Friday, 2 October 2009
Wednesday, 5 August 2009
Llamas and their farmers
This is a story I wrote for http://www.foodtripper.com/
Bolivia-resident Jon Stibbs goes off the traditional epicurious track in search of the “Prince of the Andes”
For a large country, Bolivia has very few roads. Mine led out of the noisy chaos of market-day El Alto—La Paz’s adobe-and-breeze-block satellite city—and on to the Altiplano.
The Altiplano or high plane is a dry, flat expanse flanked by the snow-topped Andean Cordillera mountain ranges. Ultimately, the road passes Tiahuanaco’s Inca ruins and the lake of Titicaca before hitting Desaguadero. This border town is a smugglers’ favourite, where gas canisters are shuttled across the Peruvian border by tricycle.
In search of llamas, I had no need to leave the Bolivian side of this high-altitude desert. Not much appreciates this desiccated environment, 4,000 metres above sea level. But the stately llama is no ordinary animal—the “Prince of the Andes” thrives in this insalubrious environment.
My destination was the town of Laja. The occasional tourists do stop here—the seat of the original La Paz and home to a colonial church—but generally their coaches chug on.
Towns on the Altiplano are not known for their architectural riches and Laja is no exception. While not about to trouble UNESCO, it is relatively pretty. Brightly painted adobe buildings surround a plaza where potentially rabid dogs bask by the giant cacti.
Laja has a claim to fame for foodies: its flat bread—made without fat or yeast—is celebrated. As I bought some, schoolchildren coyly giggled as they passed. Self-consciously, I wondered if my M&S chinos were really that amusing.
A walk through the outskirts of the dusty village took me to the arid farm of Celia Aruquipa. Here, her family, llamas, chickens, ducks, pigs and sheep, eke out an existence. The wind swept off the Andean peaks, threatening to take my cricket hat with it. It was cold, and this was in the midday sun.
Protecting the skin and eyes is essential here. It’s a chilli consumé of a sun—thin, watery rays leave only a painful burn but none of the life-enhancing warmth of lower altitudes.
It had snowed earlier in the week. Celia said she had been freezing as she fed the llamas: Julio, Blanco, Maria and her daughter Susi.
The mutual affection between them and their Aymara owner was evident. While Julio nuzzled her, he was rather skittish with me. But then I was probably the first gringo he had ever seen.
Despite their friendship, these are not pets; they are an essential source of protein and income. Killing them is not easy for the family and Celia’s two young children are kept away from the process.
Saturday, 1st August, was the challa—the day Aymaras make a sacrifice to Pachamama, the earth goddess. A shaman will have led a ceremony, involving Ceibo (a brand of “drinking” alcohol), coca leaves and petals. Blanco will have had his throat cut, blood drained and heart removed. If it was still beating when it hit the floor, the Aruquipas will have 12 months of good luck.
The meat will be dried in the sun and salted. Then it will be consumed in rice or chuño soup. Chuño is potato that been blackened and preserved in a days’ long process involving freezing outside at night and trampling out the moisture under foot during the day.
In this way, it remains edible throughout the freezing winter months. It could euphemistically be described as an “acquired taste”. Some chuño—known as tunta—is left in pools of water before being dried again and is rather more challenging.
Having bade farewell to Julio and Celia, I returned to La Paz. I paid my 2.5BS (20 pence) to the conductor—splendidly robed in a knitted purple tank top and orange shirt—and we were away. Twenty-one of us (no livestock), shared the 1.5 malodorous hours back in a suffering mobilidad (minibus). My thoughts were disrupted by the cholita—indigenous lady—sitting in front. As she sleepily fidgeted, her bowler hat kept falling off and landing in my lap.
As I handed it back yet again, I considered life up here on the Altiplano. Usually, it is bone dry under a dangerously strong sun with a cruel, biting wind. Occasionally, it is grey, freezing and wet with a cruel, biting wind. Either way, the weather is unremitting.
Back in the bowl that insulates La Paz, life is a little easier; even, occasionally, salubrious. Tonight, I was to dine at Luna Llena. This is no ordinary restaurant: owner, Juan Pablo Villalobos is an artist who trained as a chef in Spain. He returned to Bolivia to make Mediterranean-inspired food with local produce.
Sat next to a Bolivian Mona Lisa painted by Juan, his brother Jaime explained the family’s ethos to combine an art foundation, bar and restaurant in their ancestral home.
