Adventures in Bolivia
Culinary and Otherwise
written by: Ken Weiss
Introduction
We were hungry, eight of us, trapped in a small hotel in Sucre, Bolivia. Outside, in the streets, was a loud demonstration by local residents, watched by law officers and thick with tear gas. Yet, through a window, we saw a pizza restaurant that was still open. One of us had to go there, and I volunteered. How that turned out, we will soon see.
It was early in 1987 when I traveled to La Paz to work on a project for the U.S. Agency for International Development (USAID). My team was to provide financing and technical assistance to small industries everywhere except the cities of La Paz, Santa Cruz, and Cochabamba. The idea was to diversify the location of businesses. We worked with a small group of Bolivians and traveled throughout the country.
The City of La Paz
My family members decided to stay in the U.S. until the school year ended, so I arrived alone to the 12,000-foot-high airport in the city of El Alto, up a long hill from La Paz. There were stories about the airport, like that of a small plane that carried meat from another part of the country. It was too heavy to fly in the thin air and simply fell to the runway. Oxygen and coca tea were available in the terminal and were frequently used. Fortunately, I had no breathing problems.
I was pleasantly surprised to find that USAID had provided me with a large, furnished house in the suburb of Achumani, at a mere 9,000 feet in altitude. A small shopping center was a few blocks away. My main interests there were handicrafts and “marraquetas,” or little rolls, crunchy, fragrant, and highly satisfying. With butter and jelly, an egg, and coffee, one had a true feast.
I commuted to our group’s office in La Paz by “trufi,” a taxi, usually a Volkswagen Beetle, that traveled on a fixed route and carried as many people as could squeeze in. I was often sandwiched in the back seat between two “cholitas,” a name for Aymara or Quechua women with many petticoats, skirts to their ankles, and tiny bowler hats. Their bags of goods to sell added to the crowding.
La Paz was laid out on a long slope with businesses on each side of a broad avenue and residences behind them. Walking down was easy, but walking up was a chore. There was no shortage of stores and restaurants, nearly all of which offered a luncheon special for a few “Bolivianos.” The specials consisted of soup, meat of any kind, rice, potatoes, dessert, and coffee.
A specialty in La Paz and elsewhere was “salteñas,” a sort of empanada with gravy inside. I learned about the gravy during a meeting when I bit into a salteña and splattered both myself and a pretty carpet. Yes, it was embarrassing. Sometimes, I would go to a local market, especially for breakfast, and enjoy “api” and “bunuelos.” Api is a beverage made of corn, usually served hot, and buñuelos are a sort of delicious doughnut.
In La Paz, I made a foolhardy culinary mistake. I ate a “butifarra” (a sandwich of pork and vegetables) bought from a cholla vendor on the bank of the highly polluted La Paz River. Diarrhea? You bet! Fortunately, that was the worst it did to me.
In June, my wife, Beatrice, our two daughters, Margaret and Heidi, and our dog joined us. The dog could not walk straight until she got used to the altitude. It was funny. Together, we had adventures including a drive to Lake Titicaca, where people took cars to “challar” (christen) them. The car is decorated with balloons and colorful paper, a sort of priest dashes it with holy water, and it is sprayed with champagne. Once, we took a ride in a “totora,” or reed boat, a small version of the one with which Norwegian adventurer, Thor Heyerdahl, showed that ancient people could have sailed from Peru to Polynesia.
Perhaps the craziest adventure was when my daughters and I, and two visitors from the U.S., climbed a small mountain known as “Muella del Diablo” (Devil’s Tooth). After we struggled to the top, I made the foolish decision to go down on the other side. We were soon lost and were not carrying food or water. After several hours, in desperation, we shinnied along a pipe, maybe ten inches in diameter and twenty feet long, to cross a very dirty river. My younger daughter was very afraid to cross on that pipe. We did not know then that she had a brain tumor. It was (and is) not malignant but affected her balance. Across the river was a small park, where a festival was in progress. We ran to concession stands for food and drink, then paid a truck driver of a pickup truck to let down his tailgate and take us home.
