Tonight I stood beside the hooded priests that could easily be mistaken for members of Ku Klux Klan but I guessed just like the swastika, a darker force made a symbol of purity evil. Possible they are the same cloaks worn to symbolize death before a be-heading or hanging is committed. I'm still confused by them.
As I walked through the small town where thousands of people littered the streets in praise of their lord Jesus of Nazarath I merely observed and documented. Each step taken I couldn’t help but respect the many miles people traveled just to come and see this pres proscenium at the Virgin of Copacabana’s church.
When I first found out what the Jesuit and Franciscan priests did once they settled near these waters I had to visit this site. In order to convert indigenous Bolivians and Peruvians to their church, because of their initial absolute refusal was to not Jesus Christ as their only Lord and Saviour, the church had to come up with another plan in order to convert. It is for that very same reason why most churches all over Latin America were build ontop of indigenious religious temples. The other very stragetic approach was they took some of their most prodominent religious figures like Jesus’s mother the Virgin Mary and appropirated them. Instead of calling her Mary they combined the indigenous people's most treasured feminine god, the Pachamama (Mother Nature) with the Virgin Mary and thus you have La Virgin de Copcabana. A little bit darker and more physically resembling their own, the people of the region instantly had a connection to Christianity and Catholicism. Same can be said with the Virgin of Guadalupe, which resides in Mexico and most Central American countries.
It would be easy to say that I haven’t really done that much work with my film Pachamama during this Semana Santa in Copacabana. What I’m realizing is that fiction writing for myself comes with time and experience. Amercing myself into something that I will probably never know or understand exactly but by each encounter I grow closer to it. My trip to Bolivia has been full of seeds that I’ve planted in many places. There at least six films that I’ve discovered through my time here that I want to make in the future, almost all documentaries. During this visit it has been the brief encounters with both Bolivians and foreigners that have been the birth of many ideas and even more so the progression of the this very large film – Pachamama. Some of the connections I’ve made have lasted seconds, in the market eating lunch, walking around the plaza or at the children’s gambling tables just on cusp of the main plaza in Copacabana.
After following the deceased ceramic Jesus in his casket around Copacabana for almost two hours I came across a group of mostly children hovered around a table. In a very short while I became almost obsessed with this completely trivial game of chance where loosing is inevitable. The screams and giggles that I have shared with these kids from all over the area has been my favorite past time here in Bolivia thus far. There are probably just as many people in church praying and lighting candles for Semana Santa as there are casual church goers interacting with a glass of beer and playing these very simple and wonderful carnival games. No matter how many times I win - I know that in the end I will loose it all. It is only at these tables where deep smiles and comradery are felt amongst the players. Each turn I don't even flinch at the insult when they call me gringo. "Let the gringo split the deck - he's got good luck. Vamos gringo!" For the first time on my trip everyone at the table is betting on their favourite cartoon character, superhero or what figure they believe the deck will land on next. The cards turn in a almost Tarot approach and people scream and shot waiting for the one they wagered on to come up. I am right there with them and when the “diablo” turns up and everyone throws their hands in the air screaming "come on!" The round is over. The dealer then proceeds to take everyone’s money in one false swoop.
The most entertaining part of the game is the dealer. Always belting out dumb little jokes while you make your wager. “Get your dirty little fingers out of the way.” “Who’s betting on Supergay?” which was Superman. "Supergay is the winner! Are you Supergay?" If you wanted your money you obviously had to say yes - which was always followed by a burst of laugher from all the kids. The joke never got old. At times some of the older kids would say “Shit!” and very quickly the dealer would calmly say as he's taking bets “No shit here, just a game." With his dirty truckers hat soaking in the sweat of his upper brow he would retort in an upper class Spanish accent "Please be civil we’re trying to play a game here.” All of this banter while the bets slip and slide all over the table - the Bishop of the church rejoices through the loudspeakers the word of God. Nothing can pull me away from these tables with my short-term friends laughing and smiling - loving every single second of it. Good Friday indeed.
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