Octavio is sixty years old. He does not get puzzled any more with western tourists. He is contracted by different agencies; the car does not belong to him. We were meant to go on an overnight trip into the desert, but the agency cancelled last minute and offered a long day trip instead.We are just leaving the last houses of the village when the car stops for the first time. Octavio slides with routine under the chassis, opens the hood, presumably performs some voodoo magic and we continue for about two minutes when the engine stops again. At the fourth time the irritated tourist group demands Octavio to stop trying, call some help and turn around. Octavios phone is out of credit, his smile shows for the first time a shade of embarrassment. We catch a mini-bus of some kind, I am bouncing right on the back wheel between bemusement and frustration. Once back in the village the group is practicing the art of argumentation with one of the agencies. Octavio arrives. We are being innocently encouraged to re-embark the same vehicle which broke down on us four times in the desert. Hilarious! Back on the dirt road Octavio gives gas. Another car, another chance.
In front of us the salt flats unfold abruptly in a fashion that rather takes our breath away. Endless space, a shiny white runway. Pure salt. Once dried, it finds its way directly to kitchen tables.
Octavio prepares lunch and leaves us at the “Island of Fisherman”. A strange bump on the blinding white body, an island in the ocean of salt. We are climbing among giant cactuses, I feel I could spend much time here. The view is static, only the clouds are moving. The lights slowly becomes horizontal, time to go back.
Octavio is singing. He turns his head with a proud smile. He expects cheering. For the song? His desert? His land? We give it to him.
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