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.

Tres Amigos

In the morning I decide that I can't live at least without internet and grab the car keys for the arduous mud journey across the valley to the village. That's when I realize that I'm not the only one staying at the ranch. As I climb the path from the cabin to the car I meet two young guys who are looking in awe somewhere in the distance behind my back. I turn around and see that the clouds have cleared to reveal mount Illampu, towering 4,000m above the valley. We stare in silence for awhile, then we introduce and I offer to give them a ride to town. Nano and Alan thank me but say that they have to work in the morning, so I suggest we all go to the San Pedro cave in the afternoon. They say sure and we agree to meet later at their cabin.

In the whole village there's only one internet cafe with three computers. Luckily, I time my arrival well and find one free. An hour in the dark room before the glowing screen flies by like seconds and I head back to the ranch, though not before filming yet another entire Bolivian family, men, women and children, completely drunk at lunchtime... on a Monday no less.

I get to the boys' cabin where I meet the third amigo, Nico. We jump in the car. The guys are wearing shorts and flip-flops after consulting with me if we'll be doing any hiking. I say no, though I should know better. Nico calls shotgun and we set off in reverse up the steep ranch entrance so I can avoid doing yet another 5-point U-turn. All three are students at the University of Buenos Aires and have been traveling for the last 3 months, doing all kinds of odd jobs to finance their journey. They are very different from one another, yet it seems their personalities complement very well, as they should after three months of sleeping in the same room and spending almost every waking hour together. Alan is the serious one, Nico is the fun-loving mixer, while Nano is the jester. As we drive along the 6 mile dirt road to the cave, the guys shower me with questions about what I do and where I am from.

"Bulgaria."

"Yeah? I have a grandmother who's from Bulgaria," Nico gets excited. "I'm applying to become Bulgarian, and I promised her when I get my passport, I'll get a ticket for her and for me and we'll go there together."

I tell him he'll like it, while Nano asks about the girls in Bulgaria. He's been to Prague and likes the idea of going again to Eastern Europe. I joke that Nico should be able to tell him.

"Well, I don't like Nico so much," he quips, perhaps misunderstanding my words.

We talk a bit about the Waygoer.

"Is he a hippie?"

"How does he support himself?"

"Does he ever want to settle down?"

"Does he have a girlfriend?"

"How long has he been traveling?"

I tell them what I know and that the rest hopefully can be answered in the film. They seem excited: "Definitely send us a copy when you finish it." Well, I have at least three certain viewers. 

The road now hugs a very steep slope on the northern side of the valley and as we come around a bend we can see a large crescent all the way to the next sharp bend half a kilometer ahead. In the middle of the crescent a couple of cars have stopped and there are a dozen people doing something just above the road. As we approach, I see another three jeeps stopped in the opposite direction near the next bend, about 300 meters away. Suddenly, I see the reason for all this traffic congestion -- a 10 meter section of the road is completely gone, taken by a landslide. There are worryingly large cracks in the road near the collapse. I grab the camera and walk almost to the edge. The drop is at least half a kilometer. I hear yells to be careful and step back. The people above the collapse are digging into the slope. At first I wonder if they're trying to fill the bottomless pit, but as Nico picks up a shovel to help them, I realize that they are simply carving a niche that can be used as a bypass.

We ask around and are told that it's about a 20 minute walk to the cave, so we decide to park and hike the rest of the way. The road is gently sloping down so it's not a difficult decision. Alan and Nico forge ahead, while I stay behind to chat with Nano.

"You walk slow, too?" he asks.

"I can walk slow or I can walk fast. But it's a beautiful day, so there's no reason to hurry."

"That's what I say, but they always walk so fast and then say that I walk too slow," he complains with a comical air.

"I'm sure the truth is somewhere in between."

He asks me what movies I like. I tell him a few and mention that in recent years some of the most interesting ones have come from South America and that's why I am very excited to come here to work with the Waygoer. Nano sounds surprised that I should like films from a place I don't really know, but suggests an Argentinean movie whose name and director he can't remember. At this point we catch up to Alan and Nico, who are waiting for us. Before us, on a small plateau next to the road is a football pitch surrounded by houses, clearly to prevent the ball from falling into the ravine below. The pitch looks a perfect green and Nico says that he'd much rather go and play a game than go to the cave. There are no takers, so we push on.

An hour into our 20-minute hike, we come across a sign: Grota San Pedro. On the sign there's a picture of a man in a cave with gigantic bat flying overhead. At this gruesome sight, Nano lets off a shriek and machine-guns something in Spanish. Apparently, our friend suffers from self-diagnosed ratophobia. I personally would like to meet someone suffering from ratophonia, while Alan and Nico find the situation endlessly amusing. Ultimately, it's probably all my fault since I failed to disclose my discussion with Alex from the hotel in La Paz, who had told me about the bats. I try to reassure Nano, by retelling Alex's story about how he never saw a bat in the cave, though on one of the pictures his friends took, there was a bat right next to somebody's face. Nano does not at all look reassured, but we've already walked too far to turn back and at least now we know we're in the right direction.

Another 40 minutes hiking in the sun and I can sense a "what have you gotten us into" air about the boys. That's when we finally find a sign painted on a stone under a shrub indicating that we need to get off the road and climb a small trail to the cave. We must be close. By now, even I can't keep up with Nano's slow pace, so I go ahead with Alan and Nico, while Nano hits the 1kph cruise control button.

