She blew me a kiss and pressed her hand close to her heart signaling that I’d always be there. My eyes got moist and I lingered by the window watching her image growing smaller and smaller till she disappeared from sight.
~~~
I don’t have a cent left and will have nothing to drink or eat till I get to Uyuni, but I don’t care. I’m very glad I gave her the money so she can at least be compensated for the cab fare. I’m too upset to think about food anyway, so I concentrate on the scenery which is pretty monotonous at first with arid, desolate mountains painted in the same dull shades of gray and brown, stretching for miles and miles endlessly. From time to time humble villages and llamas break up the monotony till slowly, almost imperceptibly the panorama changes and I see pristine lakes embellished with red hues and brilliant sunsets reflecting on the water.
I take a deep breath and see the huge, snow capped giants of the Andes majestically glistening in the distance. A feeling of wonder and awe seizes me at the sight of this raw, naked beauty, so somber and perfect it looks like God has taken a brush and painted it with master strokes. I’m not alone anymore, I feel connected to nature and in true communion with God’s creation. The overwhelming desire to see the world, to travel to distant and exotic lands is born in me in this second, and I no longer pray for fame, fortune or riches but for a life filled with adventure.
I fill my lungs with the brisk air, and contemplate the awesome beauty of the luminous mountains from afar. They look as lonely as I am but they stand tall, invincible against the elements, and that’s what I want to do. For the first time I feel glad I’m making the journey, and my aunt’s words to always dare in life, achieve a new meaning.
~~~
I arrive in Uyuni on a freezing, wintry night so cold I can see my breath forming vapors in the air, and as I get off the train shivering, I spot my father clad in a heavy coat and Russian hat waiting for me at the station. The excitement of the trip has kept me awake and I haven’t been able to sleep at all despite the lulling sounds of the train speeding to my destination, but I don’t feel tired, I’m still alert, stimulated. The first thing I notice upon getting off is the brutal wind going through my flimsy jacket.
“We’ll have to get you a proper coat,” says my father driving me back to his house which is only a few minutes away from the station. “Otherwise you’ll freeze to death here.”
It’s past midnight but my stepmother, Rosa, has stayed up and comes to greet me at the door. She extends her hand to me cordially and says, “Welcome, Vicky, welcome to your new home.”
She takes me through a long corridor covered with linoleum, and opening the door gently, shows me my bedroom. Another girl with long hair is sleeping soundly on the other bed by the window.
“That’s my sister, Emilia” whispers Rosa. “You’ll meet her tomorrow.”
Rosa looks older than my father, and is a plain, matronly looking woman with short, curly hair, small eyes and a face full of dark spots and freckles. I crawl into bed quietly, and exhausted from the journey, fall asleep immediately. I wake up to the sounds of the shower nine hours later. I look up and notice the big skylight above my bed – the day is clear and light has filtered through, filling my bed with sunshine. The room is large and spacious; it has nice furniture, two big closets and area carpets over the wooden floor.
“I didn’t mean to wake you up,” says the young girl wrapped in a towel, with a long neck like a swan. “My name is Emilia, but you can call me “Mili.”
She has put her hair up and tells me everyone has already had breakfast, but she decided to wait for me so I wouldn’t eat alone. I’m touched by her thoughtfulness and gladly follow her into the kitchen, after my own hot shower. Gumercinda, the diminutive maid of the household has already prepared eggs, potatoes and toast for us and I eat ravenously, oblivious to the fact that Mili has hardly touched her breakfast.
Gumercinda is a dark, hard working woman with small, vivacious looking eyes and tiny hands, and she smiles at us while she pours her aromatic coffee. She has long, thin hair tied in a low pony tail, and wears flat shoes and a short cotton apron over a simple skirt and sweater. I can’t help but compare her plain, nondescript appearance to the colorful one of our servants in La Paz.
