Day 33 - Easter Sunday

6:00am Easter Sunday morning. I wake in my run down hostal with no electricity. There is a combination of European choral signing blaring through the loud speakers of the church - rejoicing the resurrection of Jesus Christ. About half a kilometer away from the church a very loud and mysterious speaker belts out contemporary Bolivian Lake Titicacan music. Both competing songs are at such a volume that going back to bed after it’s first play is not an option. I guess depending on who you ask, these voices celebrating and ringing in the streets could either seem like a battle between cultures or possibly an attempt to harmonize beauty between two drastically different peoples. I doubt either are the answer. What rings true is that for anyone that has heard any kind of music more then once – these two sounds are definitely clashing. The extreme irony and mood of these two tracks playing together is incredibly beautiful, haunting and appropriate for the film I am trying to write this week. As the churches mass continues and proceeds to blare its word through the loud speakers the Bolivian music, about ten blocks away, does not let down and continues to compete. After the church's second song the priest attempts to talk to his congregation. Where he is standing the message is being heard. In my bed, as I type this, the Lake Titicacan sounds are definitely a slight notch above the priest's banter. As the church switches gernes into folk the only vocals coming from mass are the priest's harmonies, praising the words of God. Accompanied by an acoustic guitar, the musician slowly strums some very familiar major and minor chords. As the priest gets louder in his cries the Bolivian songs now sit in the back of the mix but still present as ever.
The clashing of cultures in the context of its harsh history – this is Bolivia. The many layers of ironies and confusion is exactly what gives this country its national identify. The visual and audible unresolved strief between two things attempting so intently to stay alive. The people of Copacabana walk the streets as if nothing is wrong and maybe there isn’t. From a foreigner's perspective, sonically, it seems that these two elements are unable to reach a peaceful resolution. For hundreds of years at some level these varying cultures have tried to assimilate but quite naturally couldn’t. Creating an almost polarizing stench in the air, even in the town where it is home to one of Latin Americans most popular pilgrimage, there is no home for harmony in these parts - only confusion. In that confusion Boliva secures its home but what only feels and sounds like confusion to one, I quite contently realize this morning during the blaring of this chaos that I will never fully understand Bolivia. Giving in to that confusion that I have struggled for years to try and understand, I now find tranquility in a culture that I feel will always escape me.

DAY 31 - Good Friday

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.

Day 29 - El Dia De La Pachamama

This morning I woke up early to ride 21km to downtown La Paz's Plaza Murillo to celebrate "Dia de la Madre Tierra." The rest of the world celebrates the same day on Friday - Earth Day. The many ironies that exist in Bolivia gives birth things like having the day of the Pachamama on the same day that Jesus Christ was crucified - Good Friday. It was a relatively anti-climatic event with President Evo Morales not present. There were some speeches which I was able to record but wasn't moved or very motivated by most of the speakers. The federal indigenous movement in Bolivia is not like it was during Morales's first term. It's clear from the blockades and protests around the country that the public is loosing faith in their leader. Because of the recent protests there has been talk about a possible civil war between Morales supporters and grassroots organizations like miners, teachers and government unions. I hope that in these remaining three and half years of Morale's presidency that he can turn things around and give Bolivians the fire they once had during the 2005 elections. Bolivia as a country needs more guidance not just from its government but from its citizens.

Today's event seemed more of a formality then a celebration that was created by the administration.


The more moving speech was made by the
Minister of Culture.


Offering and prayers made to the Pachamama

During the national anthem. It sounded a lot like the Chilean one.
I would probably be shot dead if I was to say that on the streets.
Chile probably stole it from them - along with everything else.

Three generations - uniforms of war.


The entire day was filled with music.
It was clear that when the folkloric musicians
hit the stage their sound was made to be played
on the streets, not on the stage. These boys were
on the ground blowing and beating.
They sounded much better then the official
musical celebrations.