Finally in front of the Grota San Pedro, we decide to wait for the laggard, which gives us time to read all the signs posted at the front gate. "The cave is 480 meters long. There's a lake that's 400 meters deep" -- that's pretty impressive! And "No moleste los murcielagos!" -- my personal favorite. I can only hope there's a similar sign inside the cave: "No moleste los humanos!"

Nano finally makes it and immediately lunges for the restroom. There's a distant thunder and a nagging feeling about where we left the car starts gnawing at me, but I give it no external expression. The entrance fee is $2 for foreigners, which is a lot by Bolivian standards, so I let my Argentinean friends haggle with the voluptuous cashier and the reluctant guide. Finally, they settle on $1.25, Nano emerges triumphant from the restroom and our little expedition enters the cave. 

As soon as we crouch through the entrance passage, several bats start fluttering around. Nano almost has a heart attack, while Alan and Nico start urging me to film the ensuing comedy. Nano has decided that the most important part of his body is his face and ears so he pulls his shirt over his head, revealing most of his upper body and starts stumbling around on the slippery wet rocks. 

The smell is heavy and unpleasant and the temperature is pushing 80F. The lake turns out to be 4.00 meters deep -- not quite as impressive. Even the bats go into hiding. After the guide gives us the grand tour and we mostly avoid grievous cave injuries, we are more than happy to get back out into the fresh air.

The walk back up the mountain to the car is mostly uneventful, except for an anorexic bull which for a moment thinks about charging in Nico's direction and then decides it's too much of an effort. Most of the way I march with Alan and Nico, the nagging thought of the car at the bottom of the ravine pushing me forward. We round the bend and... the car is where we left it. However, something else catches my attention. A large truck, 20 people in it, is driving over the newly dug bypass above the collapsed section of the road. The three of us look on in disbelief at both the speed with which the bypass was built and the audacity of the truck driver who barely slows down.

We get to the car completely exhausted, but we still have to wait for Nano who is taking his sweet time up the road. I decide to make the U-turn before he arrives, so that we're ready to go. Alan jumps out of the car to make sure we have no problems. As he does, the front of the car is pointing straight into the abyss. I put it in reverse and hit the gas. The car lurches forward! I hit the break and take a breath. Nico, next to me, says nothing. Let's try this again. I make sure I am in reverse, give it a lot more gas and release the parking brake. For a blink I feel the car tethering on the edge, but then it moves backwards.  I let off a sign of relief, look at Nico and say, "Nico, you're a brave man!" He laughs, but I can sense the release of tension in his voice. We shake hands as Alan gets in, oblivious to what just happened. Finally, Captain Slow arrives and we take off for Sorata.

The disk in the CD player is Frederico Aubele, my favorite porteño singer. My Argentineans have no idea who he is. They have no idea who Gotan Project are either, and have never heard of the Thievery Corporation. Clearly, my ideas about what young people in Buenos Aires listen to needs to change. I offer to play the only Bulgarian CD I have -- rap music from Upsurt. My compañeros get excited and soon we're rocking the Bulgarian version of Y Tu Mama Tambien on the dusty back roads of Bolivia. I feel great and even shift up to third.

In the evening my new friends invite me to dinner they're going to cook. We go to the bottom of the ranch, where in the darkness we try building a fire from the wet trees and shrubs. It's hard but Alan, the fire specialist, does a stellar job. From Bolivia he's heading back to school so he's teaching the fiery arts to Nico, who will continue onto Brazil together with Nano.

Meanwhile, Nano appears late as ever, only to be confronted by the new nickname Alan and Nico have happily accepted on his behalf. From now on Nano will be known as Captain Slow. He smiles and says "Ahh, but why slow?" to an audience of three unable to catch our breath with laughter. The laughs continue until the boys finish every last morsel of pasta. We say good night and hope to see you soon somewhere in the world. The next morning at 7 , I'm heading back to La Paz and the Waygoer.

O, Camino, Camino

A rainy Sunday morning sounds to me like a great time for a drive, so I pack the gear in the car and get going. At the end of the paved road north of La Paz, nestled beneath the 6,400m giant peak Illampu, is a magical green valley around the town of Sorata. That's what my book wants me to believe, so I drive.

This is the place to say a few words about driving in Bolivia. Adults don't hitchhike. 4-year olds hitchhike. Dogs sleep in the lane going south, but not in the lane going north. Large rocks and gravel on the road are omnipresent. There is no speed limit, but no one goes above 70mph since people can and will overtake into the oncoming traffic lane regardless of whether a vehicle is actually oncoming or not. The job of the police is to stamp a little ticket, issued on the way out of La Paz, and collect a few quarters each time a car crosses into a different province. Without the little stamps there can be big trouble...

I fly in 5th gear toward the monstrous mountain until I climb into a high snaking pass covered in fog. It's so dense that I roll down the windows so I can smell the car in front before I hit it. Despite that, I make a few measured overtakings lest I get carbon monoxide poisoning from the fuming public transport vans at their 15mph speed limit. The ground on the sides of the road turns from lunar gray to lush green in a matter of seconds. I must have entered the valley.

