La Paz, Bolivia
A love for photography, ducks and batteries.
That’s what I remember about my grandfather.
When I graduated with my bachelor’s I didn’t know what to do.
I would look at job posts all day but I never cared for anything.
I remembered my mother would always threaten my siblings and I with a trip to Bolivia if we didn’t behave as children.
I decided to finally accept that challenge.
My grandfather was sick with dementia and Parkinson’s disease so I wanted to help my grandmother take care of him.
I don’t think he ever remembered who I was but that wasn’t the point.
I just wanted to be there and help.
He would always ask me about a party that was going to happen.
“How many people are coming?”
“Did anyone call about the party?”
“Is everyone downstairs?”
Typical party questions.
At first I’d always tell him there was no party.
But after a while I decided to humor him and go along with his stories.
“100!”
“50!”
“80!”
His face would always light up.
He’d laugh and say that’s too many. But I wanted to see his reaction.
It was hard to see him this way.
My mother always talked highly of her father. How everyone loved him because he was 6 feet tall and healthy.
He was a big man for Bolivian standards.
Yet the man who sat in front of me was fragile.
He was much smaller, thin and shuffled across the floor with his slippers.
He was different.
I would wake up everyday around noon and go eat breakfast, or lunch for them at least, with my grandparents.
I did my rounds around the house but couldn’t find him.
I asked my grandmother but she didn’t know where he was.
My aunt and cousin left for work so he couldn’t have gone anywhere.
Searched the entire house and he was still missing.
I felt guilty.
Back to my grandmother with the update.
We go to search the house again.
Nothing. Still no gramps.
She starts to panic a little.
La Paz is very hilly. There are a lot of steep streets so for an old 80-year-old man to be wandering around by himself would be very dangerous.
One misstep and he could break multiple bones.
We continue our search.
We’re looking out the windows. Calling his name and hoping we can spot him on the street.
Still no luck.
Then I finally look down from the main window by the front door.
Bingo.
His little slippers were sticking out.
I tell my grandmother I found him and run downstairs grabbing my camera on the way out.
Bolivian houses are different.
People build one level and leave it alone. Then when they have kids they start to build more levels so that their kids can move in to the floors above when they get married.
My grandparents have a four story home. Each level is it’s own apartment.
The fact that my grandfather got down two flights of stairs without getting injured is amazing.
Or even being seen for that matter.
He goes on to tell me he wanted some fresh air.
My grandmother starts yelling at us in Spanish from above.
He just smiles and watches the street.
Looking for any excitement or movement to catch his eyes.
I start snapping away.
My purpose? To get a portrait of him and his house that he loved so much.
My mother told me he would wake up early and wash the graffiti off every morning.
I wanted to capture this moment.
The grand escape of an 82-year-old man.
This would end up being his final portrait.
He died later that year after I left.
Yet that little smile on his face says it all.
Sitting in his pajamas, no teeth and his beanie still on from when he went to bed the night before.
Complete bliss.
This is my favorite final memory of him.
Just a happy man sitting in front of his home.
Rest In Peace.
