Pisagua was one of southern Peru’s most important ports during the mid-nineteenth century. Its location and beaches were perfectly harmonised, as if it were clinging onto the stunning coastal mountain range. It therefore basks in the magnificence of the very ocean, which, at the same time, ensures its complete isolation.
Pisagua is woeful. It looks like a prison thrown together by the winds of the Pacific. That same wind moulds the texture of the wooden architecture brought down from California, which over time became a witness to the turbulent sea. This gives its inhabitants a distinctive character, which is not lost on them.
After the Pacific War (1879-1883) involving Bolivia, Chile and Peru, Pisagua became part of Chilean territory. This brutal war, which still causes serious geopolitical tension with the neighbouring countries (Bolivia and Peru), not only whetted Chile’s appetite for territorial expansion, but it also made Pisagua the perfect setting for a series of military manoeuvres to show off the might of the Chilean army.
Jazz Pampa, Tarapacá region, Chile. Image credit: Catalina González.
That's why, when we step back to try and take in the whole panorama, the first sensation that runs through our bodies is that of facing a Pisagua which is in the midst of sheer abandonment. And this is of course highly evident, since the State of Chile has occupied Pisagua in order to show that the borders themselves are spaces for each nation to symbolise, precisely, the extent of their property in a given territory. Flags and border posts are not enough. Here, the border is more than just an indication of nationality – it also suggests the hunger for expanding territory.
With these images in mind, of a Pisagua as a completely militarised border which, even so, is linked to those other stories where the desert plays a central role, the visual artist Catalina González has set about investigating the traces left behind by the military trials. Paradoxically, these trials mirror the pre-Columbian vestiges found in the Tarapaca desert. Indeed, the geoglyphs and petroglyphs of this region’s ancient inhabitants have nothing to do with these images, which reveal more explicitly the destruction of landscapes as a means of intimidating that neighbour who still decries a stupid war and its ongoing effects.
Jazz Pampa, Tarapacá region, Chile. Image credit: Catalina González.
But Catalina González also tries to confuse us with these images that she has gathered. She not only appeals to the concept of 'memory' via photography, but she also focuses on the site’s geographical dimensions. Furthermore, her tour of these areas goes on to denounce the remnants left behind by a military power in its attempts to extend the border, engaging in the kind of war games that nobody wants to play anymore.
These traces are like footprints crossing this desert, a place so heavily exploited by the destructive whirlwind of the mining industry. They cross over with other footprints which reveal people’s unease at the military interventions, and which also raise doubts about Chile’s handling of its natural environment. “Trace” is seemingly the most accurate word to define Pisagua, a place which has also been singled out by various authoritarian governments throughout the history of a Chile as a prison for dumping those with non-conformist views. Essentially, the traces of Pisagua, as documented by Catalina Gonzalez, show a desert increasingly exposed to symbols and images which mark other territories.
Jazz Pampa, Tarapacá region, Chile. Image credit: Catalina González.
