Epilogue

The biggest event of the last few days is Bolivia is the Waygoer’s stomach virus. It prevents us from seeing the Aymara wish-granting ritual on top of the Cerro Carvalio above the lake Titicaca, but I try to make the best of it and sit him down for a few hours of interviews, which will hopefully provide me with a meaningful soundtrack to the Waygoer’s adventures.

There is enough time for a daytrip to the remains of the capital of the ancient civilization of Tihuanaku. The most dominant pre-Inca empire in South America, lasting for over 1,500 years, it’s demise has been estimated to have taken place in a single generation.

The Waygoer isn’t particularly impressed with the ruins, but I find some rather interesting faces and gates that keep me occupied well beyond his initial hint that we should go back.

Finally we head back on a local bus, while I observe that if the locals were as efficient in everything as they are in making sure that the buses are full or in exiting them as soon as possible, regardless of how far back they’ve had to sit, this would be a very well organized and rich country. Alas, they’ve specialized in the bus efficiency business and don’t seem to care so much about other ways to make their lives more pleasant, so I accept things for what they are and exit last.

It’s been a long and tiring journey. I won’t know if I have good material for a short documentary until I start editing in New York, but I certainly feel I’ve already learned much. I’ve seen the ways of the Waygoer, I’ve met quite a few of the global nomads who cross paths with him. I’ve been able to feel the excitement and the desperation of their rootlessness and constant quest to find something more interesting and exciting.

In some ways I’ve confirmed for myself that it’s better to stick to one place and to one thing and try to make it work. And I think that’s what I’ve done on this journey – I’ve stuck with it. So despite that I didn’t get any real sense of additional freedom, that I’m unsure if this project will really work, the trip to Bolivia has given me a lot of material, so now I have to find the gems, just like the miners in Potosi.

Another thing that made this trip unique and invaluable for me has been sharing it with you, my friends, and getting your reactions. That has made every moment on the road a little more interesting and significant. In some ways it’s helped me see and appreciate the journey in a completely different way. Through the prism of sharing the experience, the bad moments were just as interesting and important as the good ones and I managed to see things with a lot less internal judgment. Now if I can hold on to that feeling, then the next journey has already begun.

The Face of Hate

I get into Sucre well after dark. I hope to find the Waygoer quickly, but first I find a room for the night. Then I head over the central square looking for the Plaza hotel, where the Waygoer is staying. It should be easy, but somehow I walk right past it and make a full circle of the square. After I ask a couple of people I finally get to the correct side of the plaza.

In that moment I see a familiar face. It takes me a second but I realize it’s the French girl sitting across the aisle from me on the bus to Potosi three days ago. We’d only exchanged a word or two, but I say hi anyway. She smiles and tells me that her boyfriend and she are having dinner at a nearby restaurant together with my friends. I ask her if she means the Waygoer and Alex, and she nods yes. Apparently they met up in Sucre and had been hanging out while I was in Potosi.

The Waygoer is amazed when I walk through the door. Sabrina walks in right after me and gives away my mysterious appearance. Still, the guys are happy to see me and we enjoy our dinner.

The Waygoer makes it an early night, while Alex, Sabrina, Damien and I all go for a nightcap at a busy bar. The conversation jumps from Brazilian voodoo rituals to theater to antibiotics – all the topics important to the average backpacker – until Sabrina realizes she’s a bit drunk and Damien takes her home. It’s been a long day for me as well, starting in the darkness of the mines and ending in the most European of Bolivia’s cities, so I happily go to sleep.

I take the next day off, with the only accomplishment buying tickets for the 12-hour night bus to La Paz for the following day.

On the morning before the trek back to La Paz we decide to visit a village 60km away from Sucre, known for its textiles. We meet up at the plaza where I find out that Alex is again having a miserable time and won’t be joining us. Meanwhile, the Waygoer has made an acquaintance of three 10-year-old shoeshine boys who tell him they don’t have money for school and that’s why they prefer to work the street.

Sabrina and the Waygoer decide to take them to a bookstore and buy them some pencils and notebooks. I film, as the boys’ faces remain completely unchanged throughout the whole interaction.

It’s midmorning when we arrive, having taken a taxi from the city. The village is hot and dusty, its streets lined up on a grid. The Waygoer and I split from our small group and go looking for good photos. The light is quite bad, but there are some interesting people and curious kids who catch the Waygoer’s eye.

We meet up with Sabrina and Damien at the local school where outside of the fence they are talking to a small kid. The Waygoer takes a few pictures and soon half of the school is at the fence, trying to attract his attention. In 5 minutes, a couple of 10-year-old troublemakers also show up and start spitting at the Waygoer and trying to stab him with plastic knives through the fence. They are yelling “gringos, gringos” and soon the schoolyard turns into a mob scene. We make our timely exit. For the first time here, I feel completely alien.

We spend another half hour walking around and see an angry old man wearing a world war I helmet, a cowboy herding donkeys who demands the Waygoer pay him for taking his picture and a few women weaving rugs.

We’re exhausted and ready to head back to Sucre, so we hop into the taxi. As it rounds the main square I suddenly see something that makes me jump out of the car. On the south side of the plaza, obscured by some trees is a 20-foot statue. It’s an Indian man wearing the traditional hat of the village, a knitted replica of the ancient Spanish helmets. The expression on the statue’s face is vicious, his eyes red with rage. One hand is raising a shiv, while the other is holding a crimson red heart. In his feet, the body of a dead Spanish soldier, rifle at his side, a gaping red hole in his chest. Three young Bolivian girls are looking at the statue with a look of horror mixed with awe.

I spend a good ten minutes filming and wondering what feelings would possess the locals to erect a statue of such violence and rage in the middle of their village. Damien yells at me – I think everyone is ready to get out of here.

Once we’re back in Sucre, we grab a late lunch, retire for a short siesta and then head to the bus stop where the all-night trip is waiting for us. It’s the most luxurious bus available, the seats converting to beds, so I have high hopes of reading, but they are soon dashed. First, a gang of small boys parades the aisle singing for money, then, Rambo comes on and finally I find out that there are no reading lights. It’s going to be a long night.

Black Peter, White Pedro

I am quite worried about going into the mines. The more I read about it, the less safe it seems, yet the more interesting. According to several websites I discover, these are some of the least ventilated, most prone to cave-ins mines in the world, using centuries-old methods of dynamiting the rock for ores. The average miner can retire and enjoy state benefits on the tenth year of work when his lungs are 90% blocked by silicosis and he’s got a year left to live…

Nevertheless, I venture into the offices of a mine tour recommended by the book and after some reassuring answers regarding safety equipment and guides, I decide to go the next morning.