One day, two young American men—Mormon missionaries named Elder Wilson and Elder Giles—came to our house to visit. We had no interest in converting to their faith but often invited them for dinner. One of them played “Santa Claus” for us at a holiday party. Later, the two were transferred to other parts of the city and given different partners. Returning to their small house one evening, Elder Wilson and his new partner were ambushed—both shot to death. The blame was placed on a local terrorist group who associated them and their religion with American imperialism.
Santa Cruz
My work included traveling to nearly every city in the country. In the main industrial city, Santa Cruz, I tried “anticuchos” –pieces of bovine heart, roasted to perfection. Also, I held my breath and ate a plate of “kibbeh cru,” a Lebanese raw meat dish. It was delicious and did me no harm. The real specialty, however, was “arroz con queso,” a lovely mixture of rice and fresh cheese. Also, I enjoyed walking to a barber shop for a good, cheap haircut.
My hotel in Santa Cruz was, if I remember right, the Hotel Santa Cruz. A school for models and beauty contestants was located next to it, and the school often took its students to practice walking around the hotel’s pool. That made for lovely entertainment.
To the east and southeast of Santa Cruz, in a region known as “Chiquitos,” is a string of Jesuit missions established in the 17th century. Six of them have been named UNESCO World Heritage sites. They are well known for preserving the baroque music of old Europe, and they, with other missions, hold a major baroque music festival every two years in May. I did not see the missions during my assignment for USAID but visited two of them on a later trip to Bolivia.
Cochabamba
The country’s third city in importance was and is Cochabamba, so named by King Charles III of Spain in 1786 but founded two centuries earlier. It is about halfway between La Paz and Santa Cruz and has a near-perfect climate. We would travel there by road, taking bread to feed stray dogs along the way. A specialty food was “fricassee de cerdo,” a wonderfully delicious pork soup. On one trip, we wanted to see the house and garden of Simon Patiño, who had made a fortune mining tin. Our timing was bad; the house was not open, but one of our local counterparts knew the person in charge of it. One phone call resulted in a remarkable private tour.
La Paz (Again)
In La Paz, between trips, there was no shortage of activities. For one thing, Beatrice and I often attended parties hosted by low-level diplomats. At one party, a diplomatic wife, who was known for sunbathing nude in a not-so-private place, said, “You can touch me anywhere you want to.” As I recall, I glanced at her tall, confident husband and tapped her on the shoulder.
Beatrice helped form a group of Colombian families, and we met often for dinner parties. Also, she became a member of the Pan-American Round Table. This is a hemisphere-wide organization of, mainly, well-to-do women. The Round Tables in different countries and cities further the local culture, aid selected organizations, and give scholarships to young women. Beatrice is still a member, now in the Washington D.C. chapter.
There were little fairs and markets around the city. We especially enjoyed the “alasitas” festival, which ran for a month in January of each year. It is a glorious show of miniatures. It celebrates an Aymara god named Ekeko, whose presence in one’s house absolutely guarantees success and abundance. I still have mine, although the tradition is to get a new one every year. Ekekos are adorned with colorful clothes and knitted hats that cover their ears. They carry tiny bags of rice, Bolivian currency, and other items that anyone would like to have.
On one occasion, my family trekked across a crowded bridge to watch a very good football (soccer) match. A few days later, I was walking by a hotel when a bus pulled up, and a group of young men headed toward the hotel entrance. A larger group of young ladies was behind them, cheering. I asked one what was happening, and she shouted, joyously, “la selección.” They were soccer players who had been selected from various teams to represent Bolivia in international matches. Such matches were not played in La Paz because the high altitude would put visiting teams at a disadvantage.