Having ordered the llama, we—my fiancée Susi and I—were given warm rolls and llajwa (pronounced yack-wah). It’s the spicy, tomatoey, ruby in the dust of Bolivia’s often-bland food. We were then delivered an amuse bouche of fried quinoa mini patties with a warm mango dip.
My griddled llama medallions arrived in a thick but delicate pineapple sauce, with a red quinoa risotto. The Andean supergrain makes a lighter risotto than conventional Arborio yet retains the rich creaminess.
So how was the llama? The meat is heavier in texture but lighter in colour than beef. It’s also incredibly lean and, I’m told, low in cholesterol.
Chef on the day, Tomas Alcon Nachos explained: “Llama is more exquisite than steak. To release its flavour, it must be hot and medium or well done; never a la inglesa.”
By some historical quirk, which I like to think sends French steak eaters here apoplectic, “a la inglesa” means rare.
Initially, the combination of pineapple and llama struck me as unlikely and rather unBolivian. However, the rich, red meat balanced the fruit well. Then I remembered how this week I had gone to see the snow on the lip of La Paz’s bowl and the surrounding mountains. On the way home, I had picked up a fresh tropical lowlands’ pineapple. So really, it was the perfect Bolivian combination.
Bolivia-resident Jon Stibbs goes off the traditional epicurious track in search of the “Prince of the Andes”
For a large country, Bolivia has very few roads. Mine led out of the noisy chaos of market-day El Alto—La Paz’s adobe-and-breeze-block satellite city—and on to the Altiplano.
The Altiplano or high plane is a dry, flat expanse flanked by the snow-topped Andean Cordillera mountain ranges. Ultimately, the road passes Tiahuanaco’s Inca ruins and the lake of Titicaca before hitting Desaguadero. This border town is a smugglers’ favourite, where gas canisters are shuttled across the Peruvian border by tricycle.
In search of llamas, I had no need to leave the Bolivian side of this high-altitude desert. Not much appreciates this desiccated environment, 4,000 metres above sea level. But the stately llama is no ordinary animal—the “Prince of the Andes” thrives in this insalubrious environment.
My destination was the town of Laja. The occasional tourists do stop here—the seat of the original La Paz and home to a colonial church—but generally their coaches chug on.
Towns on the Altiplano are not known for their architectural riches and Laja is no exception. While not about to trouble UNESCO, it is relatively pretty. Brightly painted adobe buildings surround a plaza where potentially rabid dogs bask by the giant cacti.
Laja has a claim to fame for foodies: its flat bread—made without fat or yeast—is celebrated. As I bought some, schoolchildren coyly giggled as they passed. Self-consciously, I wondered if my M&S chinos were really that amusing.
A walk through the outskirts of the dusty village took me to the arid farm of Celia Aruquipa. Here, her family, llamas, chickens, ducks, pigs and sheep, eke out an existence. The wind swept off the Andean peaks, threatening to take my cricket hat with it. It was cold, and this was in the midday sun.
Protecting the skin and eyes is essential here. It’s a chilli consumé of a sun—thin, watery rays leave only a painful burn but none of the life-enhancing warmth of lower altitudes.
It had snowed earlier in the week. Celia said she had been freezing as she fed the llamas: Julio, Blanco, Maria and her daughter Susi.
The mutual affection between them and their Aymara owner was evident. While Julio nuzzled her, he was rather skittish with me. But then I was probably the first gringo he had ever seen.
Despite their friendship, these are not pets; they are an essential source of protein and income. Killing them is not easy for the family and Celia’s two young children are kept away from the process.
Saturday, 1st August, was the challa—the day Aymaras make a sacrifice to Pachamama, the earth goddess. A shaman will have led a ceremony, involving Ceibo (a brand of “drinking” alcohol), coca leaves and petals. Blanco will have had his throat cut, blood drained and heart removed. If it was still beating when it hit the floor, the Aruquipas will have 12 months of good luck.
The meat will be dried in the sun and salted. Then it will be consumed in rice or chuño soup. Chuño is potato that been blackened and preserved in a days’ long process involving freezing outside at night and trampling out the moisture under foot during the day.
In this way, it remains edible throughout the freezing winter months. It could euphemistically be described as an “acquired taste”. Some chuño—known as tunta—is left in pools of water before being dried again and is rather more challenging.