Mili and I linger over coffee, which is wonderful, and begin chatting amicably and discovering each other. I learn she was born in the beautiful valley of Tupiza, known as the “Jewel of Bolivia,” same as my stepmother Rosa and her entire family. She tells me she is only vacationing in Uyuni for a short time because she has a boyfriend in the military she is crazy about, and intends to marry.
She is eighteen years old and wants to have five children and settle down in Tupiza. In no time at all I become fascinated by her, noticing the way she moves her hands when she talks in a dainty, soft manner, quite different from the rest of the family. She seems kind and sensitive, is slim and tall, with big green eyes, a rather long nose that doesn’t detract from her beauty, and long, lustrous black hair which she wears parted in the middle down to her waist.
~~~
I’m introduced to my three half brothers and sister and they eye me curiously, looking as uncomfortable and shy as I am. Ana María is ten years old, Ricardo eleven, Patricio is five, and little Enrique is three. My father has tried to prepare them for my arrival, but he must have been unable to justify the mystery of my existence and the long years shrouded in secrecy. His quandary now is to get them to accept me as their sister without explaining the past, but how do you bridge the gap in weeks, months or even years? It will take a long time to establish a relationship, if ever, and we all know it. Yet we pretend to be a normal family and I find Ana María the most precocious and perceptive of them all, peppering me with questions and following me around like a little puppy dog.
The house is spacious and comfortable and it is part of the lucrative contract my father enjoys because of his profession; the perks include a gardener for the lovely grounds, a handy man and of course, “Gumercinda.”
His office is located in a separate section of the house, and I’m amazed at the respect and admiration he commands in town. He is a hard working man who puts in long hours in the office, in sharp contrast to my stepmother who spends her days lazily sunbathing and reading the Mexican movie star magazines she adores.
She sits nonchalantly in the big terrace of the house which is always filled with plants, munching on chocolates which she lines up in neat little rows like soldiers on the table next to her, while my half brothers and sister run around the house yelling, screaming, slamming doors and hurting each other. From time to time she becomes aware of the havoc and rises her head and scolds them in a high pitched voice, “Ana María, Ricardo, behave yourself, wait till I tell your father,” and goes back to her reading. She gets busy just before lunch time, and flies into the kitchen to give Gumercinda orders as if to give the appearance she’s been there all along, never allowing my father to catch her idle. Seeing her easy, carefree lifestyle, I feel bitter thinking of my mother who has to struggle every minute of her existence.
Meals in the house are always restrained and quiet because the whole family seems to be intimidated by my father. His solemn demeanor commands respect but it also instills fear. The contrast between this rigid atmosphere and the one at my aunt’s house where there is laughter and levity all the time isn’t lost on me. My uncle’s benevolent presence acts like a balm on that house, and I miss him sorely. Here everyone takes their cues from my father, if he acts stressed, they follow suit, if he talks they talk, but there is no spontaneity, no natural ebb and flow of conversation. The only one that brings any life to the table is Emilia, with her light, easy chatter, alleviating the heaviness of the room.
~~~
Uyuni is a windy, dusty town in the middle of nowhere, famous for its gigantic salt lakes stretching as far as they eye can see, in their frigid ocean of silver. The town is also famous for its unusual train cemetery full of old, rusting locomotives at the outskirts of
town. Uyuni had once been an important railroad junction and this museum is a constant reminder of its old prominence. I had already heard that Lake Titicaca, Yungas and the Salt Lakes of Uyuni were among the most popular tourist attractions in the country, catering only to the most adventurous world travelers, and reckoned that it was true because we didn’t see too many tourists visiting Bolivia - the constant political turbulence of the country didn’t lend itself to tourism, and wary tourists only got as far as Peru, skipping our country all together.