In the next 5 minutes the road goes from nice pavement to stone gravel and back three times, but I couldn't care less. Before me lie the most dramatic green slopes I've ever seen. This is not a valley... This is a 6,000 meter mountain that's decided it wants to go to the beach, fast! The drops at the side of the road are hundreds of meters, but the beauty of the view prevents me from dwelling on the danger. Yet, at every second bend is a fresh looking cross with flowers on it.

Soon the road is only dirt and gravel, and every five minutes it is half blocked by landslides, leaving space enough for just one car. I push on and finally enter Sorata. Perched on a sloping ridge, it's a typical mountain village. Cobbled streets wide enough for half a car, not a single street or building that is flat. The ranch I've decided to stay at is at the bottom of the valley, so somehow I need to get to the bottom of the village. As easy as that sounds, in the maze of the blocked and narrow streets, it takes me several minutes to get to the lowest avenida which should take me around the ridge to my destination. Impressed with myself, I plow through mud and piles of dirt and stones until I get to a spot where right next to a public restroom a patch of road has simply gone into an abyss a hundred meters down to the river.  I jump out and ask two old women sitting on a bench how to get to the bottom of the valley. "Camino es mal," they explain and suggest that I climb to the top of the village instead.

Their instruction makes sense to me -- a clear indication that my mind is finally starting to bend around the spoon. So I climb to a mud field in front of a church, turn right and follow the mud plunging to the bottom of the valley through two wild streams of white water. This is where the Toyota 4WD makes its dinner. A couple of dead-ends and their corresponding 5-point U-turns later, I find the ranch.

Sloping to the river, on the opposite side of the valley from the village, the ranch is a lush park set on ten acres of lawns, trees, flowers, animals and cabins on different levels. A Bolivian woman, Roxanna, shows up and welcomes me. She and her husband, Johny, moved out here 25 years ago and built the place with their own hands. I have a mojito for dinner and retreat to my cabin to watch the jungle plunge into darkness and reflect on a life without TV, phones or internet in a place where the road always changes and every day leads in a different direction.

February 14th, 2009

I wake up in time to catch a boat to Isla del Sol with my new friends, but decide to stay in the village and see the mad rituals of the locals instead. By the time I make it up the Cerro Calvario, it's lunchtime and there are lots of Bolivianos around, many of them already in a state of intoxication. My steadicam attracts their attention, so I have several lost-in-translation exchanges on the breathless way up.

The weather is perfect and I manage to film a family going about their blessing business. Just beneath the top level there's a small terrance with a few flowers planted into the ground. The family of eight is sitting around the plants -- the kids are playing with the toy cars and houses while the men are horsing around, trying to spill beer on each other.

After about half an hour, the sun starts really stinging -- I'm only 15 degrees south of the equator and without 4km of air cover. I head down to the massive white Basilica of Our Lady of Copacabana in the middle of the village. In the middle of its huge courtyard there is an arched open building providing shade from the brutal sun, three large crosses underneath its dome. Once again I get a Moroccan deja vu. The Basilica and its vast quad seem more akin to the large mosques I've seen there than to any of the cathedrals of Europe. Although I see people walking around with candles in their hands, there are no lit candles inside the church. The mystery is solved when I circle to the back and find a small undesignated gate. It leads into a dark passage, walls painted black and small holes on the roof for lighting. The next chamber is also completely black and inside are three tables filled with lit candles. There are grateful engravings on the walls, while some have just used wax to send their messages to Our Lady. I am mesmerized -- this chamber and its fluttering lights are the heart of these people's beliefs and hopes.

I spend the rest of the daylight writing on a lawn overlooking the lake. Not very cautious as I pick up my first ever writing injury -- sunburn of the hands from the wrists to the knuckles. Quite painful and since my fingers remain New York winter white, not very pretty either. I'll live.

At dusk I grab the camera and climb the sacred hill for the third time. I arrive just in time to film a stunning electric storm over Peru. The clouds are moving toward me, but I hold out until the first raindrops hit my sunburnt face. It's pitch black by now and I descend the treacherous path as quickly as I can, thinking what a magical place this is, no surprise that two of the greatest civilizations of the New World chose it to be their center.

Before I drop from exhaustion in the hotel, I finally get in touch with the Waygoer. He is in Buenos Aires and looking for a way to La Paz, but won't make it before the 18th. Perfect time to get lost for a couple of days.

Amor Porteño

10.30am. I sit with a cup of coca tea at a table in the hotel lobby waiting for the rental car girl to show up so we can conclude our negotiation. I feel strangely transported to North Africa. Perhaps, it's the stories of roads that aren't wide enough for two cars to pass; nose-bleed-high mountain passes that can be shut on a moments notice; unrelenting truck drivers and vast precipices inches away from the passenger side wheel. Or, perhaps, it's that things have a way of happening at their own pace. In either case, I feel very relaxed, surrounded by a sense of familiarity.

Finally, Soledad shows up together with the car and a mechanic, Fidel. I immediately try to make friends with Fidel. After all if I don't trust him who could I trust. After half an hour of English-Spanish translation and inspection of various car parts, we're ready to go... The gas tank is empty! Right, first thing I'd want to do getting behind the wheel in a foreign country with crazy traffic is worry about running out of gas. I promptly get out the car and direct my new friend Fidel to go and put some gas in the tank. Soledad explains that she didn't want me to have to worry about having to return the car with a full tank. I just laugh and go and get another tea.

