Life In The Cordillera Of Chile

By Sr Sally Oyzon SSC

Sibaya, 2, 658 meters above sea level, is a four-hour drive over lowland and mountain deserts from the city of Iquique in northern Chile. It is in one of four inland pueblos in which I ministered in the 1990s. A once thriving community, Sibaya is now sparsely populated. The 35 or so families are those with children up to Grade Six and older ones whose adult children have moved away. As in otherpueblos in the Chilean Cordilleras, the people are of Aymara descent.

Due to the interrelatedness of their economic, political and religious history, the people have lost much of their cultural richness. Thanks to the recent interest of culture groups and the Church, they are receiving more attention as a people who, for their cultural survival, have held on with almost stubborn tenacity – ‘Es la costumbre’ – to some customs. Foremost among these are their devotion to Pachamama (Mother Earth), pueblo patron saints, Santo Tomás de Tolentino and La Virgen de la Asunción, and to their ancestors. Feelings about these are deep and admirable to a fault: in some ways take on more of a social rather than religious dimension. At fiestas drinks flow freely. But these devotions kept alive the faith of the people through the years of minimal pastoral care from priests.

Why do I spend time with them?

After participating in some of their celebrations I felt the need to be friends with the people, to understand better and appreciate more who they were, their life, their ways, their aspirations. I also wanted to spot potential Church leaders. What better way of doing this than being with them in their daily setting?

So at 6:30 on the eve of the feast of Our Lady of Lourdes Fr Sean O’Connor, a Columban from New Zealand, left me in Sibaya. This meant some 50 kms extra drive before he would get to Mocha where he would celebrate Mass next day.

Alone in dark nights

Being summer, the sun was still bright. Everyone had assured me that Sibaya was a safe place. But the thought of spending nights alone in a casita, a little room, beside the big 300-year-old church and the cemetery on the hill behind, the nearest houses being on the other side of the church and down the slope of the hill on the front, only the rooftops being visible, gave me a feeling of anxiety – not fear – and of aloneness as I sorted out my provisions and went to fetch water. I hadn’t spent a whole night alone anywhere in all my years.

The adobong manok I’d brought was a boon. It was dark by the time Don Raul, a parishioner, succeeded in making the gas-stove work. I only had to boil water for tea and toast bread over a metal tin for supper. When the generator light came on for one hour at 9:00, those who had dropped by were ready to leave and I was ready for bed.

Life in Sibaya

Next morning I tried to make a reservation for a seat on the truck that twice a week brought in prime commodities and took out vegetables. The passenger spaces were behind the driver but had been reserved for the next week’s trips. But not to worry – vehicles came in and out and the people would be on the lookout for me.

To accomplish what I came for I had to use different approaches. Jerca was with me at the truck owner’s store, on her way to the farm, ‘Farm’ means a parcel, or parcels, of land planted with vegetables, some of fruit trees, alfalfa for a few head of goats, sheep, llamas or cattle or any combination of these. This is mostly for home consumptions and fiestas. Those with more parcels of land sell their extra produce.

We talked about life, mostly theirs, as Jerca, her sister, brother-in-law and nephew pulled alfalfa, harvested beans, carrots and celery, opened and stopped the ditch that watered the plots and fed the animals. After 2:00 we headed for the pueblo where they prepared lunch before going back to the farm to work again until sundown. On the whole the rhythm of life is Sibaya is a shuttling back and forth between kitchen and farm at least twice a day. The life of the people is indeed a life of ‘small is beautiful.’

I called the homes of nursing mothers not yet able for the farm. Conversation, as they washed clothes and bathed their children, was for the most part mundane, but about them – a bit of their history, their cares and struggles, their customs, what touched them most.

While I was chatting with a couple playing with their toddler in the school playground, a small truck parked nearby. They were returning to the city next morning, Wednesday, at 11:00 and I could go with the driver and his assistant. It would cut short my stay but was a sure ride. Next day 11:00 came and went. I waited until 2:00 to find out that they had left the night before!

False hope

But ‘hope springs eternal.’ A government doctor visits Sibaya every Thursday. He comes alone and has a ‘doble dabina’ – front and back seats. Since I was having lunch with a family, I gave the perishable goods I had to a new Bolivian resident. With my camp bed and bag zipped, I went to the medical station. Trying to keep down my excitement at meeting another Filipina again when I’d reach home, my hope for a ride quickly faded when I saw that the doctor had four big men and a lady nurse with him!

I was in a quandary. Out of provisions, I simply had to get to the city. What to do? I then remembered the two policemen on their rounds who greeted the family I had lunch with. They came occasionally to Sibaya. My last chance. But would they still be around? They were, and took me to Juara from where it would be easy to get to Iquique. I learned later that the police often do this kind of service.

We reached Huara at 6:30pm but all passenger vehicles bound for Iquique had already left. The big buses were Santiago-bound. I would have to make a transfer to get to Iquique, not an attractive proposition with my luggage, small and light as it was. I didn’t know anyone in Huara nor was there aconvento in the place.

I heard someone shouting ‘Iquique!!’ It was the driver of a collective, like our ‘FX’ but with ‘natural airconditioning’. He was looking for two more passengers. After a bit of haggling we agreed on the fare. So for the price of a copy of Misyon I did the last hour of my getting-to-know-Sibaya trip in comfort, right to our door.