Saturday, June 18

Today was one of the celebration of El Gran Poder through the streets of La Paz. To the best of my knowledge, this is a religious festival where different clubs throughout the city each participate in a large parade. Some men dress in brightly colored costumes, wearing masks and carrying noise-makers of various sorts. Other clubs have brass bands or a collection of percussion instruments. Some clubs include beautiful young women wearing hardly any clothing who dance and flirt; others include older women in traditional Andean outfits who dance and look stern. And everyone is shit-canned. Everyone. Every time the music stops, men with bottles of rum fill up empty cups (for a price) and women with cans of beer fill empty hands. Pacenos start at 8 in the morning and go all day and then through the night.

There is so much energy and color and music. Of course tourists like me come out of our hotels and hostels to see the pageantry, but it is a festival for the citizens of La Paz, rich and poor alike. We are simply absorbed into the crowd of revelers like so many grains of sand on the beach.

Unfortunately, two grains of sand stole my fucking wallet and passport. I walked over the hotel where BK were staying, fighting the crowds, weaving into and out of the parade route. Partly the joy of feeling that the medication I took yesterday had finally cured me and partly the joy of the occasion dulled my senses.

I had too much to carry, too big a camera, too big a bottle of water. Too big a sign reading, “Steal my stuff.” I could have—should have—asked Ben to drop my wallet and passport and 300mm lens in his hotel room. Could have, but didn’t. So, a small man pretending to be drunk sauntered up in front of me and started backing into me. My right arm went down to protect the lens. My left arm went out to jam him in the back. A third arm would have covered my pocket, but alas, I left my third arm in the hostel—incidentally, another place I could have left my passport and wallet. Instead, my pocket was picked by an accomplice. In the seconds it took to happen, they disappeared into the crowds and through the labyrinth of alleys. I walked the parade route hoping to see the one who bumped into me. I walked the back alleys hoping they would have just taken the money from my wallet, but tossed the passport. No luck.

It is important to make something clear. Although being robbed is a terrible feeling and having to replace a passport is bothersome, this is not a moment that would ruin my trip or change my perception of Bolivians as warm and welcoming people. Shit happens and it largely could have been prevented on my part by acting smarter. Oh well.