The Etalia Project

There were only four of us on the bus crossing the northern border between Chile and Bolivia. We left at 4am and spent the early morning hours dispersed throughout the many seats, each one shivering into our blanket and fighting for sleep. It wasn’t until around much later in the morning that we arrived at the border and arose from our burrows as zombies to file through the motions. 

As we submitted our bags to be checked one by one, we observed a hold up behind us as one officer was hassling an elderly woman for mounds of kids clothes she had packed into a large bag. He was accusing her of bringing them over to Bolivia to sell and directing other men to grab them and throw them away, ignoring her pleas that they were gifts for her grandchildren. 

Moved to tears but in recognition of her lack of power in the situation, she simply looked the officer in the eye and told him, “Dios ve todo.”

We watched her husband gently pack up their remaining clothes into their now mostly empty bags, and wrap his arm reassuringly around her as he escorted her away from their things. We too, were hassled out of the room to keep the line moving, not realizing we had stopped to stare.

“Eso no es justo,” Fabio, who I knew at the time to be just one of us four, said, shaking his head as he glanced back toward where the couple had gone. “Es una anciana, y es solo ropa.”

We all erupted in words of agreement, and then soon the once quiet and empty group was bursting with as much life as if it had been full of people.

“Los cuatro gatos,” Fabio laughed in reference to our measly but mighty group.

As we piled back into the bus, our newfound comfort in each others’ company was evidenced by our seating selections, all of us now together and twisted around so as to face one another to speak. All three of them were Bolivian, and had been in Chile for work.

As the others dozed off, Fabio began to open up.

Originally from Santa Cruz de la Sierra, he had left his three children and family to begin work in Calama. As a Bolivian, he has three months at a time to spend in the neighboring country, which can be extended another 90 days upon consultation. This time, his free 90 days were up and he was required to return home. Though admitting the complicated and oscillating nature of this system of work he had chosen, he seemed to pay it no mind and instead smiled enormously as he explained his plan to take advantage of the push home to visit the Salar de Uyuni, a place he had never seen before, and then to spend the holidays with his family. 

“One migrates to look for something good for themselves,” was his message. “And for his family.”

Upon arrival in Uyuni, it was evident that the great ache for the end of the 11 hour bus ride had been replaced with good company and we all hesitated to depart. Fond smiles and hand shakes translated goodbye messages, and each of us went our separate ways.

I wandered into the bus terminal to buy my next ticket to La Paz, and at the money exchange desk found myself behind the very couple who had been dispossessed of their things at the border. 

As the man focused on the exchange, the woman glanced back and caught my eye. I introduced myself and brought up my witnessing of the encounter and expressed my dissent with the officer’s handling of the situation. 

The woman surprised me with a tranquil smile and the exact same words she had said to the officer, “Dios ve todo.”

She went on to express her sadness that the gifts they had spent many months handpicking for their numerous grandchildren were now lying out as trash in the desert, but knew that other good things would soon come their way. Furthermore, she commented on the officer with great humility, wishing him nothing but the best despite the seemingly unnecessary harm he had caused.

As her husband turned around, we all shared a few more polite words before they left the booth and I took their place. A few hours later, still under the blaring lights of the terminal, I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned around to find them both on the bench behind me. Polite small talk turned into hours of conversation. 

Mirtha and Rolando were returning to Santa Cruz de la Sierra after 50 days of traveling Chile. Parents of nine and grandparents of 25, they have family all over South America and what had originally been a quick trip to visit some of these family members had been extended when the opportunity arose. It had been Mirtha’s lifelong dream to see the sea, and Rolando had been craving a birthday alone with his wife, so together they traveled to the coast to fulfill both their wishes before extending their stay for just a little longer for one of their granddaughter’s birthdays.

Rolando joked that in their family, there was a birthday almost every week and that if it weren’t for Mirtha he would be hopeless in remembering all of them. Mirtha added that they already were mistaken for a school whenever they traveled anywhere as a family, and hoped not to become great-grandparents too soon.

“Todavia somos jovenes,” she joked, eyes shining brightly between crinkly folds.

The two had been married 40 years, and still they held hands as they spoke to me and sheepishly smiled at one another. 

Rolando had recently retired from driving trucks and told me that what he missed the most was chatting to the many cyclists he encountered on the road. He had made it his habit to carry with him bottles of water and bags of cookies to pass to the adventurers as they pedaled through the blazing heat of the desert, and in return only asked to hear a story or two from their journeys if they had the time.

Mirtha had spent the earlier years of their marriage caring for the house and children, and expressed an exuberant love of cooking that Rolando confirmed with an immediate expressed longing for some of his favorites. Her mother was Quechua and had passed along to her the dying language, which she is now trying to teach her grandchildren. Rolando was proud of his wife’s heritage and language, but also remarked that he always knew when she was mad at him because she’d switch to the tongue she knew he couldn’t understand. 

When the time arrived for me to board my bus, I once more felt sad to leave. They insisted on accompanying me right to the bus doors, sending me off with a few extra Bolivian pesos, a warm tea and an even warmer invitation to their home in Santa Cruz whenever I passed through. 

Mirtha’s heart’s desire had been to visit the sea, and now that she had, her lasting hope was for more kindness amongst humanity. Rolando too, wished for people to take care of one another, regardless of circumstance or identity. Both wished to keep learning new things every day for the rest of their lives. Fabio, meanwhile, with whom I had witnessed the cruelty of the border guards towards his elders earlier, had himself inherited his greatest wish from the previous generation, as his mother dreamed of visiting Mexico; his goal was to go and take her with him one day. 

Thank you Fabio, Mirtha and Rolando, for sharing your stores /// Gracias Fabio, Mirtha y Rolando, por compartir sus historias.