day 7 / return home

My last day of filming in La Paz was easily my favorite. We got to go to Marlene's home. We picked her up in La Plaza, and all hopped into the cab: Monique and Guillermo in the front, Fabio and me in the back, Marlene squashed in the middle. The city is all hills and the car struggled like hell. I'm 240, Fabio around 230. Then you've got the driver, and the three others; plus the fact that the car was about 50 years old. That ain't the best equation for speed. We covered that ground at about 2 miles an hour. But we finally got there.

Where Marlene lives is about 3 or 4 hundred meters above La Paz. You would think that when you get to 13,000 feet above sea level, 3 or 4 hundred would make much of a difference. High is high right? But I can tell you that it absolutely does. Fabio and I were just about getting used to all this heavy breathing, slow walking, leg cramping stuff when here we were feeling like it was Day 1 all over again. Marlene hopped out of the car like a spring chicken and bounced down some steps. 'Slow down,' Fabio said to her, as he gulped some air. Marlene slowed down and we followed. We probably looked like a couple of pensioners. She took us down this little dirt road. To the right was a little shack. She let out a loud whistle and a little boy of 10 or 11 appeared. It was Santiago, her son. He walked toward us, moving freely along a little path about 3 or 4 feet wide. Off the edge of it was a pretty nasty drop onto a pile of wood, that could easily lead to a broken leg or worse. Why does what awaits you at the bottom of a cliff always have to cause damage. It's never a big soft pile of sand, or some welcoming bushes, or water. It's always a sharp pile of sticks, or thorns, or hard concrete. Anyway, Fabio and I followed nervously behind, taking each step tremendous precision. 'I'm getting married next month,' Fabio said, and peered over the cliff. 'Let's just take this nice and slow.'

'Hey I'm already married,' I said. 'AND I got a kid. No need to rush this one. Nice and easy.' Marlene and Santiago looked back and giggled at us.

After what felt like an eternity we finally made it to her home. It was a run down shack, surrounded by laundry drying on a line. A dog lay next to a pile of bricks about as still as a corpse, while another hiding inside a makeshift doghouse, growled at us and showed his teeth. Marlene told him to shoot up and he did. She barked some orders at Santiago to tidy up, and he did it without hesitation. Back on the streets of San Francisco she was looked down upon, pitied, invisible. But here, in her home, however modest it may have been, she was queen. Her two dogs, her cat, and her son would not dare disobey. She opened the door and we peered inside: two single beds against the walls, without about a foot between. An old television, a poster of the wrestlers in the WWE, a scatter of dirty old socks on the ground, and that's about it. Five people lived in this room. Can't imagine how one person could find it comfortable let alone five.

'I have a modest life,' she says. 'No running water, no gas, I have nothing. But as long as I have my children at my side I have everything I need.' She smiles and picks up her cat from the neck the way its mother must have done. Everything is done with tough love. She will kiss her son and then smack him on the back of the head. Hug him and then push him away. Maybe the boy will thank her for teaching him this. If there is anybody that will need to be tough it is him. Because in less than 5 years he too will be pitied, and belittled, he too will be invisible. Because there is no doubt in my mind that he too will become a lustrabota. He will enter a society, which has no respect for him, which does not care about him. He will need every ounce of hardness he can muster to deal with this. Santiago drinks from a bucket of water that they also use to clean the floor, and exhales in delight as if he had just gulped down a sweet glass of lemonade. I keep thinking about relativity. If he had never tasted that lemonade that I have in my mind, if he had never dined in some swanky Parisian restaurant, or eaten delicious sushi in Miami, or tasted a delicious curry in London, then maybe bucket of dirty water tasted to him like a glass of Arizona Iced Tea would taste to me. Or maybe he was just playing it up for the camera, as his mother had obliquely instructed with the odd wink and hand gesture, when our backs were turned to her. Marlene, the peformer. In another life she would have been an actress, or a musician, something with a stage. She has an innate sense of timing and tone. I'm sure some documentarians will be disappointed that I reveal this, but there is a peformative element to this form of filmmaking. Yes you are meant to silently observe, and document reality. But there is the rare occasion where you must engage your subject, have them do things which might not seem real, but will appear 'real' on screen. For instance, we really wanted to see her journey on this narrow path. So we asked her to walk it three or four times, so that we can get it from different angles. Who in their right mind would walk the same path 3 or 4 times. That isn't 'real'. But when you watch it it will appear seemless. The point I'm trying to make, I guess, is that Marlene was about as good as anyone I had ever met at 'playing ball'. And every single time she walked that path, or folded clothes, or brushed her teeth it rang true, it was undoubtedly authentic. While she has never spent one minute in a drama school, she has all the tools of performance at her disposal. She can emote at will, improvise. Her stage was the street. And her review didn't come from some newspaper critic, but instead from the pedestrians of la Plaza. If they liked her performance they'd put their shoe on her box, let her shine them, and paid her a few coins. If they didn't they'd walk past and she'd starve. I can't imagine a better incentive to learn to perform than that. And she has been doing it 18 years so I'd say she is pretty good.