Half an hour later I am honking my way out the city at 2 mph. By the time I reach the freeway to the airport it's 1pm. As soon as I exit the freeway before the airport, as instructed by the small going away committee which had gathered in the hotel lobby in my honor, I lose all sense of direction. I ask a man who moments earlier had tried jump under my car, and he does an interesting figure eight in the air. I assume that means turn right. At the next intersection I see cars making a left turn, so I promptly get in there with my right turn right-of-way. To my delight, a cop jumps out of nowhere. There's my man, he's going to point me in the right direction. For some reason he starts pointing to the sky to my left. I look up. There, almost halfway to the next intersection is the smallest and most dirt-covered traffic light I've ever seen. It's red. 

The officer gets on the passenger side and opens the door. Then he asks for permission to get in. I say sure and explain to him that I'm sorry for not seeing the light and assuming that it was my right-of-way, but perhaps he can tell me the way to Copacabana. Somewhat incredulous, he asks for my my license and whips out a little book with traffic rules. From it he quotes me the entire paragraph about running a red light as well as the appropriate penalty. It's seven dollars. I pay with a smile, he shakes my hand and jumps out.

Finally, I am flying. There are fewer and fewer cars and it takes me no time to reach the straight of Tiquina on lake Titicaca, where a ferryboat is supposed to take me and the car across 800m of water. Now, the word ferryboat doesn't really describe it. In what looks to be a slightly oversized rowboat, taking a single car and passenger, the tiny straight suddenly looks quite menacing and exciting. But we get to the other side alright, and now all I have left is a scenic route to the opposite end of the peninsula.

Nestled between two large hills and the lake, the tiny fishing village of Copacabana reveals its dusty streets before me. I'm still driving, but I can tell that everything here is ultra slow and calm. La Paz seems a universe away. As soon as I check in, I'm off to the top of the Cerro Calvario. At the bottom of the hill, right by the beach is a military base. I go to the guard and ask how to get up there. He points straight up. Ok, so frontal assault it is then, is it? A couple of guys are slowly walking past, taking pictures. Perhaps they are also headed there? I start on the tiny little 50 degree angle path. I'm breathless inside of 30 seconds. I look behind. The grinning soldier gives me thumbs up, but the two tourists are walking away. I guess this is too much for them. For the next hour I bravely fight the hill, stopping every 5 minutes for air and wondering where all the broken beer bottles have come from. Surely, no one in their right mind, not even the locals, would be crazy enough to climb this rock under the influence. What kind of superheroes are these?

I finally get to the summit. To my astonishment I see the two guys again, sitting on a bench at the top, no sign of of sweat or exhaustion. Next to them are two girls smoking and laughing. With my last strength I mumble, "How did you guys get here so fast?" They laugh and point in the other direction. So that's it then, there's a perfectly normal trail on the other side of the hill, while the one I just took must be for goats only. Despite life flashing before my eyes, I feel some small sense of pride. Time to enjoy the stunning view of the sunset over the highest lake in the world. For a moment it's easy to convince myself that I'm on the ocean, 4000 meters below.

The summit itself is a small plateau with about seven shrines topped by massive crosses and insignias. From what I can comprehend each is devoted to a specific saint in gratitude by some family. The next thing I see is completely out of place. Several stalls are offering everything from model cars to model houses to fake money and all sorts of other miniature trinkets. They must really think all foreigners are stupid. Which tourist in their right mind will climb all the way here just to buy a little toy car, I wonder, but soon forget.

As I descend the path meant for humans, I observe three 4-year olds outdoing each other with hand stands, one handed flips and other insane tricks. How can they be so good? I want to be like them. I continue on to my hotel past lots of young travelers, most of the South Americans. I grab dinner, determined to explore nightlife in the village afterward.

Surprisingly the bars are almost empty. Most of the young people are sitting in circles on the beach or on the main street, talking, drinking, singing. It's very different and quite alluring but Spanish is all I hear and remain an outside observer. Finally I spot a strange little bar and venture in. As soon as I do, all four people inside get up and leave. Well, I came in for a beer, so I'm having a beer. This is the first sip of alcohol I'll be having in a week. The interior design is bordering on the ludicrous, but fits in with my mood. The walls of the small space are covered by plaster of all conceivable shapes -- grapes, lambs, tigers, lamps, insects, owls... All species of artificial flora hang from the low ceiling. Fake lamb skins cover the benches. I cozy up, choose a bolivian cerveza and drink up slowly. The most interesting thing about the beer is how very difficult it is to pour a proper mug in the perfect head to body proportion because of the altitude, but I try anyway.

Once I am outside again, I consider my options. There are no other functional bars in sight, but there's a cafe quite full of people. I decide to wash down the beer with a cup of coca tea. There's only one table left in the middle of the room. Without looking around I sit down, and then realize that my friends from the top of the mountain are sitting on the next table. I ask them how long they stayed on the summit after sunset. Their English is probably rusty because in lieu of an answer they give me a point by point itinerary for the rest of their trip. I laugh, but now the conversation is on. They are all from Buenos Aires. The boys are Miguel and Alex, the girls -- Pamela and Madelena. Pamela is the best speaker of English so the bilingual conversation goes through her. I decide to have another beer instead.

