21ST CENTURY SALT HARVEST
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In the Sacred Valley of the Incas, an ancient practice of gathering salt from evaporating ponds continues.
CONTRIBUTOR / PHOTOGRAPHY
Ab b y Ric he rt
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Not long after departing Urubamba, the 16-person van pulled off the highway and began winding its way up a rutted dirt road. The hairpin turns exposed views of the towering Andes Mountains, each glimpse more stunning than the last, inciting audible gasps from the passengers on board. As we climbed higher toward a windswept plateau, the sun slowly set. The arid earth was blanketed in a golden glow which clung to the haze of dust kicked up by passing vehicles. After some time absorbed by an almost incomprehensible beauty – that, by no surprise, provoked feelings of insignificance and profound meaning all at once – the van rounded a final turn and pulled off momentarily to the side of the road. In the distance, what looked like a snowdusted mountain slope faced us. At first glance, the bright white splashed against the surrounding rusty brown rock faces seemed out of place. But as clouds passed by the sun, its light glittered across pools of stagnant water and revealed a terraced system of salt mines known as the Salinas de Maras. Located in Peru’s Sacred Valley, roughly an hour outside of Cusco, Salinas de Maras sits at 11,000 feet on the side of the Qaqawiñay Mountain. The marvel we see today is the product of centurieslong work resulting in a system that supplies over 3,000 salt pools with a controlled water source derived from a natural spring, which is essential to the production and harvest of salt. For the nearby village of Maras, its people and the salt mines have a symbiotic relationship – consistent farming is as crucial to the mere existence of the salt mines as it is to the community’s livelihood. From this dual need to preserve the mines and create commerce, a democratic system of cooperative salt farming (based on how the community believes the Incans managed the salt mines), was instated to fulfill both purposes. Any resident of Maras, and those who marry into the community, can obtain a salt plot. Although an overarching agent governs the salt mines as a whole, each salt plot belongs to a different family who can choose how and when they operate. Spaces are allotted on a first come, first serve basis. The most desirable plots are near the top. They are more accessible and have a shorter haul when carrying salt out. So long as a plot is worked, it remains in the hands of the family who acquired it, but if the pool is neglected or abandoned, the plot is reassigned to another community member. With around 300 families actively mining salt today, the coopera-
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tion effectively manages a significant portion of the total salt pools. The upkeep of the pools relies on regular use under trained hands. The salt workers are responsible to maintain the side walls and bottom surface of their pools, aqueduct channels adjacent to their pools, and water-entry notches. They must also remove the salt from their pools for harvest. Atop narrow, salt-crusted paths that run adjacent to the open springs, onlookers can meander their way around to survey the production in its various stages. Peering over the edge, the pools appear to spill down the near vertical slope toward the valley. If not for the colorful woven baskets strewn across the tan and white colored pools, the people harvesting below would be easy to miss – some disappear behind the shadows of the surrounding walls of a terrace while others in neutral-colored clothing are camouflaged amongst the pools.
The most desirable plots are near the top of the hillside due to ease of hauling salt out.