After filming, we returned to La Paz to do some filming, and then later we went for dinner at this Argentinian restaurant where I saw the biggest steak in my life. It was about the size of a surfboard and fed 10 people. We had a nice time, ate good food, then said our good-byes. That is our trip done. Now I have returned to London, with 11 hours of footage, which I must craft with Daniel into a trailer. Will post it up as soon as it's done.

day 6

Today we returned to meet Marlene. She was in a cheerful mood. We put a radio mic on her and we did some filming of her walking through La Plaza de San Francisco. She also showed us the contents of her box, which as I mentioned earlier is borrowed. It featured a photograph of her son and nephew, polish, rags, coins, and various tins of creams. Her hands are in very bad condition, the nails look painful. I can't imagine the type of infections they must get, when the polish gets into the open wounds. After showing us the contents of her box we took a walk around the area. While filming this her nephew approached her with a swollen eye and a plastic bag filled with rice and chicken. The two put down the shoeshine boxes and sat down in the middle of the sidewalk. 'Who hit you,' she asked, while he tore open the bag and scooped out a ball of rice with his hand and stuffed it in his mouth. He looked up and sported a pretty nasty bruise on his eye.

'Nobody,' he said. Marlene tore off a chunk of the chicken and ate it, and so did he. She kept pressing him to tell her who hit him, but the more she asked the softer his voice got, till it was almost a whisper. After a while the two got up and went their separate ways. Marlene was clearly sad, almost on the verge of tears. I think she must experience more emotions in one day than most people do in a year. Her pace was slow now, her shoulders sadly hunched, her feet trudging along the pavement, her shoeshine box dangling from her blackened fingers. If there was a crater in the ground I'm pretty sure she would have jumped into it in that moment. But there was no crater, just the sidewalk, which led her back to probably the last place on Earth she felt like being: La Plaza.

After filming Marlene we went for lunch at a local restaurant frequented mainly by foreigners (Brits and Americans). We all had the same dish: steak sandwich, fries, and a Mocha Cooler milkshake. Then Fabio and I bought gifts for our wives and returned to San Francisco where Cynthia was waiting, fresh wounds across her cheeks. She had cut herself last night. Her reason? She had attacked her boyfriend Milton and cut him. And he told her that since he now had a scar she should have one too. So if she did not cut herself he would leave her. So she did- with a piece of glass. While interviewing her a police woman interrupts her and brings her to the prison, just a few hundred yards away. I've been told it can be very tricky dealing with the police over here so Fabio and I hang back and try to shoot it from far away. But they are moving quick, fading deeper and deeper within the crowd. The only thing that I manage to pick out is Cynthia's scarf, a bright pink. She wears it at all times, and uses one of the corners to soak in glue, which she then inhales pretty much every time I've seen her. But that scarf, even in that crowd, that scarf was impossible to miss. It reminded me of the girl in the red coat in Spielberg's Shindler's List, the only spot of colour in an otherwise dark sea of faces, jackets, boots, hair.