My older daughter, Margaret, stayed for the summer and then returned to the U.S. for her first year of college. My younger daughter, Heidi, worked for a while in the U.S. Embassy. After she had been on an assignment for a while, it was discovered that she did not meet the age requirement, so she was reassigned. One day, Secretary of State, George Schultz, went to visit the country. On the way from the airport, his motorcade was attacked with an explosive device, but he was not injured. To ward off the effect of the high altitude, he was given a cup of tea, and there was, reportedly, a photograph that showed him holding the cup with the word, “coca,” visible on the tag of the teabag. The tag was, reportedly, airbrushed out of the photo so no one else could see it. My daughter was able to catch a glimpse of Mrs. Schultz on her visit to the embassy.
Heidi enjoyed a year in the American School in La Paz. Beatrice and I did not know how much she had enjoyed it until several years later when she told us how easy it had been to obtain and consume alcoholic beverages.
There were said to be two German clubs in the city, one for Nazi sympathizers and one for people of the other persuasion. Many Germans found refuge in Bolivia after Hitler’s armies were defeated, including “the butcher of Lyon,” Klaus Barbie. One of the German clubs now functions in the suburb of Achumani, where I lived.
Sucre
The city of Sucre was founded in the first half of the 16th century and is a World Heritage city. It was the capital of Bolivia, and still is, except that the executive and legislative branches of government were moved to La Paz in 1889. The judicial branch remained in Sucre. During my time in the country, Pope John Paul II visited, and all the buildings were repainted white in his honor. Everywhere, it was white, and it looked amazing.
Of course, there is a favorite food in the city. It is “chorizo chuquisaqueño,” a wonderful plate of sausages, bread, and green salad. I was told to not eat salads in Bolivia, but who could resist them? They never did me any harm.
When this story began, I was trapped with a small group of hungry strangers in a small hotel in Sucre, as a demonstration raged outside. Hundreds of people, mostly men, were milling about and shouting, as tear gas filled the air. I covered most of my face with a wet towel, as my colleagues opened the front door, slowly, let me out, and closed the door behind me. There was no turning back. I warily wound my way through the demonstrators, ducked into the restaurant, bought pizza, and left for the hotel. The noise level was higher than before. A tear gas canister exploded a few yards to my right, and people ran toward me coughing. I was bumped and jostled but managed to stay on my feet—and hang on to the pizzas. My eyes were stinging despite the towel, but those were the only ill effects. My hungry companions gave me a hero’s welcome. Like most demonstrations in Bolivia, that one in Sucre was loud and nerve-wracking but was largely peaceful.
Thirty-five miles east of Sucre is a city called Tarabuco, which has an excellent harvest festival every year, in March. The festival includes a parade that is second only to the giant annual event in Oruro, which I discuss further on. On one occasion, I scheduled a trip to Sucre to coincide with the festival, and Beatrice and Heidi went with me. I had to do what I was being paid for, but they found a tour that would take them to Tarabuco and back. They returned with souvenirs including a “charango,” a stringed musical instrument of which the sound box is the shell of an armadillo, complete with hair. They gave the festival rave reviews.
Potosi and The Cinti Valley
Then, there is Potosi, a fascinating city at an altitude of more than 13,000 feet. I have a fond memory of sitting on a balcony, overlooking the town square, drinking beer, and playing a dice game called “cacho” with a Bolivian co-worker. The food specialties there included Picadillo, which is beef or pig meat cooked in chili sauce with carrots, potatoes, string beans, and peas.
The city had a mint and museum of money, and I understand it has been enlarged and updated. Near it is the famous “Cerro Rico” (rich hill) from which at least 60,000 tons of silver ore were extracted from the 16th to the 18th centuries. Women are banned from going into the mine because they supposedly cause misfortune, but Beatrice went in. A kind lady, whose husband was a miner, dressed herself and Beatrice like men–helmet, boots, and all, told her not to talk and escorted her. They descended a ladder to a statue of the Devil, to whom minors gave lighted cigarettes and on whom they splashed the local liquor, “Singani.” God might rule in the heavens, they believed, but the Devil reigned underground and had to be appeased. As far as we knew, the ladies’ visit did not cause bad luck, but the veins of silver were getting harder to find. As many as eight million people, mostly slaves from Africa and India, are said to have died in the mines of Potosi.