I show up at 8am and am treated to a pleasant surprise. Across the street from the office is one of Potosi’s most famous colonial houses, now turned into a museum. I have decided not to go as they charge $25 for using video inside and the Waygoer isn’t with me anyway, so it’s unlikely that I would need the footage. However, I had read in the book about a very grotesque mask of a grinning Bacchus hanging over a passage between two inner courtyards. Made in 1865, its original meaning is unknown, but many believe it epitomizes the feelings of the local Indians toward the departing Spanish. At this point, I am resigned to not seeing it, but as I realize that I’m half an hour early and turn around, I see that the front gate of the house is open and the giant Bacchus is grinning straight into my face. I film away shamelessly.

Happy with my early morning fortune, I get into the bus with another 11 people and go to a house on the skirts of the Cerro Rico, where we’re outfitted into miners’ clothes, helmets and headlamps, split into two groups and introduced to our guides.

My group has three New Zealanders, two guys and a girl, and a tall Swiss kid, looking all of 15-years of age. Our guide is Pedro Blanco. I like him already. Since I am going into the Mouth of Hell, the local name for the mines, I’d absolutely want to be taken by a former miner called White Peter.

Pedro first shows us the Miners’ Market, where he introduces to the different types of dynamite: Bolivian – best quality, used to blow up rocks inside the mine; Argentinean – not as good, still useful; Peruvian – worst, only used for during Carnival or to wage vendetta. Then he let’s us sample the miners’ liquor of choice – alcohol potente – 96.75 pure ethanol sold in industrial plastic bottles. According to Pedro, it is the miners’ main currency in dealing with their patron saint – El Tio – the devil ruling over the Cerro Rico.

“If the production is good, we need to pay El Tio extra, so we drink more. If the production is bad, that means we haven’t honored him enough in the past, so then we need to drink even more than in the good times.”

El Tio is a relentless taskmaster, it seems.

After we buy dynamite to give to the miners as a present, we go to the food section of the market. There we buy bags of coca leaves and watch the guides eat a massive breakfast.

Since the mine is very contaminated, it’s impossible to eat inside. The solution is to eat a huge meal before and after going in and then chew a giant ball of coca leaves mixed in with leija, a paste moulded from the ashes of plants. This bola activates from the saliva and enhances the effect of the coca.

Finally, it’s time to go to the mine. The rickety bus is struggling up the mountain, when suddenly there’s a huge explosion somewhere beneath my seat. All the gringos on the bus jump with shock and look startled in my direction. There’s dust floating up from my bag of dynamite. No one seems hurt and when I look into the bag I refute the suspicion that one of my detonators has gone off. Soon we arrive at the entrance of the mine and when we get off the bus we see that one of the bus tires has literally exploded.

A man comes out of a dark shack near the entrance. His whole face seems deformed. There’s a huge ball of coca in his mouth, he has cotton in his nostrils and his eyes are blood-shot. It’s an awful sight. One of the Kiwis decides to have cigarette before going in, just in case the air inside isn’t as toxic as advertised.

We switch on our helmet lights and head into the mine. Even the entrance passage is completely different from what I imagined. It’s about 5’5” tall and there are cables and wood planks protruding everywhere. I’ve covered my mouth with two bandanas and already have real trouble breathing. I test the choice between not seeing what’s ahead and hitting my head repeatedly into the ceiling. Neither option seems viable. The other guys in the group have decided to forego breathing through the bandanas for now, so are forging ahead without much breathing problems.

I catch up with my group at the Mine Museum – a carved out, 15-meter niche inside one of the walls. At the entrance, sitting is El Tio himself – a red devil sculpture in human proportion holding a bottle of wine, a smoking cigarette in his mouth, his member protruding between his legs.

Inside the museum, there’s quite a bit of information in English, ranging from the history of black slaves living and dying in the mines to geological information on the different ores to the range of respiratory diseases plaguing the miners. Pedro asks us whether the English on the various brochures is good. It definitely is, but Pedro declines taking credit despite his excellent English. He tells us the materials were written by Western volunteers, spending time in the mines. When we ask him where he has learnt his fluent English, he replies “In the mine, talking to people like you.”

It’s time we move to the next section, though an even narrower passage. Small miners quickly come up from behind, pass me and then disappear in the darkness. I’m really struggling as the temperature is rising. Finally we pause for a break. We spend the next half an hour at the intersection of several tunnels asking Pedro all kinds of questions about the life of the miners, the likelihood of making it rich, Bolivian politics and geology. I film the whole conversation despite the darkness. It’s really interesting to meet someone bright, knowledgeable and funny who has spent most of his life working in such terrible conditions

The tour continues and this time we’re going down to the lower levels. The only way to go through is to slide head first, stomach on the floor, back against the ceiling. I feel a shudder of claustrophobia, but push on, my hands smeared in a mystery liquid flowing down the walls. Thank God the Waygoer isn’t here, he wouldn’t have made it much past the entrance.

Suddenly there’s a roar through the mines. One thought goes through everybody’s mind – collapse! It’s momentary as we see the source of the rumble. It’s a big cart pushed by 4 miners long the rails.

When we get to the fourth level we run into a half naked man hammering into the rock. Pedro tells us that he’s making holes for the dynamite, but since the rock is very hard he can only make about 4 holes a day. The man is wearing no breathing protection and here the air is so thick with debris that the camera is completely covered with white powdery stuff. The smell of metal and various chemicals is overwhelming. We give the man some dynamite and coca leaves and move on to another small room where two guys are shoveling rocks and dust into a large drum.

One is called the Priest, while the other one is known by the name of his village. All miners have Quechua nicknames, Pedro tells us. His translates as pig-head, not because he’s stubborn but because he loves to eat.

We give the men some soda and start our ascent to the surface. On the way we see four men pushing a cart full of rocks up along the rails. In the dusty darkness their half-naked sweaty bodies sprung in incredible exertion seem inhuman. It’s as if the devil himself has given them super power in exchange for everything else. Pedro tells us that the cart weighs more than 2 tons.

As we crawl on all fours back up, I hear a strange noise behind me, followed by a yell. It seems some small rocks have dislodged from the ceiling and fallen onto the man crawling just after me. He’s unhurt, but everyone doubles the efforts to get out as soon as possible. The ascent lasts about 20 minutes and at the end I’m spent. I take up the tail of the group, gradually falling behind, as I can’t seem to catch my breath through the bandanas while bent over to try to protect my head. I just hope there are no intersecting tunnels ahead that could lead me away from the exit.

Finally, light! After half an hour of walking, my pulse nearing 200, I can see the end. Just before I step out into the light, a thunder shakes the whole mountain. Pedro turns around and smiles – that’s the dynamite. We run out.

Everybody is covered in dirt and trying to catch their breath. Some who had chosen not to cover their mouths are coughing profusely. The smoking Kiwi lights up another cigarette to clean out his lungs. I look at the front of my bandana and find a thick layer of dust, which would have been in my lungs otherwise. Exhausted and silent we take the bus down to the city where our dirty miner gear is immediately thrown into buckets of soap water.