Day 26 - Palm Sunday

Arriving this morning at the crack of dawn with a brush of cool air hovering through the morning light I found myself with both palms together rubbing any kind of heat I could produce. Needing a bathroom after a nine and half hour overnight bus ride I paid my one Boliviano service charge and relieved my self with great satisfaction. Hungry and cold I ventured to one of the few counters which I could see was serving tea and hot cheese sandwiches. Pulling up a stole I immediately asked politely for a cup of black tea with no sugar. Looking at me oddly at my request for no sugar I very naturally replied that I was a diabetic. It always eases the pain of an explanation when I just say "soy diabetico" instead going on a long diatribe about how I am hypoglycemic. I wouldn't even know how to say hypoglycemia in Spanish let alone explain it. So as I slurp my tea with my still damaged lower lip, that hint of cinnamon which all black teas have here in Bolivia is hitting the spot. Once I get my cup a young gay Bolivian man orders a hot chocolate milk with the same melted cheese sandwich. After passing him the cup of hot chocolate he requests some sugar. Quickly, to preserve her condiments, the lady at the counter pipes up "it is already sweet." Even quicker then her reply he says "it's okay, I'm a diabetic." She throws me a look of confusion as to say "What the hell is a diabetic really?" Embarrassed I just shrug my shoulders, put my head down and continue with my tea. As I'm one third into my warm cup of goodness I receive my hot cheese sandwich which I very quickly inhale with intervals of warm tea slurps. Thanking the lady for something so simple yet so satisfying I exit the bus terminal laughing to myself "Diabetico!" Feeling good about being in a city I know really well I walk onto the streets with confidence. Almost 7:00am I make my way to the most important Franciscan church in La Paz. Enormous in its size I see people almost pushing their way into the front doors. A light goes off in my head "right, palm Sunday!" I immediately decide that I am going to prolong my arrival at my uncle's place and get inside that church. I b-line for the front standing with a packed church there are no available seats. The two main reason why I was so eager to attend was firstly for my mom because I miss her and secondly was to begin my research for the feature length fiction film I want to make in Bolivia - Pachamama. My main objective was to see Cholitas active in a Roman Catholic service just to confirm the intentions and beliefs that one of my character holds. As I walked in I was overwhelmed with how familiar palm Sunday is to my soul. I understood, in any language, exactly why a Catholic would be there. What the palms represent - the call and responses to every line of mass. It was equally important for the people who surrounded me to know that I respected why they were there. Fresh off the bus I had my medium size backpack with me so I easily came off as a very curious tourist. Being able to respond and say all the prayers because my mom's lessons to me as child before bed in Chile, I was right on cue. When I started to feel the eyes come off me I started to relax and look around. Every time I saw a Cholita in full worship I smiled and gained confidence in the characters I am creating through these confident stoic women. It's amazing how quickly yet so effortlessly I went from one cinematic frame of mind (the mines of Potosi) to these women. I guess I'm more surprised at how excited and amerced I find myself in both projects. As we come to my favourite part of the service when the priests asks us to turn to our neighbor to wish "peace be with you" I glow at the possibility to shake hands with these strangers. As to not over do it or his anyone with my luggage I remember when forced to attend church as a child, this was the part I enjoyed the most. Making a short but sincere physical connection with each person.
And today, I still do.

Day 25 - En Route

Leaving for La Paz tonight.
I start to tear up when thinking of leaving Potosi. Not because I will miss it but just because of what I´ve seen and what I am leaving. Hopefully, si dios quieras, our film will be financed and I will be back. The people at REAL DEAL TOURS have been my second family here and I feel very grateful to have known them.
Ciao Potosi.

Day 24 - Miners

Yesterday wasn’t very productive. I didn’t get any interviews, mostly because when I got up to the mines I couldn’t find my wing man Wilder the porter. The workers also looked busy and did not want my presence there. My busted lip was also burning like a ring of fire so I had to stay in the shade.