Spaniards who lived in that city reportedly dispatched their wives to the nearby Cinti Valley when they were pregnant because it was risky to give birth at a very high altitude. Being from Spain, they needed wine, and they discovered a variety of grapes that grew well there. That led to the creation of a delicious beverage named “Moscatel de Alejandría.”
On one trip to the Cinti Valley, I somehow ended up without a way home. I located a sort of truck stop and found a driver who would take me, for a small fee, to the city of Tarija, which had an airport. The only place I could ride was in the small bed that ran the width of the cab, behind the driver. It was most uncomfortable, but I got to Tarija and found a flight to La Paz.
Oruru
My reader might have heard of the city of Oruro. It is the site of a fabulous carnival—the biggest in the country. Nowadays, many parades in the U.S. feature Bolivian dance groups. Their dazzling, hand-sewn costumes are, reportedly, purchased in Bolivia after being worn for a few days.
My family drove to Oruro twice for the carnival. It is described as a mix of pagan/indigenous ceremonies and Catholic symbolism. It features folk dancing, extravagant costumes, mind-numbing music, an amazing parade, partying, and more. Technically, it honors the Virgen of the Candelaria who, according to legend, helped an injured miner to reach his home before he passed away, but there are dances that tell other stories. A pervasive one is the struggle between good and evil, with the Archangel Gabriel and the Devil.
The parade in Oruro goes day and night and features thousands of dancers, thousands of musicians, and many thousands of spectators. A major problem in 1987 was a total lack of public toilets, which led to desperation and disgusting scenes. I understand this problem has been partly solved, but not entirely.
A food specialty in Oruro is “Charquekan,” a dish of beef or llama meat, finely chopped and sun-dried, served with salt, fresh cheese, potatoes, hominy, and a hot sauce called “llajwa.” Yum, yum! Returning from a business trip to that city, I was introduced to the delights of “rostro asado.” It was a well-roasted sheep’s head, served with bread and vegetables. Mine had meat in several places, sandwiched between well-cooked skin and the unfortunate animal’s skull. I managed to dig out and eat most of it.
The Beni
The Beni is a department (state) in northeastern Bolivia that is mainly in the jungle. I visited two cities there, Riberalta and Guayaramín. Of course, the location influences the diet, which is heavy on bananas and other tropical fruits, river fish, and meat.
At a meeting in the Beni, I learned how to deal with ants in the sugar bowl. It was full of them, but I wanted to sweeten my coffee. “Just put in the sugar,” said a Bolivian companion. “The hot liquid will kill the ants, and they will rise to the surface. Then, pick them out with a spoon.” I did just that, and it worked perfectly.
I went on a short river trip to see the cultivation of Brazil nuts. The area was beautiful, and the trees were well laid out and well cared for. Then, at the end of the trip, I toured a Brazil nut processing plant, and found it so primitive and dirty that I could not eat that kind of nut for several years. I understand conditions are much better now and that the industry employs about 14,000 people. Most of its products are for export.
In La Paz, my wife and I met a wonderful lady from the Beni, Lydia Parada de Brown. She wrote several books, some of which we have, and presented them in the U.S. and Europe. One evening in La Paz, she was visiting us, and we had plans to attend a Halloween party. She insisted on going along and, in spite of not having a costume, entered a costume contest, calling herself, “The Witch of the Beni.” When the results were announced, and she did not win a prize, she protested so loudly and long that the judges relented and gave her one.
Conclusion
Two years in Bolivia—the time flew by. Beatrice and I are reminded of it by Bolivian friends and by artifacts in our house. The largest is a set of bamboo furniture—sofa and chairs, that we bought along the road from our house to the center of La Paz. Soon, we could see the evidence of hungry bugs and had the entire set taken away and fumigated. There is also a collection of miniature Andean musical instruments and more. A smaller souvenir is our Ekeko. It stands on a bookcase and brings us good fortune, day after day after day.
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