Pedro offers a free tour of the mines in the afternoon, but there are no takers. It’s been an amazing experience, but it’s hard to imagine repeating it. We shake hands with our charismatic guide and split every which way. I head over to the hotel to take a shower, collect my bags and taxi to the bus terminal. It’s time to catch up with the Waygoer, but on the way to Sucre I can’t stop thinking about the souls trapped in the Mouth of Hell and the price they pay for their dreams.

Vale un Potosi

We’re still in the bus but I can sense that Potosi is a different place. The legend is that sometime in 1462 the Inca Huayna Capac made a fire in a place called Sumaj Orcko (Beautiful Mountain in Quechua). When the fire went out he had smelted a vein of silver. However, when he went to sleep he dreamt a voice that told him the silver is meant for someone else. He woke up and abandoned his find, calling the area Ppotojsi, Quechua for ruin. One hundred years later, the Spanish, after having found out about the silver, had built a city of 150,000 – the biggest in the Americas, rivaling Paris, London, and Sevilla with its riches. In Spain people still use the saying “worth a Potosi” to describe something invaluable.

As the taxi turns onto the main square, I see the truth in the legend. The facades of two beautiful cathedrals light up the darkness of the night. On the opposite side the majestic building of the Old Spanish mint, where the famous silver coins of Potosi were produced for the Spanish king. But there’s something else. As the cold night falls, the square is full of young people strolling, talking, laughing…

There’s life here beyond the drunkenness stupor of the Carnival in Oruro. Perhaps, the residents of Potosi haven’t forgotten that they live in what was once one of the greatest cities of Earth. Perhaps, the difficult life in the world’s highest altitude city has at least awarded them joy of life that is easy to sense.

Dominating the entire town is Cerro Rico, looming 800 meters above all the buildings. Once this was richest mountain in the world, providing countless treasures for the Spanish Empire. It’s estimated that the silver mined here was enough to fuel the Industrial Revolution in Europe and that it laid the foundations of the Western banking system. A single ship with Potosi silver, lost in the waters of Ecuador, was estimated to be worth $400 million when it was discovered in 1997… Another grim estimate puts the number of deaths in the mines at 8 million over 500 years.

The face of the mountain has nothing natural about it. There are all kinds of shapes and colors as if every square inch has been dug up and examined. Soon night falls, but a line of lights climbing to the top makes sure I don’t forget about the monster in the dark.

The three of us go to a restaurant, where the 4,200m altitude takes its final toll on the Waygoer. Barely breathing, he tries to charge his laptop in the restaurant’s plug. Something is not working, so the he starts puffing angrily, while the manager gets very riled up about not being asked permission. The Waygoer’s had it, so he gets up and leaves Alex and me to have our dinner.

The next time I see him is the following morning in his hotel room, packing his bags. The Waygoer is moving to lower altitudes. I’m not happy because I’m really taken with Potosi. I want to find out more about this place. So I decide to let the Waygoer and Alex move on to Sucre, 3 hours away and 1700m lower and stay on alone in Potosi.

North by Northeast

Severino knocks on the door at 4am. Everybody but Alex slowly gets up into the freezing darkness, flashlights illuminating the hallway every few seconds. We start early so we can cover the remaining few sights to the border with Chile and then turn back for the 7-hour drive back to Uyuni.

In the freezing twilight we see geysers at 5000m, a sand desert littered with giant stones as if in a Salvador Dali painting, a hot spring full of tourists on the edge of a giant volcano, a white lake full of flamingoes and a green lake full of arsenic. By the time we get to the border with Chile, the sun is out and I lean against the car and close my eyes. 

The two women from our car are leaving on a bus across the border, while Severino is driving the Waygoer and I back to collect Alex from the hostel and then on to Uyuni.

Alex is feeling better and has spent the morning talking to the children of the people working at the hostel. They have even given him some local grass to help with his ailments.

It’s a much nicer day, but we’re all tired out so we hardly speak. A 100km from our destination make a pit stop to change our flat tire. Of course, we’d given our spare away to the guys from the flipped jeep, so we wait by the side of the road for another Toyota to aid us. I help Severino with the tire change, while the Waygoer and Alex cuddle inside.

Once in Uyuni, we get on the Internet where I check for more details on the crash from the previous year. What I discover is quite disturbing. Since then there’s been another accident 7 months ago, when a Jeep flipped and killed another 3 people. I address a mental thank you to Severino and go back to the hotel. This adventure we were just on was a lot less safe than it seemed.

The next day at the bus station we run again into the injured guys from the desert. They have the 1000-mile stare and are trying to get on a 10-hour bus back to La Paz so they can go to their countries. The Mexican girl with the broken arm tells us that the worst injured of the group, the tall Englishman, will likely lose his hand. That’s a horrific price to pay for someone else’s mistake.

As we get on the bus for Potosi, a policeman enters and announces to all the passengers that he personally guarantees that the driver of the bus is 100% sober. Well, isn’t that good news!

The bus journey itself is a grueling 7 hours on a small dirt road over massive ravines, during which I first have a woman sitting next to me on a folding chair and then a man with a flute literally sleeping leaning over my seat. The highlight of the trip comes an hour outside of Potosi when we come up to a line of cars and buses stopped by the side of the road.

Up ahead there’s a muddy section with a bulldozer on one end and a stuck minibus on the other. It doesn’t look too good and the horror stories about buses stuck for hours we’ve been hearing all come to mind. Still, the presence of the bulldozer gives me some hope and sure enough, in 15 minutes the minibus is on its way. Of course, before our bus can get going, a white Nissan scurries past us only to get stuck as well. Luckily, it’s just a small car so three people push it away easily. Now it’s our turn. The bus creaks and lurches and for a second flirts with stopping in the most slippery section. The driver hits the gas and somehow we get to the other side. Applause, worthy of a plane-landing in the 60s, breaks out. Next stop Potosi.  

A Flickering Light

Fog, wind, rain and snow. The day begins in darkness at 6:30 and goes downhill from there. Each time we stop to see something interesting, we all dread getting out of the car. Pink flamingoes on blue-green lakes, a seven-colored mountain, a gigantic stone perched on a toe… it would be a tale from the Arabian Nights if it wasn’t 20F, blizzard conditions. 

We stop at a dismal looking hut by the side of a lake for lunch. As soon as we sit down to eat, a tall man in his twenties comes into the dining room, his hand in a bandage, his clothes dusty. He’s limping, while another guy is supporting him. It doesn’t look too serious, so we go back to picking through our lunch. Suddenly, two more people with injuries come into the hut – a girl near tears with a bandage on the hand, and a guy with what looks like road-rash on his face. Their clothes are as dusty as the tall man’s. They retreat into another room in the hut and a murmur rises among the two-dozen people in the dining room. A girl explains to us that a Jeep going in the opposite direction, from the Chilean Atacama desert to Uyuni, has overturned a kilometer away from the hut and these are the guys from that car. They were all sleeping when the driver attempted to cross dirt tracks at speed, flipping the SUV.