The conversation soon starts answering some of my questions. Most of the young travelers here are from Argentina. Argentina being rather poor, when young people want to explore the world, their choices are limited to either roam their own country or go to the exotic neighbor Bolivia. Not that any of them say that they feel limited. The hippies among them aren't really hippies, but boys and girls who fund their travels around South America by making and selling little pieces of jewelry and clothes, or playing music. The two man band playing in the cafe is also from Buenos Aires. So what are people from Buenos Aires called? Porteños...

I mention the strange stalls with all the toys on top of the hill. Pamela explains to me that the locals believe that all their wishes will be granted at the summit. So every Sunday they go and have a priest bless a miniature version of their desire. There are two different ceremonies. One conducted in Latin and one is led by an Aymara priest. The ritual apparently involves chanting, dancing, flames, and several bottles of beer sprayed over the alter. I think the Waygoer and I will definitely be back here.

The cafe is closing, so we try to find a working bar. Our one hope is closed. Then we meet Jose, a 60-year old with long hair and an impressive mustache, who came from Argentina 20 years ago and never left. He announces that he knows where everybody is and takes through the back alleys to a very suspicious looking dive with loud strange music and no apparent human presence inside. We thank him for his effort, grab a couple of canned beers and head to the beach. 

My new friends introduce me to the Southern sky. It's interesting to think that I've never seen most of these stars. Southern Cross, Tres Marias, Scorpio... I remember reading about them in children's books about pirates and treasures, and here they are before me. I get lost for a moment.

It's very late and cold by now. We get going. Next morning they are going to Isla del Sol in the lake, which they've heard has an amazing beach. Perhaps, I'll go with them. Perhaps, I'll stay and film the Bolivianos take their hopes and dreams to be blessed. Perhaps, I'll drive to my next destination... I'll decide in the morning.

Things You Find in the Desert

It's going to be a day of introspection, I feel. I have slept amazingly well under the circumstances. However, my dreams were something else. Mixing the past with the present and perhaps the future is not something new for me, but the emotional charge of these hallucinations was not expected. To think of it, the previous night's visions were quite dramatic also... perhaps I should cut down on the coca tea.

Upon waking, I realize I'm not quite over the events of the previous evening. I start digging through the internet and soon I sense a slight tinge of paranoia creeping behind my back. I start changing passwords and email addresses. Then I run across what I'd like to refer to as the Time Warner Email Password Change Quagmire. While obviously the most important password to change since all my emails from them go directly to the stolen phone, the incredible requirement that you need to be at your home computer in order to change it, has got be worst 21st century faux-security feature.

It's well past lunch time when I finally venture out of my room. At this point I am growing irritable with the bustle of the streets outside, so I decide to arrange for my getaway. I go to the reception desk to see my little friends. Alex spends a good hour with me joking about bats and we fetch a plan. Rent a car in the morning, then go to see Lake Titicaca, then giant mount Illampa, finally drive down what is known as the "world's most dangerous road" to the tropical jungle at Coroico. At this point, it all sounds great to me, as long as I don't have to push through the crowds and traffic anymore. 

Of course, it's not going to be so easy. I first have to go across town to the rental office to sign the contract and see the car. Once I am about three blocks away, the biggest hail I've seen in years breaks out as if the sky would like to smash this mad city and everyone in it. I wait in an entrance along with everybody else and then make a mad dash through the now pouring rain. 

The drab looking office is quite empty and there are no cars in sight. We'll have to go on trust, I guess. In half an hour we've established that their insurance doesn't really cover anything, and that they don't take Amex. At this point I pretty much get up to go. Quickly, there's the sound of reconsidering on the other side. "Yes, yes. We can take American Express. But we'll be able to process it tomorrow. And you can't see the car today because it's Thursday." I look at the girl to see if she expects me to take the last statement at face value. I fail to detect evidence of self doubt. "Well, that's why I came all the way out here." Right, apparently cars with license plates ending on 7 don't get to drive through the city on Thursday. Ok, then. I guess I'll see you tomorrow.

On my way home, I observe myself noticing the darker streak in the people running around. I am much more keyed into the details of the expressions and the looming precipice between their perception of me and my desire to understand. Perhaps, I really am just another gringo. Perhaps the camera was giving me only an illusory license to float. I do have a bit of anger in me this time around so the loitering youths in the square in front of the church are avoiding my glance. Are they guilty? How can I start seeing with open eyes again? One of them sets off running and my eyes follow his dash. He catches up to a girl about his age and gives her a hug. I walk on.

A couple of images are rolling in my head. One is Martin Sheens's Saigon hotel room decomposition as he waits for a mission in Apocalypse Now. The other is a short passage which I tried to direct a couple of years ago. It's from Paul Bowles' novel The Sheltering Sky and describes a meeting between Port, who after a long journey through Morocco has had his passport stolen, and the French commander of the local Foreign Legion garrison. Port has neared his breaking point after looking for himself in the desert, and ironically perceives the loss of his official identity document as the final proof that he has, in essence, lost himself. In a way both stories end and begin at these moments. Once control is finally relinquished the real puppet-master reveals himself. One can only choose how to take the news.

The streets are muddy and even less appealing after the rain. I decide that I'm going to change my plan. Instead of a whole week of predetermined car maximizing agenda, I will only reserve it for four days and then see what happens. Perhaps the Waygoer would make it in by then. Perhaps, I'll just want to rest. Perhaps, I'll just take the bus.

