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...