The three injured are quite dazed, while another uninjured girl is nearly hysterical, trying to convince the people running the hut to find a way to put them on a car to Uyuni, more than a day away, so they can get medical help. There’s a sense that there is no one taking care of the emergency. I think to the incident described in the book. In May 2008 two Jeeps collided on the Salar at high speed, bursting into flames, killing 5 Japanese, 6 Israelis, and 3 Bolivians. The Salar is a 10,000 sq. km flat surface with unlimited visibility. How could that happen? How could this?

Finally, other people get involved and a spare Jeep is found. Severino, our driver, helps make sure it’s functional, giving our spare tire and wiring our battery to theirs so they can start. I’m very happy he’s our driver. He’s careful, knowledgeable and helpful. I trust him.

The rest of the day is quite somber. Alex is hitting the height of his illness in the back seat, while the Waygoer seems to be in a world of his own thoughts. By the time we get to the Laguna Colorada, a beautiful crimson lake which can change color according to the wishes of the algae, the weather and the bad light have taken their toll as we film about 3 minutes and get back into the car. Our camp for the night is about 6-7km away, so we drive in at 3pm – a couple of hours ahead of schedule.

The morale in the camp is dismal. Everybody’s taken to their bed trying to be alone in a room with 6 beds next to each other. The Waygoer is eating up a book given to him in Uyuni by an American guy we met at a restaurant. The title is Marching Powder and is about a British man incarcerated at La Paz’s San Pedro prison for drug smuggling. The book describes the amazing community living inside the prison and the Brit’s career development as a prison tour guide for backpackers… Yes, that’s correct! A prison that can be visited on a tour led by inmates. The Waygoer and I are definitely going, once we’re back in La Paz…

I’m sitting on my bed, freezing. I’m worried about the Waygoer film. I’m shooting a lot less material than I thought I would, and even more importantly I need to get the Waygoer to talk more about the things that are important to him. What is all this traveling about? What does he seek? How can I learn more from his photographs? What is his connection to his subjects?

I get up, put on all three sweaters I have brought and go out. I start marching toward the Laguna Colorada, several kilometers away. Various tourists are loitering in the vicinity of the hostel, but I walk fast right past them. The surface is red, littered with large rocks. It’s eerily reminiscent of the photos I’ve seen from Mars.

My thoughts swirl around how to make the best of the remaining 2 weeks and try to see some story emerging. I’m also thinking about the Waygoer. Some of his negative disposition in the last few days is certainly attributable to the altitude, but I need to find a way through.

Before I know it, I’m past the road sign for the turn off to the hostel. I look back, I’m quite far now, but the lake is shimmering in opposite direction, deceitfully close. I notice three figures in the distance. Perhaps, others are trying to get to it as well. I walk for the next half an hour wondering if the three silhouettes are people or not.

Finally, I get close and we pass each other. Now, I’m the furthest one out. The lake seems oh-so-close, but the further I walk the darker it gets, and the less I can judge how much is left. The ground gets softer and there are no longer car tracks in the gravel. I look back again. The lights of the hostel are quite visible in the twilight and reassure me to go on.

I walk for the better part of another hour and start wondering if what looks like a mere 50 meters to the shore could in fact be a kilometer or more. The mountains surrounding the valley are no help. From here they look so close, I can almost touch them, but I know that the ones behind me are hours away. It’s getting really dark now. I’ve descended a couple of ridges and the reassuring lights of the hostel are no longer visible. I am completely alone in middle of the half-light of the giant mountain valley.

I count to 500 to see if the lake would give me a sense that I am really getting closer… I can’t tell, so I do another count to 100. It’s completely dark now. Probably it’s a good idea to turn back, so I do.

I can’t see the hostel, but the fading light in the western sky silhouettes the mountains roughly in its direction, so I aim toward them. In twenty minutes I finally see the lights. Thank god, but they are far… I see nothing on the ground, so walking is a strain at best. What’s worse is that I have no sense of progress. There are no visible landmarks to tell me that I’m moving in the right direction – for all I know I’m standing in one place moving my feet, getting tired.

I fight off the strange irrational feeling by looking at the sky. Stars are beginning to appear and this alien Southern sky takes my thoughts away from my insignificance, isolated in the darkness. At least I’m warm and I know where I’m going. Then I remember that at some point they will turn off the electricity at the hostel leaving me without any orientation. I try to remember the sky, although big clouds are creeping in, concealing the stars.

Suddenly, the lights of the hostel flicker and go out… I didn’t expect it so soon. Now it’s just me and the dark valley around… I focus on the ridge of the mountains ahead and on taking each additional step. The good news is that I’m not at all out of breath, but at this distance I wonder how off a small error in direction could send me – 1km? 5? Could I sleep in the desert? How cold does it get? What if it snows?

I almost trip over a small ridge, but when I get over it the lights flicker back on. So that was it – I must have been between ridges and that’s why I wasn’t seeing anything. At the same moment I notice the moon just over a peak. It’s a faint sliver of light, but against the twilight sky it looks like a whole planet. It seems as if I can walk toward it and reach it. I resist the temptation, but for a moment I feel its very powerful attraction -- like falling into an abyss. That must be the sheltering sky Paul Bowles writes about…

A different light is moving back and forth in front of the hostel. Perhaps it’s a car. Could they be looking for me already? I don’t let the thought bother me yet. It’s reassuring every time the headlights flash into my eyes and I wonder if they can see me. I measure the angle between the two buildings of the compound with my fingers just to get a sense if I’m making progress.

Finally, I think I’m getting closer, but the ground becomes quite difficult to walk on and I’m tripping all over the place. By the time can see people’s shadows in the windows, I’m sweating. At long last I enter a building, but it doesn’t quite look like our hostel. I see other tourists sitting having dinner, and no one is particularly concerned about me. I wonder how far from our building I’ve strayed and get back out into the darkness.

Just a few meters to the side and I recognize the right building. Thank god. A jeep is getting out of the parking area and as soon as the driver sees me, it stops. Severino jumps out. The look of relief on his face is telling. I really must have given him a scare. He invites me straight to his room where Leonidas heats up some lasagna for me and the two look over me as I eat. I try to explain that I was trying to go to the lake when it got dark sooner than I expected, but Severino just shakes his head – loco!

I go to the room where the guys aren’t sure whether to laugh with me or scold me. I guess they figure I had to get some demons out of me. We don’t talk much as we all try to put the day behind, the electricity flickering out in the darkness of the high desert.

