I sat in the middle of the Chilean desert with nine other artists, surrounded by towering volcanic Andean peaks ahead and the Salt Mountains, or Cordillera de la Sal, behind me. The early morning sun crept over the peaks, making the vast desert glow in every direction. Our host, Carlos, laid out a blanket on the warm sand and placed a bottle of red wine, a bowl of coca leaves, and four cups on it. As a group, we prepared plates of organic offerings, including edible fruit pods, chañar seeds, and slices of apple and orange. We took turns kneeling in the dirt, filling the cups with coca leaves and wine in a specific order. The cups on the right symbolized women and life, while those on the left represented men and death. Afterward, we moved to a small hole in the ground, which represented the mouth of Mother Earth, to leave our offerings and communicate with her.
In this moment, among the Lickanantay, the local Indigenous people, we participated in a reciprocity ceremony called Ayni. It was a tradition practiced to honor Mother Earth and seek her guidance and protection. Led by Carlos, a Lickanantay yatiri or spiritual and medicinal healer, we followed the ritual passionately, understanding its sacredness and refraining from taking photographs.
I had arrived in the small community of Coyo the day before, seeking refuge from the hustle and bustle of New York City. I had been accepted into a three-week artist-in-residency program with La Wayaka Current, an organization focused on environmental preservation, community, and contemporary art. My purpose was to learn from and immerse myself in the Lickanantay culture, capturing my experiences through photography. I yearned to understand how ancient wisdom thrived in this part of the world and how I could integrate those values into my own life.
Coyo wasn’t exactly a town, but rather a collection of winding dirt roads with houses made from clay, rocks, and branches sourced from the surrounding landscape. To reach Coyo, I flew from New York to the northern Chilean city of Calama, where I joined nine other individuals on a bus journey into the desert.
As we approached Coyo, our driver and guide Dago, a geologist, informed us that the air here would “cleanse our lungs.” After the Ayni ceremony, I took a stroll through the streets of the community, feeling the temperature rise as the sun chased away the morning clouds. At first glance, the houses may have appeared worn and neglected, with cracks and crevices exposing their inhabitants to the elements. However, I viewed them with tenderness, recognizing that each structure was built by hands deeply connected to the earth. The ceilings were supported by rocks and sticks, and the fences were tied together with plastic rope. Dogs stood guard, offering security to the dwellings.
My thoughts drifted back to my home in New York, filled with trinkets, furniture, and photographs accumulating dust. I resided in a Brooklyn brownstone, where the Lower Manhattan skyline reflected in my bedroom mirror. I had no knowledge of whose hands had constructed that city.
Returning to Coyo, attracted by the barking dogs, I struggled to reconcile the fact that in another part of the world, a bustling city thrived with never-ending lights and towering skyscrapers. The realization struck me that I lived a life in New York that felt foreign to this community. While that life existed, it appeared that this community, existing in the driest desert on Earth, sought the permission of Mother Earth to continue existing. They asked, “May we come to you for answers, Madre Tierra?”
Time seemed elusive in the desert, as days melted into each other. I measured its passing through sunsets and sunrises, the walks I took, and the people I encountered. Sandra, Carlos’s wife, became a vibrant presence in my days. Her energy infected everyone around her, manifesting in her clothing, laughter, and strength.
Sandra came from a lineage of shepherds, and I had the opportunity to accompany her one afternoon as we herded llamas and sheep across the desert. Each day, she and Carlos walked for hours under the scorching sun to feed their animals, guiding them with whistles. Sandra carried her grandson, Gaspar, securely strapped to her back.
During a break in the shade of trees, clearing the ground of thorns and thistles, Sandra disclosed that our base in Coyo was once their home. However, due to the impact of the coronavirus pandemic, she and Carlos had decided to relocate to their current residence, a 15-minute drive away. The new community, exclusive to shepherding families, offered vast open land and trees that dropped seeds for the animals to eat. The families pooled their resources to ensure regular delivery of potable water, as there was no electricity, hot water, or reliable cellular service.
Although Coyo was a modest desert community, it provided comfort to Sandra and Carlos. As I immersed myself in their world, I too found solace in their way of life. Sandra confessed that adapting to their new lifestyle was challenging initially but that they now felt a deep connection with nature. As Sandra spoke, Gaspar played freely in the dirt, putting rocks in his mouth to taste.
Once again, my mind wandered to my life in New York, where comfort and luxury were abundant. Yet, I pondered the trade-off— the loss of connection and respect for other beings in exchange for material wealth. As I watched Sandra and Carlos embrace the desert each day by choice, feeling connected to the earth beneath them and the sky above, I recalled witnessing a mother in Brooklyn scolding her son for picking up sticks off the ground. I contemplated how fortunate Gaspar was to play freely with the earth.
According to Lickanantay tradition, yatiris like Carlos are chosen individuals struck by lightning, awakening their spiritual abilities. To access similar abilities, the rest of us require the assistance of hallucinogens. Carlos shared that he was stillborn until his mother felt lightning strike through the walls of the hospital, propelling him into existence with his first cry.
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, Indigenous wisdom was suppressed and shamed by Western conquerors. The current pachakuti aims to eradicate that energy and revive Indigenous knowledge, creating harmony with Mother Earth and all her creatures.
The Atacama Desert, rich in minerals, is also dotted with mines that extract lithium, copper, magnesium, and potassium. The extraction of lithium, critical for electric vehicle batteries and the world’s transition to renewable energy, has sparked debates concerning mining interests, climate change, and Indigenous rights.
We embarked on a bumpy ride, driving for miles to witness the majestic landscape— the desert, the lithium-rich salt flats, and the mining sites. A vast expanse of salt emerged suddenly, resembling freshly fallen snow. We parked the van, and I climbed a rugged ledge to sit and observe the landscape. As the sun disappeared behind the Cordillera de la Sal, turning the desert and snow-capped mountains into shades of pink, I felt a sense of awe.
One morning, the skies opened up. What had begun as a few raindrops quickly transformed into a torrential downpour. A group of us donned our raincoats and rushed into the streets, arms outstretched to embrace the rain cascading off our sleeves.
I took a deep breath, welcoming the sweet fragrance that filled the air — the same air Dago had claimed would cleanse our lungs. Finally, I understood what he meant.
Irjaliina Paavonpera is a photographer who currently resides between Sydney, Australia, and Paxos, Greece.