On the way into the lobby, I find it blocked by a massive Australian group. I hear them talking about "walking tours" and "shopping hours" and I flinch. Not this! If there is type of tourist that intrigues me, it's the South American hippie. I see them in quite a few places and I always wonder what do they do, what they talk about. Usually the boys have a beard and a long hair, sometimes a rasta. Both girls and boys wear something like a buddhist toga and a tie-die shirt, but in all their scruffiness I see something charming, something idealistic. Perhaps they are here really looking for Che. I hope to find out before this journey is over.

I push my way past the Australians and go to my room. I'm tired, but I'm going to have to go and eat something. A happy little thought flickers out of nowhere -- tomorrow I'll wake up and won't know exactly where I'm going or exactly what I'm going to see. So tomorrow, going to sleep, it won't quite be the same me.

Ali Baba and the Forty Witches

My adaptation to the altitude is going surprisingly well. I no longer have a constant headache. In fact, I wake up very refreshed. It's raining outside so I spend the better part of the day in my room, reading, writing, communicating. At 3pm the rain finally stops, so I grab the camera and venture out. The Witches Market beckons. 

It's not nearly as crowded as I thought it would be. It would be more accurate to say it's almost deserted. Yet in the sides of the buildings, there are stalls full of strange figurines emitting odd odors. As I come nearer, I realize that some of the figurines aren't little stone idols, but rotted llama embryos. There are lots of them, all around. My head starts spinning. The witches chatting in the stalls give me no heed. I need to get out of here.

I cross the bottom of the valley and start climbing on the other side of the city. Here I find the Ministry of Justice, the Presidential Palace, the Police Headquarters, a mall. In front of the Police Headquarters I am confronted by a cop, perhaps wondering what damage the camera on top of the steadicam could do. I show him exactly how it works, he smiles bemused and bids me good luck. 

A little further down I see a local reporter and her cameraman. I approach and ask if they know where I can find a 43mm graduated ND filter. The operator puts his camera on the ground and says, "Buenos Aires." I should have known. Good thing I made sure I get a laptop charger from Miami. Then he tells me in a very concerned tone of voice that I shouldn't walk around with this camera, it's very dangerous and I could get mugged. I shrug and walk away. Perhaps I should listen.

It's getting dark and it's starting to rain. I head home, passing the beautiful church on the bottom of the valley. It's quite crowded. Suddenly I feel something hit the side of my face. Water, perhaps, but it was a bit much to have come from the sky. I touch my face panicked, it seems to be just water, but who knows. I should get out of here as quickly as possible and take a shower at home. I actually run up the hill, partly to see how my red blood cell generation is coming along. I jump under the shower in the hotel, but still can't get the strange incident out of my head. I start digitizing the DV tape and reading my email. Then I reach for my cellphone.

It's gone! I can't believe it! For a moment I feel gutted. That just can't be. I always carry my phone in my front pocket where it is heavy and I can feel it. I ransack the entire room, I even call it. Nothing. The realization slowly sinks in. The weird incident in front of the church must have been a distraction while someone must have reached and stolen it. What's incredible is that I didn't realize that it was gone for another hour and a half . Boy, am I slow! I guess I probably deserve it then. What's infuriating is that I had thought about putting my headphones on and listening to some music on the phone, but had checked myself with the premise that I would be more alert when walking around without music.

So that's that. I've been to quite a few shady places but this is a first. I can't say that I wasn't warned. At the same time, somehow I don't feel that bad. This is a very poor place. Perhaps somebody gets to eat because of my phone. And perhaps they even saved me a bunch of money judging by the international roaming charges I got the last few times I traveled. Of course, the moment I cancel it and its battery dies (in all likelihood iphone chargers don't abound here), it becomes as useful as a piece of broken glass. Perhaps, it's sitting right now in a big thieves' cave among other treasures such as salt, water and llama fetuses, awaiting a future Bolivian Aladdin to get the old witch's instructions: ''Bring me the iphone. Don't touch anything else! And don't you dare rub it..."

City in the Sky

As we approach our landing, the fog clears for a second to reveal tiny scattered red houses on a dark green plateau. Here and there a white church spires up. This is what the Wild West probably looked like 150 years ago. The plane finally lines up for landing and I can see a bit more of a city expanse. What strikes me is how close to the snow covered peaks it all is. It seems as if someone climbed high up in the Andes, stopped a few hundred yards from a summit, noticed that this was the snow line in the summer and founded a city. Not a very big one at that. I thought it was 2 million people who lived here. This looks more like the size of the Lower East Side. Hell, I could probably walk to my hotel!

The airport looks and feels more like a ski lift station. Perhaps, it's the smell of the mountain air. Suddenly, I can really feel the lack of oxygen. In addition to the all-nighter I've just pulled and the flu I've been battling for the last 3 days, shortness of breath is the last thing I want. I stagger through immigration without a hitch. A billboard announcing entry rules for Americans has no mention of the Good Conduct Report. The Waygoer should be safe. With my three large and heavy bags, as I barely walk through customs, no one even looks at me. I am finally in Bolivia!

I start looking for the Avis office, but to no avail. In New York I had called Hertz only to be told that their operations in Bolivia have been discontinued and that I won't be able to make a reservation. I had better luck with Avis, eventually succeeding to make a reservation. But now in La Paz, they seem to have completely vanished. I solicit the help of a man standing under a sign which says Information. He takes out a phonebook and starts looking for the Avis number. No such luck. Finally, he tells me I should just go and get a car from Hertz!! Alright, if you say so. I go into a phone booth with the local Hertz number. After three tries and no answer, I decide with the last few oxygen molecules in my brain that I should just get a cab to the hotel, get my bearings and worry about the car in a couple of days. 