The King of the High Desert

The streets of Uyuni are deserted at 8am. Somewhere off into the distance I can hear singing. It sounds like many deep voices chanting from different directions over the dusty desert. Soon I see the source. Three different platoons from the nearby base are on their morning run covering three different routes around the city. The soldiers don’t look particularly disciplined or their lines well formed, but they’re all smiling and enjoying themselves. If the Waygoer could see them, he’d have a heart attack, as he can barely walk in the thin air. Thankfully, he’s still in his room.

A 3-year-old kid is beside himself with joy. Every time the soldiers take a turn by his corner he jumps up and down and sings along, his face radiating with a huge smile. I feel this is going to be a good day.

At breakfast, Alex announces that he has a fever and is thinking about not going with us. I suggest that if he wants, we can postpone for a day or two, but that prospect seems even less agreeable to him, so he decides to proceed on, fever and all.

When we get to the tour office we meet our guide and driver Severino and our cook Leonidas. Alex and I share a look of disbelief at the suggestion that the legendary Spartan king has been reincarnated into the body of a small Bolivian woman. Then we’re introduced to the other two female members of our small expedition – a 45-year old Irish teacher and a 30-some Canadian from Winnipeg.

The first stop is just out of town at the train cemetery. It’s a strange place, this. Two columns of rusting train cars and locomotives lined up in the desolate plain – half a mile of twisted metal against the blindingly blue sky. Severino tells us that among the wreck is a train that was robbed by Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, but he has no idea which one exactly. There are 6-7 other Land-Cruisers with sightseers parked on the side. I guess we’ll have company throughout.

The next attraction is the Salar. An ocean of white salt stretching as far as the eye can see. It rained heavily overnight, so there are patches of standing water over the white ground, perfectly reflecting the endless sky. In certain spots, small pyramids of salt are lined up. A man is digging sand in one place, his bicycle to the side. We film him as he threateningly waves his pickaxe. 

We’re speeding along the Salar, racing other Jeeps. The white surface patched by hexagonal tiles is flying by. Far away mountains shimmer in the heat. I’ve taken over the car stereo, so Faithless is blasting us further into the sea of white. I take the camera out of the window for a low shot of the tires hurtling over the magical surface. In seconds the lens is covered with liquid salt drops. Good thing I got an extra filter.

Finally, we approach our lunch site, Incahuasi, a lonely island of coral in the middle of the salt sea. Giant cacti populate this odd place. Apparently it used to be a stop on the ancient trade route across the Salar. Some of the cacti are well over 1,000 years old. The Waygoer is very excited as he starts experimenting with his camera on the fantastic white surface stretching to the horizon. He even decides to do a few flying photos which soon exhausts him completely.

After another two hours of dirt roads out of the Salar, interrupted by the occasional sighting of llamas and their more elegant cousins, the vicuñas, both the Waygoer and Alex are beat. We’re finally approaching our shelter for the night – an alojamento in a small village on a llama-filled, windswept plane between two large hills. It’s worth mentioning that even the small hills around here are all well over 4,000m in altitude.

It’s 5pm and the light is just becoming the magical glow of the setting sun, so the Waygoer grabs his camera and excitedly takes me to take photos of the llamas of the green valley. The wind is brutal and the combination of dust and sunscreen running down my face completely blind me. I suffer it through as the Waygoer has suddenly found superhuman strength chasing his dream shot of a small child with a llama.

The sun is just about to fade behind a hill and I have only 2-3 minutes of tape in the camera, so I decide to go to a nearby playground and do a few pull-ups. As I enter, I see a beautiful shot – three small boys are standing in a sunny spot against a beige wall talking, a dog sitting next to them. Their discussion is extremely lively and they don’t even notice me. I shoot all 3 minutes remaining on the tape and then yell over to the Waygoer to come quick. By the time he struts over, the light is gone and he’s missed the moment.

I put the camera on the ground and do my pull-ups. One of kids finally notices us and comes over determined to show off his abilities. After I laughingly refuse to hoist him onto the 8-foot goal-frame lest he falls and breaks a leg, he gets his two small accomplices to push him up until he almost succeeds to grab onto the crossbar, then he promptly lets go and falls with a thud.

No damage is done and he jumps to his feet with renewed enthusiasm. I decide to channel his energy into something the Waygoer might appreciate and manage to convince to him to go and get a photo together with a llama. That’s when all hell breaks loose. Children, dog and Waygoer are all running after frightened llamas, which have probably never experienced such an assault on their serenity. I am breathless with laughter as I try to explain to the kids that they need to approach the animals slowly and be in the same shot as the llama. It doesn’t help – chasing the frantic beasts is too much fun when you’re five and the whole mountain belongs to you.

It’s dark and cold now, so we retreat to a sausage and French fries dinner, an hour of electricity, and a freezing bedroom for three with no key. It’s been a beautiful day.

Things to Do in Uyuni When You Are Bored

The morning finds us looking around for a decent three day tour of the southwest corner of Bolivia – the salt flats (Salar de Uyuni), the colored lakes, and the volcanoes. The book has us weary of the mixed reports and poor safety record of the tour companies, so I keep insisting on talking to slightly more expensive companies with good reviews in the book. Unfortunately, all those are closed so we get in a random other office.

A middle-aged woman begins giving us a tired old routine of the tour itinerary in Spanish. Midway, a forty-year-old Bolivian man enters the office and explains everything again in what he calls  “100% English from Miami”. It’s all pretty clear until we try to find out the price for a group of 4 as opposed to the usual group of 6 stuffed in a Toyota Land-Cruiser for 3 days of 8 hours driving each.

The next half an hour is spent looking at the man and woman tossing a calculator between them and murmuring in Spanish something about the number of people in the car, including or not including a cook and an English speaking guide, prices in dollars, prices in bolivianos. Even Alex with his very good Spanish is completely baffled. I’m thinking that if these people can’t figure out the answer to such a simple question, what’s the likelihood they know how to keep us safe and fed in the desert for 3 days. We let them figure it out by themselves and get out with no intention of returning.

After a bad lunch and some football on TV, we try our luck again. This time a few of the recommended tours are open. After an hour of listening to the same itinerary 5 times over while trying to judge the reliability of different people solely by their words and expressions, we finally settle on one of the more expensive companies. The woman promises us that we’ll be 5 in the car, not the usual 6, and we’ll have a cook in addition to the guide. We pay up and start looking for an Internet cafe.

It appears there are a few things quite hard to come by in Uyuni, at the edge of the high desert – water, cash machines, electricity, and Internet connection chief among them. I spend half an hour sending one 5-word email and give up.

One thing, there’s an abundance of, is bad pizza, so when we find a restaurant with a decent Margarita we enjoy it as if it’s worth a Michelin star. For all we know this will be our last decent meal for the next 3 days. Tomorrow at 10am we’re off into the unknown. 

