of the pandemic, she and Carlos had decided to relocate to their current place of residence, a 15-minute drive from Coyo. This new community was reserved for shepherding families, offering vast open land and trees that naturally provided food for their animals. With no electricity, limited access to hot water, and scarce cellular service, the families in this community pooled their resources to ensure regular deliveries of potable water.
Although Coyo was a simple desert community, it brought comfort to Sandra and Carlos. I, too, had come to appreciate this sense of comfort. Sandra mentioned that adapting to a new way of life had initially been challenging but that they now felt more connected to nature. As Sandra spoke, Gaspar played in the dirt, curiously placing rocks in his mouth.
Once again, my thoughts returned to my life in New York, with its comparable comforts and conveniences. I realized that in this bustling city, we had traded genuine connections and respect for material wealth and success. But there was also a form of abundance in that life. Sandra and Carlos willingly traversed the desert every day, feeling deeply connected to the earth beneath them and the sky above. In Brooklyn, I once witnessed a mother scolding her son for picking up sticks from the ground. I thought of Gaspar and how fortunate he was to freely explore and engage with the earth.
According to Lickanantay tradition, yatiris like Carlos are chosen individuals who have been struck by lightning, which awakens their spiritual abilities. The rest of us can only access similar spiritual realms through the use of hallucinogens. Carlos shared that he had been stillborn until his mother felt the energy of lightning surge through the walls of the hospital in San Pedro, bringing him to life.
In Lickanantay culture, “pachakuti” refers to a period of societal upheaval and transformation. Carlos informed us that the solar eclipse in 2017 marked the beginning of the fifth pachakuti. For centuries, Western influences suppressed and disregarded Indigenous wisdom. The new pachakuti aims to eradicate that energy, replacing it with Indigenous knowledge to restore harmony with Mother Earth and all living beings.
The Atacama Desert, known for its abundant mineral resources, is also dotted with mines extracting lithium, copper, magnesium, and potassium. Lithium, in particular, plays a crucial role in the world’s transition to renewable energy as it is a key component in electric vehicle batteries. However, mining activities have sparked debates surrounding environmental impact, climate change, and Indigenous rights.
We drove for miles along rugged roads, marveling at the landscape that stretched before us. Dusty desert flats filled with lithium-rich salt, mines interrupting the barren expanse. Suddenly, the landscape changed dramatically, revealing salt stretching out as far as the eye can see, resembling fresh snow blanketing the desert. We parked the van, and I climbed up a rocky ledge to sit and admire this awe-inspiring scenery. As the sun sank behind the Cordillera de la Sal, the desert and snow-capped mountains tinged with hues of pink.
One morning, the sky opened up. Starting as a mere drizzle, the rain quickly intensified, accompanied by strong winds and gray skies. A group of us donned our raincoats and rushed out into the streets, arms outstretched, relishing in the sensation of raindrops bouncing off our sleeves.
I inhaled deeply, letting the sweet scent of rain-filled air fill my lungs, just as Dago had promised. In that moment, I finally understood his words.
Irjaliina Paavonpera is a photographer currently splitting her time between Sydney, Australia, and Paxos, Greece.
