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.