3:10 to Uyuni

The night before, Alex was told that getting tickets for the Uyuni train would be very difficult as everyone tries to get out from Oruro on the Tuesday after Carnival. I’m a bit disbelieving, but when he shows up at breakfast and tells me that we’re number 180 on a line of hundreds of people, I’m not that surprised. Hopefully we can make it.

I go to the Wi-Fi hotel only to find that the wireless router is working great, but not the Internet going to it. Someone should come by to fix in the next 2-3 days. I head to the train station to take a turn waiting. 15 minutes later I’ve got 3 tickets for the 3:30pm to Uyuni. I guess I’m not having such a bad day.

Not the same can be said of the Waygoer. Since the big meal the other night, he’s been breathing heavily and complaining that he can’t handle the altitude. We spend a good half hour unsuccessfully scouring the local market for coca leaves before some kind strangers at my hotel offer him some altitude sickness pills.

Uyuni is the place Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid we trying to make when they were ambushed by the posse sent for them. We have better luck as we get in a rather nice train-car, ABBA blearing from the TV. It’s definitely one the cleanest things in Bolivia, this train.

Seven hours of thunderstorms, mountains, lakes, rainbows and a banana later we reach our destination. The book points the way to a decent hotel and hence we go.  On the 4 short blocks there we see crowds in front a couple of live music bars. Dogs and people are relieving themselves on the sidewalk. Otherwise the town is desolate and more reminiscent of Western movies than anything else.

My room is illuminated by distant lightning and filled with the sound of the nearby celebration of the end of Carnival. I ignore all, and quickly fall asleep.

Fight for the Right to Party

It’s the morning of the second day of the Oruro Carnival and celebrations have been going on all night. As I sit for breakfast the receptionist comes over to the restaurant to let me know that someone is looking for me. I assume it’s the Waygoer so I’m surprised to see a stranger. He’s about forty, slim, with pepper colored beard. He introduces himself as Alex, the Waygoer’s friend. Now, I remember the Waygoer mentioning something about a French guy he met in Ushuaia who had plans to join us in Bolivia. Soon after the Waygoer appears and the two of them head out to photograph drunken people passed out in the streets.

Around lunch, they reappear in the lobby of my hotel somewhat shaken. The Waygoer tells me I should have been out filming with them as they almost got into a fight. Apparently they’d been filming a sleeping drunk when a group of 4-5 people led by a woman started shouting at them to stop photographing. The woman even tried to pull the Waygoer’s camera and the other people commanded them to erase the pictures. Only Alex’s decent Spanish managed to get them out of a serious jam.

The incident hasn’t diminished the Waygoer’s appetite for festival shots, so we go out into the crowds again. In the middle of shooting a marching band, the Waygoer again gets into trouble. An old skinny trumpet player gets irate at having his picture taken and goes after the Waygoer and his camera. Luckily the trumpeter’s quite drunk, so soon he stumbles away.

We decide to go for lunch. There’s three recommended restaurants in the whole town and we’ve already been to two. So we take Alex to the third. Surprisingly there’s a line outside. The Waygoer protests, but we ignore him and wait just five minutes to sit down. A middle-aged Bolivian appears out of nowhere and introduces himself as Roberto, the owner. In minutes, he gives us full account of his life, his 10 children from 5 wives, the places he’s worked at around the world, the celebrities whose personal chef he’s been. He refuses to give us menus and orders a lamb dish for all of us. It’s quite marvelous. The portions are huge but the three of us finish everything. Afterward he comes around with a bottle of homemade mastika, the recipe learnt in Greece. The bliss is complete.

Stumbling out, we split up for an afternoon siesta. I miraculously find Wi-Fi and spend the next three hours raptly catching up with the world. I’m so disoriented when I get back out into the streets that I decide to flank the parade and avoid being soaked again.

Little do I know that I’m setting myself up for a fall – instead of finding a safe way through, I come up to a tall wire fence and find myself walking underneath 6-storey high stands full of people throwing things at each other. The stench is almost unbearable but I forge on. Finally an opening! But it’s only a way into the thickest part of the parade, not a way out. In the next half an hour I push my way through thousands of people filling five blocks, many of which trying to drench me in water, foam or both. By the time I make it to the Waygoer’s house, I’m a complete mess, so after an hour I head back to sleep.

Devils Dancing

I oversleep, so it’s nearly 11 when the Waygoer and I head over to the parade route, camera protected by a raincover. We’ve decided not buy stand seats, so we have no idea what to expect. Perhaps we won’t even be allowed to view the festival. The route is a loop of the nicer section of the town and the locals have built up 4-level stands all along it in the two days prior. There’s just a small opening for people to cross the road, which is guarded by policemen.

The Waygoer shamelessly eases past the cops and starts walking down the route facing the oncoming bands, masked monsters and dancers with short skirts. I follow him. Kids with water guns and white spray cans fill the stands, but we waive the cameras and get through ok. We pick a spot halfway down the block and begin shooting the strange and boisterous procession. First a car covered in copper plates and other shiny trinkets passes by, followed by a group of about 20 dancing people in full diabolical costumes of all colors, next a group of a couple dozen Rockette-like girls come strutting their stuff, and finally a 40-strong brass band plows through hitting on all cylinders.

This spectacle repeats itself every 10 minutes and while the costumes change a little bit from outfit to outfit, the pattern and the music don’t. The Waygoer has taken a particular shining to a group of dancing men without masks – just black face makeup and grapes hanging from their hats. He gets into their faces with the camera and then runs over to a shady spot to see if he’s got a good shot, focus and exposure. The light is harsh – half the street is bathed in sunshine, while the other is in shade and the Waygoer isn’t happy with the results he’s getting.

In between the different outfits coming through, there’s a ten minute long lull during which all hell breaks loose in the stands. Boys are destroying the passing girls with water and foam, while girls are doing the same to the passing boys. Every once in a while a major skirmish erupts between opposing stands. Everyone is involved – from 3 to 40 year olds. The first 2 hours are quite amusing. After that it becomes very annoying. I can’t believe there’s going to be 3 days of this…

The Waygoer and I head to lunch and on the way back some Irish drunk decides that he doesn’t care if we have cameras or not and sprays us. I nearly lose it, but decide to retaliate with water bombs made by a nearby kid. The Irish coward ducks behind an old Bolivian woman and I almost plaster her instead.

We spend the afternoon doing more filming and ducking. I’m growing quite irate as I’m having a hard time working the camera through the raincover and getting sick of people sneaking up and soaking me. This whole festival is beginning to appear to me as a big excuse for unruly behavior.

Toward the evening we climb onto the high end of the town near the church where the parade route ends. We are beginning to see many very drunk people, some passed out, others relieving themselves wherever they see fit. In the church itself, however, the sight is chilling. As the bands end their parading, each of the 40 men enters the cathedral, gets on his knees and crawls 20 meters to the altar to pray.

