Day 3 - Security Blanket

Last night I arrived late into Potosi and the festival (Macha /Tinku) that I came early for was that very same day. I would have had to leave Toronto a day earlier in order to just make the bus that left in the very early morning at 5:00am. It was worth staying in Toronto one extra day based on what I accomplished. I was also happy to share breakfast with my sisters and parents just before departing. Getting in late and entering Potosi at 8:00pm today also mean't that I would have to grab whatever hostel was available. The overpriced, dark and lifeless room that chose me didn't bring me down but only because I know that I could escape it the very next day. A general sadness encompasses the Potosi air but it's really no different then some of the dark corners that I've experienced in rural or urban Quebec. It's that general winter melancholy but without the snow. My heart is filled with a lot of hard joy being in Potosi but mostly because, throughout the years, it has become a second home. The former miners that give tours and who are the main source of my contacts amongst the mining community are my security blanket. When things are hard and I feel down or shy, I hide behind them and they protect me. Although they don't know this, it's the optimism they breed that keeps me balanced in Potosi. They don't know it but I owe them a lot.  

Day 2 - Toronto to Potosi: Part II

As I boarded my flight to Miami, I was very exhausted and knew that the seven hour flight would mostly consist of me sleeping. Slowly waking up with knots in my neck some six hours later, we were close approaching La Paz, Bolivia, my original stop for this leg of the trip. As the pilot came on the intercom and announced to the passengers that one of the breaks on the plane was not working, everyone stopped preparing their belongings. Passengers gasped and murmured amongst each other while the pilot informed us that we could not arrive safely in the high altitude city of La Paz without both break and we were therefore being re-directed to a city even closer to my destination, Santa Cruz, Bolivia. Knowing that I had just saved some time and money on this dangerous error on the part of American Airlines, I smiled in amazement and slowly went back to sleep. To be honest, in the past I was always sickened by the thought of spending any time in very wealthy city of Santa Cruz because of the chronic racism that has bleached the city's psyche. Harnessed by the long standing exploitation of their natural resources, such as natural gas, their long lineage of western European colonial rule is palpable the minute you step off the plane. To experience this in a country where 80% of the citizens are indigenous Bolivians, was to me, a brand of culture shock I assumed never existed. This unexpected stop had me quickly buying a direct plane ticket to Sucre, the last stop before my final destination. With another four hour layover, I needed to eat. After an expensive breakfast and SKYPE conversation with the love of my life, I was incredibly surprised at how WIFI has progressed in Bolivia since my trip last year. Disgusted by the sort of, "I'm rich you're not" attitude I've seen in large Latin American cities, I cringed and became saddened by every stuck up "white lady" who clearly had indigenous Bolivian blood in her, which I assumed was ashamed to acknowledge. It was confirmed further more by how some of these "white ladies" treated the indigenous Bolivian wait staff that worked at the airport restaurant. The last time I felt that level of contempt and racism in the air, was when I got gas at a Love's truck stop in rural Kentucky, 8 years ago. This attitude continued till just after my arrival in the 2200 meter above sea level city of Sucre.  Still tired, I arrived sleepy eyed in Sucre. As we got off the plane and onto the tarmac, on our walk towards the airport terminal, I noticed an enormous amount of people waiting on the roof of a large building adjacent to the airport. In the hot Bolivian sun I also spotted dozens of military police in full armour and fatigues, dressed to kill. I was immediately intimidated and decided to leave the scene in a cab to the Sucre bus terminal. As I approached the front entrance of the airport, I was swarmed by a school of taxi drivers asking me if I wanted a ride. I rejected all of them and walked towards the only taxi driver who didn't pester me. I asked how much to the bus terminal and he said 30 bolivianos. I knew it was too high but I wasn't in any state of mind to negotiate. He seemed pleasant and we spoke along the way. As we approached the bus terminal I asked about all the security at the airport. He causally told me that the crowd and the police were waiting for a man who killed 56 people and was being taken into custody. I asked for more questions and Alvaro began to tell that the man had been a contract killer for the rich and escaped from prison almost a year ago. Having just been captured in a small town about 100km away from Sucre, he was being taken back to prison. Currently, it was only 12:30pm, with plenty of time to catch the killers walk and make a three hour bus ride to Potosi before nightfall. I immediately asked Alvaro to go back to the airport. With my thirst for this story and Alvaro's foot on the gas leading the chase to get us back to the airport on time to catch this murder, I ultimately didn't really know why I was doing this. For some strange reason, it felt right. When we arrived, the rumour which was circulating around this very small airport was that the prisoner was on his way to a high security prison in La Paz or Santa Cruz and will be arriving in 15 minutes.  Alvaro agreed to wait for me and once I got to experience the arrival of this killer, we would be on our way to the Sucre bus terminal. One hour, two, three hours had passed and no killer. I realized that in Bolivia, no matter what is occurring; civil war, protests, bringing a mass murder into custody, Bolivians always stopped what they were doing and had lunch. On the internet, with yet again another impressive Bolivian WIFI experience, I heard screaming and running. By the sudden stampede of people going to the closest window they could find, I knew the killers plane had arrived. Positioning myself by the window of the only airport restaurant, I stood there with all the press photographers I befriended during the three hour wait. As they escorted him out of the plane we all just started shooting, taking pictures in rapid successions, with no idea of what would happen next. When the killer was out of sight, dozens of people, myself included, dangerously raced and screamed in fear and excitement down the stairs to the front door for a better look. With all the media gathered in one spot at the front door, begging for them to open it for a better picture, a government representative came to the glass and told us that only the press would be invited in to take pictures and footage of the prisoner. A rush of adrenaline poured through my body. I was surrounded by my new photographer friends and because of the gear I was carrying, I pretended to be part of the press core, making my way back inside luggage claim. All I could think of as we entered the close proximity of this serial killer was a phrase my uncle, who had married a Bolivian woman, always uttered, "anything is possible in Bolivia.