Having bade farewell to Julio and Celia, I returned to La Paz. I paid my 2.5BS (20 pence) to the conductor—splendidly robed in a knitted purple tank top and orange shirt—and we were away. Twenty-one of us (no livestock), shared the 1.5 malodorous hours back in a suffering mobilidad (minibus). My thoughts were disrupted by the cholita—indigenous lady—sitting in front. As she sleepily fidgeted, her bowler hat kept falling off and landing in my lap.
As I handed it back yet again, I considered life up here on the Altiplano. Usually, it is bone dry under a dangerously strong sun with a cruel, biting wind. Occasionally, it is grey, freezing and wet with a cruel, biting wind. Either way, the weather is unremitting.
Back in the bowl that insulates La Paz, life is a little easier; even, occasionally, salubrious. Tonight, I was to dine at Luna Llena. This is no ordinary restaurant: owner, Juan Pablo Villalobos is an artist who trained as a chef in Spain. He returned to Bolivia to make Mediterranean-inspired food with local produce.
Sat next to a Bolivian Mona Lisa painted by Juan, his brother Jaime explained the family’s ethos to combine an art foundation, bar and restaurant in their ancestral home.
Having ordered the llama, we—my fiancée Susi and I—were given warm rolls and llajwa (pronounced yack-wah). It’s the spicy, tomatoey, ruby in the dust of Bolivia’s often-bland food. We were then delivered an amuse bouche of fried quinoa mini patties with a warm mango dip.
My griddled llama medallions arrived in a thick but delicate pineapple sauce, with a red quinoa risotto. The Andean supergrain makes a lighter risotto than conventional Arborio yet retains the rich creaminess.
So how was the llama? The meat is heavier in texture but lighter in colour than beef. It’s also incredibly lean and, I’m told, low in cholesterol.
Chef on the day, Tomas Alcon Nachos explained: “Llama is more exquisite than steak. To release its flavour, it must be hot and medium or well done; never a la inglesa.”
By some historical quirk, which I like to think sends French steak eaters here apoplectic, “a la inglesa” means rare.
Initially, the combination of pineapple and llama struck me as unlikely and rather unBolivian. However, the rich, red meat balanced the fruit well. Then I remembered how this week I had gone to see the snow on the lip of La Paz’s bowl and the surrounding mountains. On the way home, I had picked up a fresh tropical lowlands’ pineapple. So really, it was the perfect Bolivian combination.
Wednesday, 29 July 2009
New life in the cemetery district
A trip to the cemetery district can be as uninviting as it sounds. The first time Susi and I went, for our own safety, our fellow travellers begged us not to get off the bus until the sun rose. Outside there was plenty of drunkenness and the odd fight but it didn’t really warrant these villagers’ terror.
This time we arrived in a car and our driver was a trained bodyguard—more to protect Patricio’s camera than us. Our destination was a club with doormen in full riot gear.
We were here for El Alto’s first-ever transvestite cholita—bowler-hatted indigenous ladies—competition. It was held in La Paz, not El Alto, because the organizers couldn’t find a venue to take them in their hometown.
Official kick off was 7pm, but we’d been given the wink not to arrive until 8pm. Smugly, we found great seats. A mere three hours later, the pageant began and Calypso was packed.
The event was to celebrate the 200 anniversary of Bolivia’s first cry for independence from the Spanish. This event may not have been what the original anti-colonialists were expecting.
Pretty boys ostentatiously held hands and snogged on the dance floor, something unimaginable outside the protection of the paramilitary bouncers. Same-sex couples danced together, which isn’t allowed in the mixed clubs gay El Alteños have to frequent on the Altiplano.
The friendly wooping crowd applauded the performers. A lesbian and transvestite pair did a role-reversed version of a traditional dance. Bolivia’s number one transsexual put on a very indiscrete show, with an unfortunate wardrobe malfunction à la Janet Jackson. Mr Gay of El Alto karaokeed in a Mexican-style.
The cholitas themselves wore extravagant outfits and spun like heavy-set, heavily made-up whirling dervishes. Under the disco lights, it was a dramatic spectacle and refreshing to see such a variety of sexualities.
This was the most inclusive crowd we had seen since arriving in Bolivia but one group was noticeable by their absence: female cholitas.
This time we arrived in a car and our driver was a trained bodyguard—more to protect Patricio’s camera than us. Our destination was a club with doormen in full riot gear.