We mingle a bit in the nearby covered market. I feel a tinge of nostalgia for Barcelona’s boqueria, but enjoy the beauty of the dilapidated and much poorer Oruro equivalent anyway. From here, we return to the Waygoer’s lodgings to find Pedro alone. Apparently, Jesus has left for La Paz and the two French girls are enjoying the mayhem in town. We grab the young Argentinean and go to the only vegetarian restaurant in town where I have a samosa and refuse some filtered water.

Finally, I get to the hotel. I’m exhausted, annoyed and a bit frustrated. I don’t think our footage is particularly good or exciting. In the best case, it’s similar to the tomato-fights in Spain on the travel channel. I find that the real story behind the Diablada is eluding me. The Waygoer, on the other hand, loves mingling with the crowds and taking shots of painted faces, old Altiplano women and babies, and is more concerned with the complicated functions of his camera than with understanding what makes these people tick… I’m going to have to sleep my bad mood off and see what tomorrow brings.

Backpacker's Paradise

The morning finds us in even more desperate straits than the evening. There’s either no rooms, or horrible dens at more than $50 a day. The Waygoer isn’t happy. The people in my hotel have promised to look for an extra bed to put in my room, but soon we’re told that they can’t find one.

We drift around the streets. Spectator stands are going up everywhere and there’s a buzz everywhere. Little kids ominously walk around carrying water-guns bigger than their bodies. In one hostel the Waygoer spots an opportunity and tries to convince a couple of sleepy Koreans to move to a triple room with him. When we come back half an hour later the answer is no, so we’re back to square one.

As we pass by the train station, a train pulls up and a huge crowd fills the building. The Waygoer starts talking to the backpackers to see if he can find roommates. He’s never done this before, but these are desperate times. The first few people approached all have reservations. Finally a young Argentinean seems inclined to look for a room together with us. As we talk to him, a woman appears and asks if we’re looking for a place to stay. We say yes, and soon we’re in a private house next to the train station.

The one-storey house is spacious and has an inner courtyard. Immediately left of the entrance gate there’s a shack with two beds in it. Next we proceed to the main section of the building. The living room is painted green and has several pieces of antiquated furniture. Little curious faces appear from the doorways. We are shown into another room cramped with a single and a double bed. The woman points at the larger bed and says matrimonio. The price is $10 per night and the Waygoer seems sold.

Our new Argentinean friend, Pedro, says that there are 4 more people with him from the train, so we head back to the station to get them. Once there, we’re introduces to Magalie and Loren from France as well as Jesus from Colombia. The two girls are about 25, while Jesus us closer to 40. Everyone is very friendly and excited to have finally gotten off the 19-hour train from Villazon, Argentina. Another woman shows up and offers her house at $6 per night, so we all head over the train tracks 5 blocks further from the station. We’re joined by 4 others – a bit less friendly Argentineans.

This house is two-storey and also has an inner courtyard lined up with laundry. The unfriendly Argentineans immediately go upstairs and claim a room with 4 beds in it, while our group is left to look at a barren room downstairs and wonder where 5 beds could possibly appear from.  Soon the mystery is revealed and the hosts drag out several bed pieces and ancient looking mattresses and assemble four cots. The fifth will be put together later we’re told.

The Waygoer is a bit ambivalent, but the company seems pleasant enough so he decides to stay. We head over to my hotel to grab his bag, where I mic him up and start shooting. We walk through the streets and as I am busing myself with focus, exposure, framing and sound levels I get hit three times by water bombs thrown by what seems to be hit-and-run teenage girls. This already looks like it’s going to be a long festival.

After leaving the Waygoer’s bag in his new house, we wonder around filming people and preparations. On one corner someone taps my shoulder. It’s Loren. The Waygoer’s roommates have found us and we all decide to go to get coffee at someplace called Café Dali. On the way we find locals with buckets of waters ambushing the streets. The Waygoer and I wave our cameras and are largely spared, but our friends are not so lucky. By the time we get to the café the only dry thing on them are their shoes.  

The party is starting to swing. There’re music bands playing in the streets, crowds dancing, loitering. The Waygoer and I part with the roommates after agreeing to meet up at 9pm at the train station and head to a decent dinner. By then it’s dark and the water spraying has ceased as the night temperatures drop into the 40s. The housemates have had a nap and are ready to eat, so we find a fried chicken joint that sells beer and sit down among the other backpackers.

The Waygoer is just about describing his adventures in Antarctica to the two French girls, when he spots two women on the next table wearing the same jacket he was handed out on the Antarctic cruise. They discuss the latest cruise that has gotten stuck on the ice, while I talk to Jesus and Pedro about New York.

After dinner we head back to Café Dali, which has been transformed into amateur cover rock-band bar. We pick the room furthest from the singing and caipirinhas and mojitos are ordered around the table. I order a Corona as I observe the swamp green particles swimming in the mojitos ordered by the Waygoer and Jesus. They decide to risk offending the bartender and request a swap for caipirinhas.

The room is covered in interesting South American movie posters. The one across from me is Bolivian – Dependencia Sexual – the Bolivian entry for the 2004 Oscars. We look at the salt flat pictures on Loren’s camera, have another drink and close the bar a shade before midnight. Need to sleep – tomorrow at 8am the Diablada begins.

Through the Waygoer's Lens

Antarctica:

Buenos Aires:

Travels with a Waygoer

The Waygoer jumps out of nowhere next to me in the cafeteria of the hotel. I'm very happy to see him, but I think the contrary is even more so.

"In all these years, never have I come across anyone I know somewhere in the world. It's incredible, you just have no idea how that feels..."

I give him the keys to my room so he can take a shower and soon we're walking around La Paz with an Italian and an Argentinean he met on the bus. I feel a bit like a local after 4 nights in La Paz and show them the sights -- the Witches Market, the University, the best change bureau, the place I had my phone stolen...

Suddenly an American girl stops me on the street and asks if any of us smokes pot. The guys are kinda sorta shaking their heads, trying to understand what she wants. Then she announces that she she's trying to get rid of some marijuana left over from a friend. The Waygoer asks her what quantity and what quality. The unusually precise answers he gets, convince us that the girl's story must be bogus. We politely decline and walk over to a restaurant for lunch.

The Waygoer's story of the brutal 45-hour bus journey from Buenos Aires pretty much settles the evening plans and everyone retreats to their chambers early. I notice a worrying group of Brits drinking a bottle of rum in the lobby. Worse is that their rooms are next to mine. Sure enough my suspicions are confirmed at 4am when the drunk tourists make a big ruckus outside my door. For a second before fully waking, I feel right at home in Soho. This time though, revenge is mine as the Waygoer shows up at 8am and we discuss our plans as loudly as we can right outside their doors.

We decide to take the 2pm bus to Oruro, so we get to the the bus station a little before, tickets in hand, gear on the back. We watch cute little kinds clean out the garbage of recyclable materials and then get on the bus.