Today was good. I woke up feeling charged determined to get some interviews. It really is shocking how many tragic stories populate these mines. Just as we made our second last stop before heading up to El Cerro Rico a teenage boy got on the bus and sat next to me. The minute he came on I knew he was a miner that I wanted to speak with. Quit and to himself, he seemed like he was in a lot of emotional pain. Knowing this I became incredibly nervous to approach him. Generally everytime I’m near the miners a level of fear and respect falls over me that I have a hard time controlling. My palms start to sweat and getting out the first few question is really challenging. I offered him some of my coca leaves and we began to chat.


Walberto is a quit speaking 17 year old miner. Four years ago when he had to start working in the mines because his father, also a miner, got sick with silicosis.Three years later he died. You could hear the pain in Walberto’s voice while he answered some simple questions in a mix of Quachua and Spanish. Elareon, his older brother, went to Argentina once his father got sick to send money home for to pay for his medical bills. His mother sells chicharones on the streets to put food on the table for Walberto’s four younger brother who’s age range from two to seven. I asked him if he ever wanted to go to Argentina to see his brother “no, why would I? It’s too hot there and they would be mean to me. Racist and call me names.” I then asked “is there anything else that you would to do with your life?” He very quietly replied “no. This is what I do.” I later asked Wilder the porter about him and he told me that he is mourning the death of his father. “He’s very quiet. Very sad. He and his older brother’s wages support his mother and four younger brother. He’s always sad.”


Near the end of the day I met Daniel aka Bolivar. All the miners call him Bolivar because he’s the activist of the bunch. The complete opposite of Walberto, Daniel talked so much I couldn’t even get a question in our interview. Rapidly and enthuastically telling me about how he left Argentina and came back to his home land to do something about the current political situation in Potosi. A musician in his third year inside El Cerro Rico he is currently financing his first album from his mining wages.

Just before I left for dinner I caught up with Wilder. I asked for his advice on how I could gain the trust of the miners if we were to film there. We brainstormed about cooking a dinner for everyone and their families. The more we spoke about the miner’s the more their kids kept popping up and what they’re lacking in their lives. I suggested that in the evenings during our month long shoot that we could take a couple of hours, maybe three or four days a week and teach them something. Possibly English, computer skills or music. The more we spoke the more I realized that I didn’t want to do the easy thing and just get the miners wasted to get their trust and thank them for filming. I started to realizing that giving something back to their community was just as important as making this documentary.

Day 23 - Film Anxiety

I woke up this morning sweating with my lips burning – the night was as cold as ever. Sweating because I had a bad dream about making a film in Bolivia. Lips burning because my lower lip had finally burst from sun blisters in Uyuni that I never mentioned. The dream mostly surrounded this fictitious president who had scales of bones over the curvatures of his body like his forehead, eyebrows and the bridge of his nose. He was a former miner and said that he was not going to kill me but haunt me forever in my dreams if I miss lead anyone in the films I created. This brought even more anxiety to the film I was currently trying to finish where a huge fight stirred up on the set that I was leading. For some reason El Huaso hadn't concluded its filming. Finishing off some scenes in my old film-school’s studio, I had hired some students to volunteer to ease the stressful load. One of them was an old classmate from grade school named Tim Duncan. The entire Duncan family were fighters and if they thought you crossed any line with them, even if you didn’t know what that line was, they would come at you hard. After some blow up on set about paint, lights and getting some work done I lost it and I could see it in Tim Duncan’s eyes that I had crossed that line. Storming off that set all I could think about was that now in my dreams and in reality I would never be alone – both the scaly Bolivian president and Tim Duncan were after me. Scared out of my mind with a baseball bat in my hand, practicing my swing to a human head or limb, I walked the parks of Montreal hoping not to run into the ghost of Bolivia or anyone of the Duncans. As I reached a basketball court at Jean Mance park, where a group of women were having a tournament on the tennis courts - I felt safer. That still wasn’t enough for my fears of the Duncan family or what awaited me that night after I fell asleep. It was after that anxiety ridden realization that I woke up in a sweat. I couldn’t get back to sleep.