~~~
My half brother, Ricardo has won an expensive motorcycle in a raffle at school, and he takes Mili and me for a ride to the salt lakes. I am immediately struck by the sheer immensity and eerie stillness of the place which seems to go on indefinitely, and by the sharp glare of its reflection that not even the darkest sunglasses can conceal. We ride for miles in the frozen salt lakes with the wind blowing in our ears and Mili’s crystalline laughter filling the air and I relish on the strangeness of the moment. I’m holding onto Ricardo’s waist tightly and she is holding onto mine.
We feel exhilarated and delighted, with a mixture of joy and fear as Ricardo keeps going faster and faster, oblivious to the fact that the motorcycle isn’t supposed to hold three people, and that we could have gotten ourselves killed. But I’m aware that at this precise moment I’m happy, and I’m beginning to realize that life is made up of moments like this - the magnificent views from the train - these light, carefree moments next to Emilia, and feel in my heart that perhaps happiness should not be a goal but rather an appreciation of every joyful moment we happen to live.
~~~
I’m extremely grateful for Mili’s friendship and spend all my time with her. We take long walks bundled up from the cold, and always end up in the center of town which is the only lively place in Uyuni, while she talks about herself, what it was like growing up in a big family, and the way she met her fiancée. I notice her eyes shine when she talks about him, and feel envious of her feelings, sensing that it must be wonderful to feel that way about someone. I love her delicacy of spirit, the right touch of compassion and understanding that characterizes her.
She has seen me crying a few times but has never intruded upon my private moments of grief, and though I have never divulged my personal life, she senses my loneliness and longing for my family, giving me space when I need it, and keeping me company when I seek her out.
In the couple of months that I’ve been here, we have been able to establish a warm friendship, respect and a complicity of sorts. She tells me things she doesn’t tell her own sister, and I love her company more and more. We laugh at the corny Mexican movies that both my stepmother and father adore, and we like the same movie stars. Mili is also crazy about Marilyn and tells me she has her poster in her bedroom in Tupiza.
On Sundays we have fun strolling to the sounds of music in the “Retreta,” [“Music Fare”], located in the central square of town where amateur bands compete for first prize and women show off their best dresses.
“Could you live here permanently?” I ask her one day, coming back from the movies.
“If Alberto was here, yes,” she answers without hesitation. “I would live anywhere in the world with him.”
She has shown me pictures of Alberto, her fiancé, and he is a good looking man with dark hair and intense brown eyes.
“Perhaps he will come here someday,” I say hopefully, and she just smiles and races me back to the house before the strong wind lifts us both. The wind in Uyuni is legendarily strong, and it has been known to lift rooftops and kill people. The poor people at the outskirts of town fare the worst because they have aluminum roof tops which blow off like papers. My father’s house is solid so we don’t worry, but it’s an eerie feeling hearing the wicked wind howling outside for hours, particularly during bad storms. At these times Mili and I drink hot chocolate and get into our beds talking from the safety of our room, but sometimes, during more vicious storms, the lights go out and we have to rely on candles, giggling that it’s very romantic, and looking at the skylight getting darker and darker in the middle of the day.
~~~
I wake up one morning to the news that Mili has gone back to Tupiza in the mid night train, and that she isn’t coming back. Everyone is pretty upset about it, and there is a feeling of secrecy and scandal in the air. I try getting Ana María to tell me something, but she runs away from me yelling that she can’t talk about it. Days go by, and shocked and disturbed, I plead with Gumercinda to tell me what she knows. She is evasive at first, but finally takes pity on me, and tells me she overheard my stepmother talking to her older sister in Tupiza over the telephone, and it seems that Emilia eloped with her boyfriend in the midnight train heading for Argentina, three nights ago. Now I understand the hushed whispers and funny attitudes, they were all shocked and bewildered by what she did too.
I can’t believe that she thought so little of me to leave without a word. I feel angry and betrayed because I thought we were close friends. Gumercinda tells me to try to understand her reasons - she didn’t tell anyone because she couldn’t risk it.
“But I would have kept her secret,” I cry. “She didn’t have to keep it from me.”
