Walking To Chile

By the time we reached Laguna Verde – a pea-green soup of a lake at the southernmost point of Bolivia, Emiri and I were ready to walk. The massive strato-cone of Cerro Lilicanbur loomed above the water, straddling the border like armed sentry. We would skirt its left flank over the broad summit with a couple gallons of water and some food that we had picked up in Uyuni. We then hoped to drop to the Salar de Atacama in Chile on foot – thirty-something miles distant – on Christmas Day. We weren’t above hitching a ride if one became available, but Pedro cautioned us that seeing a vehicle at all at one of the most remote border crossings in South America would be miracle enough. Never mind their willingness to take on passengers. I knew he had his misgivings, leaving us to the wilds of southern Bolivia with limited resources and only a Lonely Planet map as a guide. We signed no disclaimers. Liability would have prevented such recklessness back home, but neither of us was burdened with those concerns in the heady air of the central Andes that day. Still, Pedro watched us with concern as we hoisted our bags, said goodbye to the group, and began the slow slog up the road to the 15,000 foot cumbre (pass) about 8 miles away. I had my own misgivings when I saw that Emiri backpacked by suitcase.

There is nothing so awkward as walking with a heavy Samsonite that you hold to one side by a single handle, counterbalancing it at an angle. My Japanese friend gamely suffered the first half mile or so but capitulated under the futility of it all. We decided to share the weight of her suitcase by placing a stick through the handle and walk side by side. Finding the stick at all was a success in its own right in the treeless emptiness, but there it was – some splinter of a 2 by 4 beside the road that likely fell from a passing truck. It proved to be a great solution until the suitcase handle broke. We got creative and lashed the stick to the bag with extra shoelaces I found in my pack, and that was sufficient.

Our conversation was measured as we walked. The extreme altitude required frequent stops for rest and catching of breath, and many times we were forced to split up sentences for a lungful of air. I spoke my best classroom Spanish – thick with grammatical errors and an American accent. And she spoke hers, a simple Spanish of the Honduran barrio against her choppy Japanese inflection. We discussed her difficult but satisfying work in the gritty suburbs of Tegucigalpa. Along with the basic resources of food, clothing, and shelter, Emiri helped provide a sense of family for dozens of children orphaned by poverty, war, and family trauma. An orphan herself, she left the pressure and excesses of life in Japan for a more humble existence. I shared details of my job and some personal history with her and we both agreed that having a companion with whom to walk to Chile was about the best idea ever. I had made a friend for life and vowed to visit her in Honduras one day.