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.

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...

January 20th, 2009

I've known the Waygoer for about a year now. In that time he's spent about 2 months in New York and the rest -- going places as he does. We'd had some conversations about the countries he'd visited in the middle east, the far east, central america... we'd even spoken about festivals and how interesting it would be to make a documentary around one of the stranger ones, say the guatemalan day of the dead. But I still didn't expect him to call me in late December and ask me to go with him to Bolivia to film the Diablada.

So my goal for this blog is to follow the adventure of traveling with the Waygoer, while at the same time shooting my first documentary. It's audience is our friends who wish to come along on the journey, and myself if I ever want to retrace the minute details of my states of mind and observations. For these details are the most likely to be imperceptibly lost, yet they carry the most meaning -- the promise and desperation of existing in a specific space and time -- a place where now is everything.

Today is the last day when the trip is uncertain. The Waygoer has decided that he would get to Antarctica if that should cost him his life. He's been stuck at the edge of the world in Ushuaia waiting to be picked up, putting our venture on a knife-edge. If he's able to get on a January 25th boat, he'll be able to take a flight to Buenos Aires 12 days later, get a Bolivian visa, trek through Paraguay and meet me in La Paz around February 15th. If not, tomorrow will perhaps be the last post on this blog...