“She couldn’t take a chance,” says Gumercinda. “She wanted nothing and nobody to interfere with her plans.”
I was on borrowed time with her and didn’t know it, she had been such a comforting presence that her abrupt departure left a deep void in me, and the grief for my family that I had been holding at bay, came out in a torrent. Mother had written to me frequently but nothing replaced her physical presence, and my heart ached for my brother. I took to the swings outside, unable to shake my sadness. Those brief months with Emilia had been but a temporary oasis in helping me adjust to my new situation, but without her the reality of my life plunged me into a deep depression.
~~~
For the first time since my arrival here, I fear I’m not going to make it. I want to ask my father for a ticket back home, but I’m too much of a coward to ask, and the little interaction I have with him during meals now that Emilia is gone, is fraught with tension and awkwardness. Unfortunately, more bad news follows. I receive a letter from mother which starts with “I’m always the bearer of bad news,” and my heart stops, but I continue reading and find out that Oscar has been in an accident. He has fallen off the bus, broken his right leg in two places, and is now wearing a heavy cast. She says he has a hard time getting around in our two rooms, and without his help, everything has pretty much stopped. I’m not surprised he’s gotten hurt on those awful buses bursting with people. He was probably shoved out of the way by some horrible individual, and I should feel grateful he wasn’t killed.
I feel numb, devastated, one blow after another. He’s always been mother’s right arm, how is she handling this new crisis? Is she taking it out on the injured party again? To make matters worse, I haven’t been able to send her a cent despite my good intentions because my father makes sure I’m cared for, and provides well for me by buying me clothes occasionally, but I don’t receive a cent for spending money. He mails all my letters and takes care of my school expenses and lunches, but I have no access to money. When Emilia was around, she bought the movie tickets and other expenses we incurred, but father never offered to reimburse her. This fills me with frustration because I had imagined my situation differently, counting on a weekly allowance. Now nothing makes any sense to me and the sacrifice I made coming here seems worthless.
~~~
I confide my troubles to Gumercinda, who is the only one that talks to me in the house, and she urges me to pray, to get closer to God, lending me the precious rosary beads she holds during her daily prayers. Not wanting to offend her I take them, but derive no comfort from the gesture. I secretly envy people who are so blindly religious they think rosary beads are the solution to all the problems of the world. It must be very comforting to believe that everything is preordained, that God has a hand on everyone’s destiny
the way she does because although I was raised as a Catholic, the church and all the saints have always left me cold. I had shared those feelings occasionally with mother, who told me never to repeat those blasphemous sentiments to anyone else, because people will never understand me.
Slowly I begin to heal, and when I calm down, I think of Emilia without bitterness, finding the whole thing romantic and grand – taking the midnight train to follow the love of her life – not caring what anyone thinks, being faithful only to her heart. I close my eyes and try to envision their meeting, the intensity of their embrace out there in the cold wind. I admire her impetuous, brave heart and wish her a great life. She has been a gift in my life when I most needed it, and for that I shall always be grateful.
At school I finally begin to make new friends. Over here I am the “Engineer’s Daughter,” who lives in a beautiful house by the station, and I think with irony that father’s kitchen alone is bigger than our two rooms back home. The students hold me in high regard, but are also somewhat intimidated by my father’s prominent position in town and because I come from “the big city.” I like the girls but often feel like an elderly parent in their company, so much has already happened to me that I look upon them as children.
I have also become the object of many infatuations and hurt feelings, especially from this particular boy, Nando Ortís, who wouldn’t take no for an answer and went through great lengths to get my attention, eventually giving me the nickname of “conceited and arrogant.” It felt good to be wanted, to become aware of my power over men for the first time in my life, but I wasn’t interested in any of the boys who courted me. I couldn’t imagine anything more dreadful than falling in love with a local boy and being stuck here for ever, because if life in La Paz had been nothing but an emotional seesaw, here it would be flat and monotonous as the town itself.
Beyond the Snows of the Andes Page 26