We followed them into the buiding and spoke to the officers. They explained that she had robbed someone and so had been arrested. I peered down a small hallway and saw her pacing in a tiny jail cell. She looked tired and disinterested. Fabio asked if we could speak to one of the officers on camera but to no avail. We didn't want to push these guys, so left it. An hour later Cynthia was out, still sniffing her scarf. 'I was scared,' she said, 'I didn't want them to take me'. We ended things there and joined Monique and Guillermo. Guillermo is the cousin of Luis. He is a studious young man of 19 and has a knack for learning the equipment. In only four days he has already learnt how to assemble and take apart the camera, set up the tripod, hook up the radio mics, and use the reflector. The guy has become Fabio's camera assistant with no training whatsoever.

While we were shooting the breeze we saw four children playing with two dead rats. It had to be one of the most unsettling images we had seen. They picked it up by the tail and swung it around, and then tossed it towards each other's mouth's to see who could gross the other out most. They started smashing the rat with a huge stone, and then they'd peel off the tiny corpse with their finges. Fabio was horrified, and had them come over, and poured an entire bottle of anti-bacterial cream into their hands. After witnessing that he said he felt like he needed to take a shower in the stuff.

Day 5

Today we spoke to Isabel Villalobos, president of the Fundacion arte y culturas Bolivianos. For the past five years they have been working with the lustrabotas, and one of their most exciting projects is the newspaper they produce, which ostensibly gives them a voice, a means of raising awareness about their circumstances. The papers sell for 4 Bolivianos (around $.50) and the lustras keep all profits. She got the idea from her son Jaime. While a student in the UK he had noticed a similar practice in which newspapers were distributed by the homeless. He brought the idea back home and it has become one of the bright spots of their organization. It is very clear to see this woman cares deeply about the shoeshiners, she looks at them as if they were her own children. She gets particularly upset when speaking of one of the ones that she lost. He was a young man she had been working with for over a year. And he had committed suicide. Another one fell asleep on train tracks and was run over by a train.

Following our interview with Isabel we had some lunch then headed to San Francisco to meet Cynthia and bring her to meet her son. Unfortunately, Cynthia was completely wasted, sniffing glue through her pink scarf. She was totally incoherent and so we couldn't go. Instead we Marlane, a woman of 35 who could easily pass for 55. She is missing all of her front teeth and most of the ones on the bottom.

She is a great character. She introduced herself as Marlane Maria Conshita Rodriguez Marita Bonita Malita Sanchita Gonzalez Santiago, and let out a big old laugh. She has a tremendous sense of humor, a natural performer, constantly playing up to the camera. I'd say as a lustrabota this can be very handy- in the 45 minutes we spent with her she had five customers. She has the kind of charm that can't be taught, and had the men and women who lay their feet on her little box, smiling the whole time. So not only did they get shiny shoes, they also were entertained. I'd say that's a bargain for just a few Bolivianos. Sitting next to Marlane was her son Johnathon, a little rascal who chewed bright pink gum that filled his entire mouth. I think he must have had five pieces in there. He said he wants to be a police officer, which drew a look a shock from Marlane. The police are seen as the number one enemy of the lustras. I asked him if he worried about the fact that his mother worked the streets. He said no, and Marlane playfully smacked the back of his head, 'You don't care about your mother, how dare you!', then threw a playful wink my way. Fluttering eyelashes, cheeky smiles, playful shadow punches, crocodile tears, were all part of her arsenal, all honed and sharpened through the 18 years she has spent working as a lustrabota. It was pure pleasure to speak to her. And then, out of no where, as unexpected and sudden as a lightening bolt, she started to cry. 'It is so hard, so hard. When I have no work it makes me so sad.' And then, just as quickly she stopped crying, and wiped away her tears. There were five shoeshiners to her right; she could not show weakness. As a woman she must be twice as tough as the men. Any vulnerability would undoubtedly be exploited. In fact less than 10 minutes after that moment, one of the men had started harassing her, complaining that she was using the wrong shoeshine box. They cost 300 Bolivianos (about $30) and so she must borrow someone else's. I wonder, though, if his issue was the box, or was it that he saw her 'moment'.