Not a bad decision. At the incredible price of $7, a jolly Bolivian taxi driver takes me over a ridge and the view takes my breath away. Well, actually, I was probably breathless way before that. But still, before us sprawls the most stunning city I've ever seen with my own eyes. On the slopes of several giant peaks, uniting in a deep valley there are hundreds of thousands red houses. The shapes of rocks, buildings and trees all blend into the faces of giant mountain waves crested by the snow-covered peaks. The sky is full of clouds, but they let the sun peer through, creating deep shadows running across the city.

The cab gets to the bottom of the valley. Downtown, I suppose. The street suddenly fills up with humanity. Imagine driving through a New York street fair. It's like that but worse. I am very excited -- there are so many interesting faces and activities, filming should be a dream. We arrive at the hotel. The driver shows his appreciation for my tip by telling which cities have the most chicas lindas. I thank him and get in the building.

The guys at the hotel are very nice. They look young, barely 20, and quickly promote me to Señor David. I like the sound of that! When I mention the Carnival festival in Oruro, they point me to the tourist office in the hotel lobby with the disclaimer that it's very difficult to find a hotel for the festival as everything is overbooked. 

I go over and explain to the tourist office girl that I need just lodging, nothing else. She picks up the phone and in 5 minutes tells me that one of the nicer hotels in Oruro has had a cancellation and that for a reasonable rate (double the regular) I can have a single room from the 19th through the end of the festival. I decide to go for it. 

Is it possible that the Waygoer won't be happy with my decision? Sure it is. But I'll take that chance. And here is my logic. Whether or not the Waygoer arrives by the 19th, I absolutely want to film the Diablada on the 21st. I need at least 2 days to scout out the location and decide what I'm doing. I don't want to get it in a few hours before the event, worrying where to sleep, as much as that's part of the adventure, and miss all the important things. When the Waygoer arrives, he can decide exactly how he wants to proceed and we'll film that. This writer, on the other hand, will be good and ready to shoot the Diablada the best way he knows.

After 5 shots of coca tea, I begin to feel quite the explorer, so I retreat to my room and hit the sheets for the next five hours. I wake up with a splitting headache around 3pm, but after I see the beautiful light outside and chug two more cups of coca goodness, I am good to go. I quickly assemble the camera and the steadicam kit and head out into the city. I should probably mention that's another thing the Waygoer warned me not to do. "Don't shoot on the streets before I get there. It's dangerous. This is South America, man, not Brooklyn!" 

I beg to differ. As I weave between crazy traffic and people, I again thank New York for allowing me to feel at home in so many places. The moment I unfold the camera and the steadicam device... nothing happens. People are mildly curious, but for the most part go on with their lives. Suddenly, I'm no longer self-conscious. It's as if the camera, flying on top of the carbon-fiber arc of the steadicam, has acquired a mind of its own, and I'm just accompanying it on its exploration. A wide pan of the city and the mountains ends up in front of a beautiful colonial church and a crowd gathered in front of it. The camera and I float among the people, closing in some place, moving away elsewhere. On a sidewalk, there are six shoeshine boys. They are wearing ski masks and sitting down in two semi-circles as if living in suspended time among the bustling crowd. A young Indian girl is looking at the wrinkled hands of her ancient grandmother selling fruit on the street. The images come one after the other.

I am still struggling to keep up with the floating camera and soon my back starts killing me. I need to remember to be slow and deliberate with it. There are so many fantastic angles I don't know where to look. The camera battery finally dies. 

I go back to the hotel where I sample llama meat in light mustard sauce. It's quite hard and has a somewhat heavy aroma, but for a first time it's not all that bad. I am starving so I eat everything.

Before I fall asleep, I wonder how I'm going to remember these early days of the trip, before this place has had a chance to change me in small but important ways, before my mind has immersed me completely in the journey. To use the actor's cliche, I am not in the moment yet. Once change has become the only routine, the mind begins to see things differently, the perceptions of time and choice also change. Maybe that's what travelers seek, maybe that's what the Waygoer is all about. I'm not there yet. I'm still waiting for something. The Waygoer, for one. But perhaps tomorrow I will get a step closer to the moment. Tomorrow I go to the Witches Market...

Voyage, Voyage...

So it begins...

But not before an astonishingly successful preflight errand run Monday morning, which sees me accomplish the following list inside of three hours: get an international driver's license; purchase and change a laptop battery; get serious cash; negotiate the renewal of the apartment lease; return a mic and adaptor to B&H; buy camera filters; buy mosquito repellant; rev up my bike and take it for a short spin; pay the bike garage; scan and email the first page of my passport to Mom (not quite sure what that's about); pack all bags; speak to an American Airlines customer relations supervisor about boarding all the film equipment with me; triple check all the camera equipment, the books, the clothes...

Something is very very wrong... I am not sure what yet, but I'm at the airport more than an hour early and have absolutely no problems getting the gear through security. This whole morning has passed so well, so counter my expectations, that clearly it must be setting me up for some huge problem...