The scheduled duration of our trip is 3 hours. However, just as we get comfortable on the half-empty bus finally departing La Paz, it stops on the outskirts and the driver spends an hour looking for more people going to Oruro. So in addition to spending an extra hour in the decrepit vehicle we’re now completely cramped. Somehow I manage to sleep for an hour and spend the rest of the trip wondering how the Waygoer could bear a 45-hour torture like this.

When the bus finally gets to Oruro it’s dusk and starting to rain. We grab a taxi to the hotel and I marvel at the traffic. Oruro is a city of 250,000 people and has a reasonable number of cars. What it doesn’t have are traffic lights. Not one! So cars get through intersections any way they can – honking, lurching forward, blocking other cars – an ordeal, which usually consumes about 5 minutes each time. So it takes us almost an hour to get through the 10 blocks to the hotel.

No one at the reception speaks English, but I still mange to find out that there’s no such thing as Wi-Fi here. As we go up to the room, the bellboy is very concerned that the Waygoer doesn’t have a reservation at the overbooked hotel, yet is coming up to the room. Once we reassure him that the Waygoer will find a room in another hotel, he actually calls up the front desk to report the situation. I’m quite annoyed, but let it go, as we have to start looking for a place for the Waygoer.  The next hour as the rain escalates, we go through some of the shadiest hostels and depressing lodgings I’ve seen in my life.

The Waygoer is particularly concerned that the prices for the festival weekend in these horribly looking alojamentos are completely unreasonable and in most cases quoted only as doubles and triples. Apparently there are no single rooms in this city. We give up the search for the night and head over to the one somewhat decent hotel where we negotiate down the price for the night and the Waygoer tries out half the beds in a quest for the hardest mattress available.

Mission accomplished, we go to dinner at the one restaurant recommended in my book. It’s not bad and we spend the evening arguing the good and bad sides of Bulgaria. I’m strongly in the positives with the Waygoer providing solid opposition. By the time we walk out of the restaurant, I’ve forgotten which part of the world I’m in.

We walk to my hotel in silence. Friday should be interesting, as we will most likely have to spend the day searching for a bed for the Waygoer and a Wi-Fi hub for me in a town filling to the brim with revelers whose New Year’s Eve, Christmas, Halloween and Easter all roll into one celebration – La Diablada.

New Beginning

Getting up at 7 in a place like this isn’t easy. Everything is still sleeping in the valley enveloped in fog. There’s one little bird, however, that’s taken on the job of being my alarm clock. It comes to a glass window and starts tapping. Tap-tap. There’s an open window if it should want to come in, but it just sits in front of the glass. Tap-tap. Roxana told me about these little birds. They knock on glass windows until they bleed and no one knows why or how to prevent it. Tap-tap. I get up.

It’s 7.40 by the time I drive off. 4 hours and 20 minutes should be enough to drive 100 miles, fill up on gas, and find the hotel in La Paz, where I need to return the car by 12pm. Halfway between the ranch and the village I run into stopped cars in the middle of the muddy track, people wandering about in confusion. I drive past to the edge of a small stream running across the road. A station-wagon, going in the opposite direction, has gotten stuck by trying to cross on the deeper side closer to the drop-off. This is not what I need!

People are scurrying around, putting large stones under the front tires, trying to lift up the front of the car. I suggest we just push the car backward – seems logical enough. They ignore me but at least stop trying to lift the car and after another 5 minutes of useless fussing about, we give it one big push. The hood feels like made of plastic under my hand and bends a bit, but the car easily gives back and the road is now free. 

There are no other cars this early in the morning, so I push the tires a bit, almost to a screech, on the foggy twisty road up. Every once in a while a strange shape jumps out of the fog. Sometimes it's a few stones piled on in a strange shape, sometimes it's a human being sitting motionless by the side of the road, wearing a traditional Bolivian poncho and hat, just looking at the passing cars.  The first time it happens it really startles me. Something very eerie about a small human shape on the side of the road in the middle of the foggy mountain pass.

It’s 9 when I get to the regional border. I’ve got only 100km to go. At the border checkpoint, the policeman asks about my little ticket with the regional stamps. I hand it over and he examines it. There’s no stamp from this particular checkpoint since no one bothered to stop me on the way in two days ago. Well, that’s my problem, isn’t it? He tells me to pull over and go over to the checkpoint booth. I have the same conversation with the plump officer there.

“Your last stamp is from Copacabana?”

“I know, when I came by here, no one stopped me, so I had no idea.”

“But you don’t have a stamp! I don’t know what we’re going to do. Give me your license.”

I hand over my NY State license. He peruses it with curiosity and shows it to the other officer in the booth.

“What is this? Do you have an international license?”

I trot over to the car and bring the $15 piece of paper from the NY AAA office.

“Aaah, now this is your license,” he says, flipping the pages.

They start talking and laughing, while I wonder what kind of torture they are devising to punish me for my crime. Finally, the plump cop (a sergeant perhaps) turns to me tells me something in Spanish that sounds like instructions. I don’t understand a word.

“You want me to pay? How much?”

He shakes his head laughing.

“You want me to go?”

Now both of them are laughing and shaking their heads. Then the plump one starts repeating and fresca and soda and pointing across the road. Finally, I get it! They want me to go and buy them a large bottle of lemonade from the stand across the street. I laugh with them now and head over. The damage is a dollar. The woman looks me up and down, then checks the 10 boliviano note I’ve given her against the light and promptly rejects it.  I look at it. What could she possibly not like about this particular note? She starts explaining, but I just hand her another, identically crumpled one and take the bottle of soda over to the grateful laughing policemen. As I get back into the car, one of them approaches me again and signals me to lower the window. What now? He smiles and starts asking me friendly questions.

“Is this your car?”

“How much is the guarantee?”

“How much is it per day?”

“Does it drive well?”

I answer all, he thanks me, wishes me good luck, shakes my hand and waves goodbye. I drive off.

Before I reach La Paz, I have another favorite movie experience. As I’m driving along, I see a school with a playground by the side of the road. I decide to stop because I can do a quick workout on the playground. There’re a couple of people milling about, but no one bothers me. Just as I am about to start my last set a couple of strange looking birds appear from nowhere. They look like seagulls, but their beaks are black and shorter than a seagull’s. They proceed to orbit me really low, emitting a very disturbing screech. I try to scare them off by pretending to throw stones at them. That only makes them more agitated and even attracts more birds. I decide not to wait around any more, quickly finish my set and head for the car. Just as I get in, I see the schoolteacher leading a class of small children onto the playground under the screeching birds…

Once in La Paz, I have a message from the Waygoer, written at the bus station in Buenos Aires just to let me know how close he was to not making it to Bolivia on time because of his visa. I shake my head and relax with a cup of coca tea. Tomorrow the Waygoer arrives and the journey starts again.