After filming we returned home and almost immediately Fabio complained of feeling sick. He had terrible shivers, so we went to the supermarket and got some medicine. I think it must be a combination of the high altitude, the cold room, and maybe the steak he had for lunch. This place is very hard on the senses. I've been told it takes a week to get adjusted to the altitude, and that's if you use that week to do nothing but rest. And we have been working flat out. So it's been extra tough. Fabio's looking a lot better this morning, but we're going to start a bit later today so he can recharge his batteries.

Day 4

I'm starting to think more and more that this film should be called the Shoeshine Girls. I just can't help being drawn into their stories. The majority of the men I have come across, they have no dependents, no one relying on them to put food in their mouths, shelter over their heads. So if they fall, they fall alone. By no means am I suggesting that the men have given up because no one needs them. But I cannot deny the resilience of the women I have met, all of whom are mothers. The image of a lustrabota cradling her little boy on a street corner, of her trying to feed him whatever scraps she can find, is a testament to the power of the maternal instinct. These women are low, about as low as you could possibly go, and yet, they are still holding on. Perhaps a dream is too far for them to reach. Maybe hope is as well. But they are trying like hell to cling to reality. They can't give their children a good life, but the least they can do is keep them alive. And they keep it together just enough to achieve this.

Day 3

Sleep is still a little patchy. I think it may have a lot to do with the fact that temperatures, in the evening, drop to sub zero, and there is no heating in the room. I have three huge covers made of animal fur, which keep me warm. But if I have to get out of bed in the middle of the night it feels like I have just walked into a pool of ice. The bottle of water I have in the room couldn't be any colder if you put it in the fridge. Fabio and I wake up 8ish and have breakfast with Luis and Martha. We eat scrambled eggs, and bread with delicious home-made apricot jam. Have never tasted anything like it. I tell them that they could make a fortune off it in England.

After breakfast we head into San Francisco and meet Cynthia. She is 20 years old and has been working on the streets for years. Despite her hardship it is easy to see she is a pretty girl. That is not the case for most of them. I met a woman yesterday who was 31 but could easily pass for 55. Men in their late 20s look like they are in their 40s. Children in their early teens look 20s. The streets make them age very fast. I still haven't found stats on their life expectancy but if they look like this in their 30s I can't imagine it to be very long. But Cynthia, despite the scars along her cheek, despite the stains across her hands and face, despite the weathered look in her eyes, has still retained beauty. The interview with her was tough to manage as several lustrabotas stood behind, constantly scoping out our equipment. So I had to keep one eye on the kit and one on the interview. One boy started picking up rocks and hurling them into the air while another kept picking up sticks and swinging them around. It can be frustrating at times but it is hard to get too angry with them. If I were in their shoes I'd probably be doing the same. But somehow we managed.

Cynthia talked to us about how she got started as a lustrabota, and of the discrimination she faces on a daily basis from those who look down on her. And she spoke of her 2 year old son, who lives with her grandmother. She rarely gets to see him. Her hope for him is that he will end up having a life better than her own, that he will go to school, get educated, and have a good job. We are hoping to take her to visit him on Tuesday. Tomorrow she is playing in a championship futbol game. We have been invited to come watch her play.

After Cynthia we interviewed Ines again with her family. Her husband had a very painful wound on the left side of his face, the result of a beating he received earlier. He could barely open his eyes. While we spoke to them her children drank little cartons of juice. They'd race around, fall, cry, then pick themselves up and dust themselves off. Whether they wanted to or not they have had to learn to self-soothe. They have no choice really. The plan is to meet Ines and her family again on Wednesday. So the schedule is starting to look set.

After filming we bought some flowers for Martha as it's her birthday today. She put out a really impressive spread feeding about 12, 15 people. One of her sons was sporting the England shirt we bought him as a gift. Shame it couldn't help them against Germany.