We were here for El Alto’s first-ever transvestite cholita—bowler-hatted indigenous ladies—competition. It was held in La Paz, not El Alto, because the organizers couldn’t find a venue to take them in their hometown.
Official kick off was 7pm, but we’d been given the wink not to arrive until 8pm. Smugly, we found great seats. A mere three hours later, the pageant began and Calypso was packed.
The event was to celebrate the 200 anniversary of Bolivia’s first cry for independence from the Spanish. This event may not have been what the original anti-colonialists were expecting.
Pretty boys ostentatiously held hands and snogged on the dance floor, something unimaginable outside the protection of the paramilitary bouncers. Same-sex couples danced together, which isn’t allowed in the mixed clubs gay El Alteños have to frequent on the Altiplano.
The friendly wooping crowd applauded the performers. A lesbian and transvestite pair did a role-reversed version of a traditional dance. Bolivia’s number one transsexual put on a very indiscrete show, with an unfortunate wardrobe malfunction à la Janet Jackson. Mr Gay of El Alto karaokeed in a Mexican-style.
The cholitas themselves wore extravagant outfits and spun like heavy-set, heavily made-up whirling dervishes. Under the disco lights, it was a dramatic spectacle and refreshing to see such a variety of sexualities.
This was the most inclusive crowd we had seen since arriving in Bolivia but one group was noticeable by their absence: female cholitas.
Tuesday, 14 July 2009
Pinching policemen, prisons and partying with drug lords
In the morning, I like to buy my fruit at Sopocachi market; now I have some confidence in my language skills, it’s incredibly well stocked, friendly and cheap, rather than merely terrifying, as it used to be. On my way there this week, I saw a uniformed Policia Municipal walk up to one of the stalls and then pinch a cheap, lattice shopping bag.
He then stood a few yards away, looking ridiculous carrying the empty, bright swagged bag until the stall holder pleaded for it back. The thieving swine returned it, before he and his two female colleagues strolled off without even the decency to look sheepish. It made me feel very angry to see, if the police are no better than the shabbiest thieves then what hope justice?
The prison system is in the process of being cleaned up. The infamous San Pedro prison, once open to the paying public for tours, “the best cocaine in South America”, cheap restaurants and beds for the night is being closed. And so ends one of La Paz’s most infamous tourist attraction.
For the public, at least. The inmates, however, are going nowhere, but their wives, children and traditional sources of income will be gone. Unless the new regime becomes as corrupted as the last one and the old ways slip back in.
The Bolivian prison system has seen a new inmate this week. The former “Minister for Cocaine” has been extradited from the States. Not so fresh from 30 years in a US jail, Luis Arce Gomez will be finishing his days in El Alto’s insalubrious Chonchocoro prison. He once employed the Nazi Klaus Barbie as an advisor and seemed to take his advice to heart—he had been key to one of Bolivia’s most unpleasant dictatorships.
Back in Luis’ 1980s pomp, the Bolivian economy relied heavily on cocaine. A well-connected friend went to party hidden near the Brazilian border for the 15th birthday of a senior drug lord’s daughter. The private airstrip was busy with private jets landing unloading guests keen to enjoy the fabulous hospitality of the drug baron.
Among the luxuries in the house, a fountain spouted champagne. The glory days were not to last however as the Americans were after him. To avoid extradition, he offered to pay Bolivia’s entire national debt but it wasn’t enough and he’s staying at President Obama’s pleasure. It would seem that sometimes no amount of money can save you.
He then stood a few yards away, looking ridiculous carrying the empty, bright swagged bag until the stall holder pleaded for it back. The thieving swine returned it, before he and his two female colleagues strolled off without even the decency to look sheepish. It made me feel very angry to see, if the police are no better than the shabbiest thieves then what hope justice?
The prison system is in the process of being cleaned up. The infamous San Pedro prison, once open to the paying public for tours, “the best cocaine in South America”, cheap restaurants and beds for the night is being closed. And so ends one of La Paz’s most infamous tourist attraction.
For the public, at least. The inmates, however, are going nowhere, but their wives, children and traditional sources of income will be gone. Unless the new regime becomes as corrupted as the last one and the old ways slip back in.