That's when I realize that in all my luggage fretting, I never thought to take the laptop charger from the plug at the house. I start looking around -- this can't be that bad, can it? Perhaps, I can buy a charger off someone at the airport... Then I remember an overheard conversation at the Apple store in the morning regarding the incompatibility of the MacBook Pro with anything other than the 85-Watt Magsafe charger. The ominous memory gets me panicking -- I WAS being set up! Don't panic, says the Hitchhiker's Guide, so I start making phone calls. In an hour I am sure of three things: there's no way to know in advance if I can find such a charger in Bolivia; the Best Buy nearest to Miami International (my transfer point) is 7.4 miles away; it closes at 9.30pm. 

Right. Let's see... my flight gets in at 8.35pm, 10 minutes to get cab, 20 minutes to the Best Buy, 15 minutes to find and purchase charger, 20 minutes back -- I should have time for a small birthday before the 11.05pm flight to La Paz. Perfect.

An hour past the New York departure time, my plane is still sitting on the tarmac. New estimated arrival time -- 9.10pm. I manage to contain my surprise. This is going to be close.

9.03pm. I am on the cab line in Miami. There's lots of cabs, a few people are waiting, but it still somehow takes seven minutes to get a cab driver to pull over so I can hop in. Mine is a 65-year old Jamaican in a rush to nowhere. I manage to fire him up a bit with an inspirational speach about the do-or-die nature of our mission. At the same time I try to call the Best Buy store to see if they can stay open a couple of extra minutes. The recorded message I get is not good at all: "The store is open from 9am to 9pm. Please call during our work hours."

9.15pm. I look up the nearest apple store, which I know closes at 9.30 for sure, but it's 20 miles in the exact opposite direction, so I decide to stay the course -- if Best Buy is closed, then so be it.

9.25pm. I see a tricky intersection coming up. My Jamaican partner should slow down, keep his eyes open and move over to the right lane. Of course, he just blows right by the turnoff. My alerting him to the fact only confuses him further and causes him to miss his chance to take the next exit and remedy the original mistake. At this point we're headed a solid WNW and there are no exits in sight. I start wondering if I'll even make my flight.

9.27pm. A miracle! My accomplice decides it's time for desperate measures, looks around for cops and goes through the grassy median in a most illegal and ill-advised freeway U-turn. 

9.31pm. Cab screeches in front of the gates of the store. They are open only 5 inches, but there's a guy inside. I direct my heartbreaking story at him full force. He quickly relents. I turn around and give thumbs up to my Jamaican compañero. Despite all the years spent with one Mary Jane, my new friend still has a few moments of defiance left in him.

Happy owner of a $150 laptop charger, I get through Miami security no problem. The airport workers are speaking heavily accented English and I'm beginning to suspect I'm in Latin America already. I even find one food stall open, get a sandwich and sit down to enjoy. Halfway, I am interrupted as the world's first ahead-of-schedule boarding takes place. Incensed, I walk with a half eaten sandwich and a 35 pound equipment bag in one hand, dripping water bottle and a backpack in the other, one untied shoelace and a pair of jeans falling off my hips. There's nothing I can do about it -- I board.

Except for a brief glimpse of a beautiful Habana and the incessant laughter of the drunk couple across the isle, the next seven hours are a blur. My head is splitting, but as we approach La Paz my nasal airways clear. That's a first -- they had to lower the cabin pressure to land! Things are going to different here...

Last Exit before Toll

The Waygoer has finally left Tierra del Fuego. Right now he is being tossed on the waves of the Southern Ocean on his way to Antarctica. He won't emerge from broadcast blackout until Valentine's Day when he steps back on solid ground and starts making his way toward Bolivia.

At the same time, I am sitting together with my friend Rew, looking at different waves in a small pool of water on Park Avenue in a 15F New York and wondering why the water doesn't freeze. The Sun is kissing the corner of the Met Life Building and as it moves out of hiding and into dusk, it's changing the shadows and the flashes of reflection on the waves. It's mesmerizing. It's the end of a long day begun by a phone call to Police Headquarters, who have my Good Conduct Report two days early. A 20 minute wait in the NYPD waiting room, then a mad high speed drive to the Bolivian consulate, Rew riding shotgun to protect me against the inevitable appearance of the slaves of the meter god. The Bolivian consulate lady throws me a weary look of recognition. This time I have everything and I think we're becoming fast friends.

Next we drive into New Jersey where I go to the Waygoer's parents' house to pick up our cinematic equipment. Rew has no idea exactly why or where we're going since I've assumed he knows and he's assumed that wherever we're headed is to do something important. He does however, give me a puzzled glance when we arrive at a suburban New Jersey house, meet a middle-aged man, pick up a bunch of odd-sized boxes and leave a check. Shady? Not at all, I assure him. Exciting is more like it. 

Now I have everything under control -- the promise of visa on Friday; a plane ticket for Monday; camera, mikes, tapes, steady-cam and rain bag in a suitcase; a hotel and car reservation awaiting me in La Paz... Yes, while the Waygoer is in radio silence on the dark side of the Earth, I've decided to break a few of his tenets and explore using my own methods, making the most of my seven days alone in Bolivia.

Unfathomable is the divine path, I consider as I gaze at the changing waves on Park Avenue, accelerating as the wind picks up. The only thing one can do is look forward to taking the next step. Next post - Bolivia.