So, a few days before I left La Paz, I got a tattoo. I suppose it was a long time coming. Quite a few of my tatuador friends had offered free services over the last year and a half, and in the end, as Juaquin told me, I just couldn't leave the country without some ink. So, in the parlance of tattoo culture in La Paz, I become one of the "con."
It was not a decision I made lightly, but one I had been thinking about since my sister visited in June. She wanted to add to her growing collection of inked art, but in the end we ran out of time. However, this set me thinking about if I might want something, what I might want, where I might put it, and who might be my artist.
Since I arrived in La Paz the first time in 2009, I have had a bit of a love affair with Illimani, the beautiful mountain that towers over La Paz. In fact, his picture has graced a number of blog entries here. Some of my favorite places in the city have a view of the mountain, and I always feel lucky when I'm allowed to be alone while viewing him. Its something of a centering mechanism. When I'm frustrated, confused, troubled, or even relieved or happy, it always feels better to stare at Illimani, meditatively. And on cloudy days, when the view's obstructed or he just appears to be another fluffy cloud in a blue sky, I'm a bit disappointed.
And so, my desire to be able to see Illimani at all times--even when its cloudy, even when I'm far away--made it the perfect choice. And my wrist seemed like the perfect place. Easy to see whenever I want. More visible to me than others. But easily covered by the watch that I go crazy without.
But the question of who was possibly the most difficult. And obvious choice would be Edwin, owner of Tito's. But then there was Andres who had become my best friend in the last few months. And Hugo had drawn up possible tattoos for me before, unsolicited. Both Diego and Caro had run off to Argentina to tattoo there for a stint, so they were out, and Gonz was in an argument with Edwin and had left the shop. Everyone told me to go with the best artist, but I knew it was only a line. And I knew the politics would catch up with me. So, I went with the underdog, my old friend Alé who had just set up a studio on the floor beneath his apartment. I hesitated for a number of reasons, but I knew in the end my loyalty lied with him.
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