The Bolivian prison system has seen a new inmate this week. The former “Minister for Cocaine” has been extradited from the States. Not so fresh from 30 years in a US jail, Luis Arce Gomez will be finishing his days in El Alto’s insalubrious Chonchocoro prison. He once employed the Nazi Klaus Barbie as an advisor and seemed to take his advice to heart—he had been key to one of Bolivia’s most unpleasant dictatorships.
Back in Luis’ 1980s pomp, the Bolivian economy relied heavily on cocaine. A well-connected friend went to party hidden near the Brazilian border for the 15th birthday of a senior drug lord’s daughter. The private airstrip was busy with private jets landing unloading guests keen to enjoy the fabulous hospitality of the drug baron.
Among the luxuries in the house, a fountain spouted champagne. The glory days were not to last however as the Americans were after him. To avoid extradition, he offered to pay Bolivia’s entire national debt but it wasn’t enough and he’s staying at President Obama’s pleasure. It would seem that sometimes no amount of money can save you.
Monday, 6 July 2009
Pirates and coca over knitwear
Having segued effortlessly from jet lag to upset stomach to cold since arriving back, life has been fairly uneventful and home-based. Yesterday, however, we made a brave outing to refresh our DVD collection.
The walk to the DVD street took Susi, Mikael and me through La Paz’s most tourist area: a succession of shops selling ethno tat leading to a succession of stalls selling llama fetuses.
As we walked a normal-looking man stopped and swore at Mikael. Why he would swear at random foreigners was unexplained and why he would pick the largest man within a mile radius seemed suicidal. Anyway, Mikael and I swapped pleasantries with the man before we hit second-hand clothes street.
Hawking “pre-loved” clothes is illegal in Bolivia, so occasionally these stalls are clamped down on. The theory is tailors should be protected; people should only buy new Bolivian-made clothes, which seems rather tough on the poor. The rag trade is in bad shape since the US ended trade preferences with Bolivia, jeopardizing 25,000 jobs.
Morales chose to defend the booming coca industry (his electorate and fellow unionistas) against the (albeit bonkers) War on Drugs and so sacrifice hope of an improved relationship with the US. Even Chavez gets on better with the US than Morales now, and that’s about as bad as relationships get.
Much more legal than the shifty business of selling clothes is flogging illegal DVDs. An entire road is dedicated to knocked-off movies in shops and stalls. From the latest blockbusters to Boobs and Butts 3, it’s all here.
For £10, we bought the second and third series of Battlestar Gallactica and the second series The Sopranos. Bargain! I tried to buy the new Star Trek film but the salesman told me his wasn’t a good-quality version and advised waiting; they’re even honest(ish).
All the way from the San Francisco church to Plaza Estudiantes, the Prado was packed. Excited Bolivar football fans waved flags out of hooting cars. Under the huge, full moon, hundreds of fans accumulated at the plaza, singing and chanting.
Being outside is certainly more interesting than watching Lord of the Rings. Again.
The walk to the DVD street took Susi, Mikael and me through La Paz’s most tourist area: a succession of shops selling ethno tat leading to a succession of stalls selling llama fetuses.
As we walked a normal-looking man stopped and swore at Mikael. Why he would swear at random foreigners was unexplained and why he would pick the largest man within a mile radius seemed suicidal. Anyway, Mikael and I swapped pleasantries with the man before we hit second-hand clothes street.
Hawking “pre-loved” clothes is illegal in Bolivia, so occasionally these stalls are clamped down on. The theory is tailors should be protected; people should only buy new Bolivian-made clothes, which seems rather tough on the poor. The rag trade is in bad shape since the US ended trade preferences with Bolivia, jeopardizing 25,000 jobs.
Morales chose to defend the booming coca industry (his electorate and fellow unionistas) against the (albeit bonkers) War on Drugs and so sacrifice hope of an improved relationship with the US. Even Chavez gets on better with the US than Morales now, and that’s about as bad as relationships get.
Much more legal than the shifty business of selling clothes is flogging illegal DVDs. An entire road is dedicated to knocked-off movies in shops and stalls. From the latest blockbusters to Boobs and Butts 3, it’s all here.
For £10, we bought the second and third series of Battlestar Gallactica and the second series The Sopranos. Bargain! I tried to buy the new Star Trek film but the salesman told me his wasn’t a good-quality version and advised waiting; they’re even honest(ish).
All the way from the San Francisco church to Plaza Estudiantes, the Prado was packed. Excited Bolivar football fans waved flags out of hooting cars. Under the huge, full moon, hundreds of fans accumulated at the plaza, singing and chanting.