Head of Federal Police

SWAT Team Waits For Prisoner

Press Conference

Head of Federal Police Addresses Press

Prisoner Is Brought To The Press 

Prisoner Presented To The Press For Three Minutes

Prisoner Escorted Back Onto The Plane

Press Gets Last Glimpse Of Prisoner

Prisoner Boards The Plane

Day 1 - Toronto to Potosi: Part I

Having put behind me the incredible experience of presenting my first feature length film El Huaso at one of my favourite documentary festivals (Hot Docs), it was 12:30pm and my driver, kindly provided by the festival, had not arrived. As my father was just about to pick up his keys and take me to the airport himself, the phone rang with the assurance that my ride had arrived and was waiting for me downstairs. With my plane scheduled to take off at 2:45pm, I knew that doing anything but darting off to the airport was a huge risk. The problem was that I needed to make an essential pit stop at Trew Audio, in the opposite direction, for a microphone windscreen. While waiting for my ride, I called in advanced and asked the lovely people at Trew Audio to have the windscreen and all the paper work ready for me to pay and bolt. After running in and out of the shop in a panic with my windscreen, it was now 1:05pm and the very patient driver took me to the airport as fast as he possibly could.  I knew that with just the smallest speed bump, this could all go horribly wrong. On the highway finally en route to the airport, I decided to try and calm down. Assuming by his familiar head dress and neatly combed facial hair that the driver was Sikh, I asked him about a Sikh celebration that I saw taking place the other day on University Street in downtown Toronto. As he started to speak about the significance of this festival, his very soft and quiet voice relaxed me completely. With a 1:40pm arrival at the airport, almost traffic free, I thanked the driver profusely and ran directly to the American Airlines counter. Not seeing any line-ups, I immediately thought the worse, "they closed the check-in counter!" To my naive surprise, everything at American Airlines had now gone electronic. One woman stood there, helping twelve people, at twelve separate machines, efficiently receiving their boarding pass with just the scan of a passport. It worked perfectly and within less then five minutes, I entered customs with my boarding pass and three small carry-on bags in hand. While going through the humiliating process that is US customs, it was essential to breathe and embrace these humiliating formalities in order to arrive sanely at my Bolivian destination. With a 6:17pm  arrival in Miami and a four and half hour layover, I already had plans on how I was going to kill this time. Needing two extra 16G SD cards for my partial shot in Potosi, I jumped into a cab and went to the nearest photo shop I had researched. Having been in Miami many times during layovers to South America, I took a chance and greeted the cab driver in spanish. By his accent, I instantly knew his native land and was assured that a potentially interesting story may lay ahead. In actuality, I had no idea the magnitude of this Cuban man's struggle and how much he suffered in order to arrive and work legally in the United States. Once in the cab I realized that this photo shop could potentially be closed because of the flight's late arrival. "Eric" the cab driver was nice enough to call the photo shop but there was no answer. On a highway I've never experienced with the meter running, I asked the cab driver about the other photo shops I had on my list. He assured me that they were all at least 20 to 30 miles away. Disappointed, I gave up on the task of getting any SD cards and asked him to take me back to the airport. On our way, before we could turn around, I asked him if there were any places to eat in the area. As we exited the highway, he suggested Burger King or Taco Bell. Driving through an industrial neighbourhood, I could see my money pouring out of my pockets as I continued to stare at the meter. I suggested that he just drop me off at a decent restaurant in the area and just call it a day. He exclaimed to me in spanish "you don't want to get off here, it