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.