Bolivia Day 1 and 2

After a very long 24 hour journey from London, I finally arrived in La Paz, Bolivia. Everyone that has traveled here has warned me of the effects of the altitude (13,000 feet above sea level), so I was very conscious of this. In fact, I put in a little extra training in Brazilian Jiu Jitsu in the month prior to prepare me specifically for this. Apparently, you are meant to feel the lack of oxygen the second you walk off the plane. I felt ok though, a little short of breath but that was it. As I was waiting in immigration I saw two women receiving oxygen from a mask. And then I met Fabio, my cinematographer, who said that he too had felt ok the first couple days, but was now feeling the effects: rapid heartbeat, shortness of breath, soreness throughout the body, dehydration. And sure enough the next day it kicked in. Even the most mundane of activities leaves you short of breath. Also, I always feel thirsty. And I have some swelling in the legs. I am told it wears off after a couple days so fingers crossed.

All symptoms aside, we still managed a productive day. In the morning we went to San Francisco, the town centre, to shoot some shots of the city. La Paz is full of energy. Buses swirl through the streets with passengers leaning out of the doors screaming out the destinations, women stand under large umbrellas offering exotic fruits and home-made juices, drivers beep and honk and cut in front of each other, then curse each other. There is constant motion. And surrounding this place are mountains all around. They are pretty breathtaking. This city is made for the camera.

After a couple hours filming we headed back to our host family to rest and then returned later in the afternoon to meet the lustrabotas for the first time with Monique of Creative Corners, who has been a tremendous help in lining everything up for us over here. We met eight of them, ranging from nine to 25 in age. They were a great group, tremendous sense of humour despite the sadness they live with. And boy what sadness. Many of them are self-harmers and showed us horrific scars across their arms and faces. They are all homeless and lived on the street. They claim that 'la calle es mi familia'. Due to the extreme poverty they live in many are forced to rob and steal. They tried to pick our pockets while we interviewed them which made for a comical scene if not slightly unsettling scene.

I found it particularly difficult, as a father, to speak to Ines, who lives on the street with her husband and three children. Her son, only two, was eating grains of rice out of a little cardboard container. His hands were stained, as was his face. It makes me laugh a little at myself and my wife at how precious we are at times with our son; the boy has yet to taste non-organic meat in his life! But I know this is all relative.

After our brief interviews with the lustrabotas we met Victor, an ex-lustrabota who is now in university and trying to start a business as a tour guide. Nobody would know those streets better than he would. He was incredibly eloquent and articulate, and spoke very movingly about his past, about the shame attached to this profession, about the secrecy. In essence he had to live a double life because he did not want anyone to know what he did for a living. Many of his friends are now dead either from alcohol, drugs, or violence. He is one of the lucky few that was able to make it out. We plan to meet with him again on Monday in the centre of La Paz where he will give us a guided tour of the streets he once worked. Tomorrow we will return to San Francisco and meet the lustrabotas again.

Bolivia Beard

I have decided to grow a beard. There is a conscious reason for this. I’ve been told the beard is slenderizing. But there is also, probably, a subconscious reason too. I think part of me is calling on the spirit of Che Guevara, hoping maybe he will watch over the soul of a fellow Cuban as I embark for Bolivia, where I plan to make a documentary about lustrabotas (shoeshine boys) in one months time.

I think of him a lot in the preparations for my trip to this country, the last place anyone saw him alive, almost 50 years ago. Had he never lived I would not be here, in London, planning to document stories of deprived Bolivians. My father would never have exiled. Instead he’d probably be working in some Havana Casino as a cleaner looking after rich Mafioso. Well that is if my imagination serves me right. But Guevara did live. And he did overthrow a corrupt regime. And he did fight to bring equality. And he did become an icon.

I can't say that Cuba is better off based on his work. There is terrible poverty there, and many live with the gaping hole in their hearts created by exile, myself included. While he and Castro intended to do good, there were many who suffered and still do. This I believe is a consequence of the enormous gap between how Communism reads on paper and how it reads in real life. On paper it reads like a wonderful idea, a can't miss. But in reality it has never worked.

But you have to respect the revolutionary spirit of Che. The fearlessness. The conviction. The determination. I'd like to think that had I lived at that time, I would have followed him right into the forests of La Paz, the highest capital city in the world, that I would have braved conditions not meant for man, that I would have fought, and killed, and rode the wave of the revolution wherever it might have taken me, even if it had taken me to the grave. But since I cannot I will try to do the next best thing: grow a beard. I call it my Bolivia Beard.