dangerous, too many dark people." I exclaimed back, "oyi oyi... tranquilo con eso, por favor." As we pounded through this industrial wasteland of Miami, I felt impotent and lost. Out of no where, the cabi remembered a Best Buy in the area. My ears perked up and I got excited. Hearing the panic and desperation in my voice, he said calmly in spanish "Listen, why don't we do this... you go into Best Buy and take your time. I'll give you half an hour, then we go back the airport and I'll only charge you $50.00." I knew right away that he was doing me a huge favour because the meter was already at $22.30. I accepted, relaxed and made our way to my new Mecca. Going through a small village of big box stores ranging from Target to a seafood wholesale company, we turned the corner and there sat my last chance, the glorious Best Buy. He parked and I ran into the store. Going right for the electronic section, I was in luck that the SD card I was looking for was on sale for $39.99. I quickly bought three and ran back to taxi. Hoping that my expedite purchase would grant me another stop at a small taco truck we saw on our way there, "Eric" was surprised at how quickly I bought the cards. He agreed to stop for some food and we continued to ride towards the airport. At this point I was relaxed and started to make conversation with him about politics and how he arrived in the US. Although clearly racist, he wasn't a Castro hater. I was mostly interested in his a-political stance on US-Cuban relations and how much he loved his motherland. "I love my country, I'm planning on going back there next month for a visit." I then asked "If you could, who would you vote in the next US election?" "I don't know politics... why would I vote for someone who wouldn't even dream of representing me. I have no voice regardless of my citizenship, therefore I have no vote." I then proceeded to the next obvious question, "how did you arrive here?" Any narrative he told me about how he immigrated into the US, I knew would be an incredible story but I was not ready for what he was about to so casually divulge.  Eight years ago, starting in Cuba, "Eric" flew with his wife to Bolivia with a counterfeit Bolivian visa, that was accompanied by a fake letter inviting him by the Bolivian government for some type of tourism training. The Cuban government allowed him to leave and stayed in Bolivia for six months, ironically enough working in the tourism industry. With his wife, he then made his way to Argentina for an almost five months extensive Latin American tour that was a front for his entry in the US. This journey took him to Chile, Peru, Costa Rica, Guatemala, finally ended up in Mexico. During this trip, he was arrested twice in Argentina and held at gun point by the Guatemalan police and only escaped by bribing his way out of all three accounts with money that was wired to him via Western Union by his family living in the US. Once in Mexico "Eric" took the bus to a northern Mexican town boarding Texas and crossed illegally by land. Almost shot, kidnapped and arrested with his wife still at his side, he finally made it to his family in Miami almost one year later. Accumulating a total debt of just over $30,000, which he now owes his family, "Eric" drives a cab for a living and has lined up meetings in 2013 with immigrant officials to bring his two daughters into the US legally. I very sincerely and enthusiastically congratulated him on his incredible feat of entering the US and asked him in spanish, "Was it all worth it?" Without even a beat, he answered "Yes, it was worth every penny."  All that kept going through my head was each leg of his trip and the other things he possibly left out. An immigration process that took him over a year of unpredictably dangerous travels, always running from something and finally owing more money that he has ever made in his life time living in Cuba. We sat in silence approaching the airport. My last thoughts before leaving "Eric" with a warm embrace a thought kept repeating in my head as I boarded my plane: Its incredible the lengths we're willing to go through, just to feel free.

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.