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.