Being outside is certainly more interesting than watching Lord of the Rings. Again.
Wednesday, 24 June 2009
In the bright mid-winter
Culturally, the Bolivian ex-pat lifestyle can be a little confused. On Saturday, we attended a Swedish mid-summer party held by Alina, a Canadian-Pole. It had been mid-summer the day before in the northern hemisphere, so we were only one day and two seasons out.
Given that winter here means dazzling blue skies, it’s not so dissimilar to summer in the UK, except it’s dark by 7pm and there are dazzling blue skies.
Anyway, feeling a little odd because of jet lag and altitude adjustment, a party where our Swedish friends said they would be dancing around an enormous penis was not to be missed.
The party was held in a garden with magnificent views of Illimani, if you stood in the right place. It was good to see Alejandro again—one of the few ice-hockey playing Mexicans in La Paz—we had been to his leaving party the night before.
And there in the pride of place was a tall, decorated cross; which would once have been a fertility-symbol phallus before Christianity ruined the fun.
After delicious Indian samosas and flavoured vodka, it was time to dance. Wearing crowns of flowers, we held hands around the “symbol”. A bottle of lemon vodka was passed around, the girl next to me turned it down pointing out she was pregnant, and the dancing began.
There was a song in Swedish about being a frog with hand-actions for ears and tails, for some reason this ended in falling over. I tripped and panicked about landing on the pregnant lady, while next to me a tall Bolivian lady was toppling too. Don’t land on me, I thought. Then, Oh no. Don’t land on her. Land on me. Land on me.
Happily, she managed to miss us both.
Given that winter here means dazzling blue skies, it’s not so dissimilar to summer in the UK, except it’s dark by 7pm and there are dazzling blue skies.
Anyway, feeling a little odd because of jet lag and altitude adjustment, a party where our Swedish friends said they would be dancing around an enormous penis was not to be missed.
The party was held in a garden with magnificent views of Illimani, if you stood in the right place. It was good to see Alejandro again—one of the few ice-hockey playing Mexicans in La Paz—we had been to his leaving party the night before.
And there in the pride of place was a tall, decorated cross; which would once have been a fertility-symbol phallus before Christianity ruined the fun.
After delicious Indian samosas and flavoured vodka, it was time to dance. Wearing crowns of flowers, we held hands around the “symbol”. A bottle of lemon vodka was passed around, the girl next to me turned it down pointing out she was pregnant, and the dancing began.
There was a song in Swedish about being a frog with hand-actions for ears and tails, for some reason this ended in falling over. I tripped and panicked about landing on the pregnant lady, while next to me a tall Bolivian lady was toppling too. Don’t land on me, I thought. Then, Oh no. Don’t land on her. Land on me. Land on me.
Happily, she managed to miss us both.
Friday, 19 June 2009
The 10 things we missed about Bolivia
It’s still inexcusably self-indulgent, and I won’t do it again.
The cloudless deep blue skies
The dazzling star-filled night sky
The amazing fruit (and I didn’t think I liked fruit)
Everything being remarkably cheap
Dogs decked out in anoraks, cardies and hoodies
Sonia—our maid
Illimani—our neighborhood 15,000 feet mountain
The view from the lip of El Alto into the La Paz bowl
Indigenous people in their gear
Susi and friends (not that most of them are Bolivian)
Susi's most missed:
Illi Mani—our cats
Illimani—the wopping mountain
The city’s lights at night
Having lots of money
Having a maid
Cholitas
Being taller than everyone else
Lake Titicaca or The Lake as it is known
Speaking Spanish
Having a fuck-off big flat
The cloudless deep blue skies
The dazzling star-filled night sky
The amazing fruit (and I didn’t think I liked fruit)
Everything being remarkably cheap
Dogs decked out in anoraks, cardies and hoodies
Sonia—our maid
Illimani—our neighborhood 15,000 feet mountain
The view from the lip of El Alto into the La Paz bowl
Indigenous people in their gear
Susi and friends (not that most of them are Bolivian)
Susi's most missed:
Illi Mani—our cats
Illimani—the wopping mountain
The city’s lights at night
Having lots of money
Having a maid
Cholitas
Being taller than everyone else
Lake Titicaca or The Lake as it is known
Speaking Spanish
Having a fuck-off big flat
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