With a shovel and small wood board at his feet, a man in a light blue shirt with jeans tucked into black rain boots adjusted the white shirt wrapped around his head – a common defense for the salt workers to protect and provide relief from the brutal sun – before picking up his tools and walking over the top of his salt plot, ready to harvest. As he crossed to the other side, he broke through the crusted surface and water pooled around the soles of his boots as he sunk slightly in the salt. He tossed his shovel near a pile of large white bags then bent down with his wood board in hand and used it to methodically scrape the sides of the pool to release the buildup of salt crystals on the walls. After a round of unremitting scraping, he stopped for a moment, stealing views of the Sacred Valley as appreciatively as the visitors around him, then continued his work on another wall. Down the hill and a few plots over, a woman in a brown sweater, black skirt and tall white top hat, was busy straining the water from her salt. One by one, she filled her colorful woven baskets with salt and shook them with a bit of force but careful enough not to spill the salt back into the pond. Excess water drizzled out through the holes. When satisfied, she left the basket on the ledge of her pool before moving on to the next. After each basket was full of salt and drained to her liking, she dumped them into a pile of salt nearly as tall as she was until there was no longer space for it to grow any larger. At this point, she motioned to a young man who walked briskly toward her along a slender ledge with white bags in hand. He held a bag open and she shoveled the salt into it until nearly full. They left enough room to twist the opening of the
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bag closed and the woman helped hoist the large bag of salt onto his back. Despite the weight, the man confidently weaved his way through the channels of pools up to the top of the mountain where he dropped his heavy loot. For over 500 years, Qaqawiñay’s hillside has been harvested for salt by diverting a natural spring named Qoripujio through an ingenious system of pre-Incan channels. The spring feeds the pools after running through a halite deposit deep within the mountain – a phenomenon that suggests this area was once covered by ocean. The spring, which is believed to have been running for over 1,000 years, picks up salt as it passes through the halite deposit and creates a brine spring that then moves through the system of channels. The terraced pools slowly descend down the mountain, an intentional development that not only forces the brine spring through the myriad aqueduct channels but also helps to maintain moderate pressure through the water-entry notches. Salt workers manually regulate the pools’ water levels by opening and closing the water-entry notch in the sidewall; gently flowing water helps the salt worker control and block the flow of brine spring into their pool. The control over the water-entry notch is especially necessary as the salt workers transition between seasons. During the dry season, the severe sun and bone-dry air evaporates the spring water from the pools within a few days, leaving behind roughly four inches of solid salt. In the rainy season, the water-entry notch is used much less frequently as it can take up to a month for the spring water to evaporate. Although the network of channels makes this production possible, salt farming is an arduous and time-consuming endeavor. Any sort of mechanization would destroy the ancient channels and pools, thus all the work is done by hand. Pack animals like mules are also a threat to the production, as they would contaminate the pools and ruin the yield. After long hours of scraping and removing the salt, it’s eventually taken to a factory where it is iodized, cleaned and bagged for commercial use. The end product is a high-quality, pink salt rich in magnesium, iron, calcium, and zinc. Locals also believe that the spring water passes through a rose quartz deposit, which they say adds metaphysical properties to the salt and, when consumed, promotes emotional healing and balance.
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tive economic opportunities for themselves. At the top of the salt pools, a string of small shops line the path back to the parking lot. Tin roofs on either side merge to cover the walkway and create an enclosed shopping experience with booths manned by the Maras’ residents themselves. Sample offerings of specialty salted products like chocolate, corn chips, nuts, and banana chips make it impossible not to stop – of course these delicacies can also be purchased in bulk along with goods like healing bath salts, body scrubs, and colorful souvenirs. In addition to the domestic markets where Maras salt is sold across Peru, the shops also serve as a vehicle for direct salt trade. Packaged in bags of all sizes, and from fine to coarse grained, visitors can haul out as much Maras pink salt as they can carry. For tourists, walking away with a product straight from the source is oftentimes a marvel in itself, but at Salinas de Maras, the direct impact of the purchase is encouraging to the buyer. In 2015, for example, five years after opening Salinas de Maras to the public, by way of the entrance fees and collective sales, the cooperation was able purchase two tractors which are now used to support farming efforts of other crops in the community.
Salt farming is an arduous and time-consuming endeavor exclusively done by hand.
In contrast to Peru’s other sought-after wonders, the ancient roots of Salinas de Maras keep the site alive as a functioning and profitable modern-day natural resource, benefiting the people who maintain it as much as they safeguard its preservation. Before leaving, one last moment is required to take in the sensation that is Salinas de Maras. Down below, the warm light of the setting sun dances across the salt pools, awakening the red earth of the Qaqawiñay Mountain. The Maras community salt workers are barely visible; most have already packed up to head home before the sun falls behind the mountain. Only a few small dots of color can be seen easily, but they quickly disappear into the labyrinth of the salt pools below.
From the rise of tourism, Maras’ residents have created new, lucra-
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