From a distance, the salt mines at Pichingoto-Moray stand out in stark contrast against the surrounding landscape. The salt collects in shallow pools of runoff that cascade down the valley in a series of steep terraces, encrusting the entire cliff face. Apart from a few paths that snake along these terraces, the underlying brown rockiness is largely obscured by crystalline blooms, reminiscent of the manner in which the white, fuzzy mold that forms on rotting fruit gradually consumes its nutritive substrate. It is a fascinating and mesmerizing sight to behold. Nevertheless, one would hardly have imagined that such a vast patchwork quilt of mineral deposits could have been unearthed naturally from the mountainside, flowing water and human cultivation notwithstanding.

It’s a stiff hike all the way up to the look-out point above the mines, especially if you have to dodge oncoming streams of tourists. But I was in no rush and lagged behind our group to meander and take photos. At one point, I followed the sound of crying out onto a bluff and peered over the edge to find a little girl, no more than four years old, clamoring for the attention of her parents who were working the nearby pools. Upon catching sight of me, she abruptly ceased her whimpering and stared. The parents, now attentive, turned as well and I found myself in the gaze of three pairs of eyes.

For a moment, I felt acutely self-conscious and exposed – caught off-guard without a shovel and only a useless camera. I waved and raised it, to which the parents responded with a curt smile and nod before returning to their work. Only the little girl continued to stare, though I captured neither excitement nor apprehension, or even surprise – only the briefest of intermissions to her prior disappointment. I was not so out-of-place after all. I was an interruption and nothing more.

Cheers,
Riley