Vuelve Sebastiana. 1953 

Photos: Courtesy of Fundación Cinemateca Boliviana 

The Bolivian film industry is small, but it’s a vital part of the country’s culture

Back in the horse-drawn-carriage days when the nation was less than a century into its independence, the first-ever motion picture shown in Bolivia was aired to the public within the darkened halls of the Teatro Municipal. The year was 1897, and that moment marked the beginning of Bolivia’s lengthy and diverse history of cinema. Returning now to 2019, on 21 March the nation will celebrate its 13th annual Día del Cine Boliviano, a day of national cinematic pride dedicated to the Bolivian filmmakers, directors, producers and actors of the past 122 years. With the approach of this significant day in the Bolivian cultural calendar, we take a look back at the nation’s motion picture past.

Bolivia’s cinematic career begins in the Silent Era, in the year 1904 with the first-ever Bolivian-made motion picture, Retrato de personajes históricos y de la actualidad (Portrait of Historic and Current Characters), a documentary portraying the country’s ongoing transitions of power. Today, the Silent Era is only somewhat understood, as approximately 70 percent of the world’s silent films have been lost. In Latin America, however, this figure is considerably higher, and as a result Bolivia has little today to show for this period. Bolivia’s sole surviving silent film, a motion picture that has very much come to define this period in Latin American filmmaking, is Wara Wara (1930), directed by the prominent Bolivian musician and director José María Velasco Maidana. Its nitrate negatives were not discovered until shortly after the director’s death in 1989, and it wasn’t until 2010, after two decades of restoration, that the film was viewed for the first time since its original release. The 16th-century Romeo-and-Juliet/Pocahontas narrative tells of an indigenous Aymara community that is massacred by Spanish conquistadors, forcing the few survivors, including the young princess Wara Wara, to flee. After being rescued from the grips of two Spanish soldiers, she delves into a romance with her knight in shining armour, Tristan de la Vega. The rest of the film follows the triumph of their inter-ethnic romance over the prejudices of their communities as they finally live happily ever after.

Claudio Sanchez, a Bolivian film critic with over 30 years’ experience, is currently head of programming, broadcasting and exhibition at La Paz’s Cinemateca. Following the passing of Bolivia’s Ley de Cine y Arte Audiovisual in 2018, promulgated to promote national film production and preserve its contributions to culture, Sanchez was tasked with preserving the country’s cinematic heritage through the upkeep of its national film archive. Wara Wara is a film of particular interest to Sanchez, both because of its significance to Bolivia’s film history and its status as an emblematic record of Bolivia’s indigenous heritage. Speaking with Bolivian Express, Sanchez explained how important Wara Wara is for indigenous representation within the country’s history, as it ‘showcases the Inca communities within the film as a dominant group. [In Wara Wara] we don’t see just any indigenous character, we see an Inca princess – not somebody inferior to the Spaniards, but a strong character.’

For the time in which he made it, Velasco Maidana presented a rather progressive outlook on the treatment of Bolivia’s indigenous peoples. Through his work he was able to denounce their suffering, not only in the 16th century but also in the 20th, by creating developed and accurate representations of indigenous characters.

Many years later, in 1952, as revolution hit Bolivia, no single aspect of popular culture was left untouched, least of all that of cinema. As Brazil developed its Cinema Novo and Argentina its Tercer Cine, Bolivia sought also to create a new kind of cinema with which to define its national identity. The subsequent trend in Bolivian cinema has since been characterised by a shift towards grappling with political debate relating to issues such as underdevelopment and economic hardship, particularly within Bolivia’s indigenous communities. Defined also by its deviation from the ever-popular Hollywood style of film production, this trend in Bolivian cinema reflected an attempt to create a genre of film made for the people by the people, by filming on location rather than in studios with nonprofessional actors and cheap equipment. Indicative of this time and of the artistic battle that besieged the industry is documentary film director Jorge Ruiz’s 1953 work ¡Vuelve Sebastiana! (Come Back Sebastiana!). As this was a period of Bolivian history in which government censorship was commonplace, the authorities attempted to prevent the film from being submitted to Uruguay’s Servicio Oficial de Difusión, Radiotelevisión y Espectáculos film festival in the year of its release, characterising it as ‘a film about “Indians” [that] could not possibly represent Bolivia in a foreign country’s film festival.’ Against all odds, however, ¡Vuelve Sebastiana! was eventually smuggled into the festival and awarded first place in the festival’s ethnographic category. As a result of its success, the film is now of huge anthropological value in South America due its progressive representation of indigenous traditions, customs and rituals.

Bolivia’s 1952 revolution left no single aspect of popular culture untouched, least of all that of cinema.

Another huge name in the Bolivian film world is that of Jorge Sanjinés. Born in 1936, Sanjinés’ work is defined by its political agenda and revolutionary aesthetic, and he’s considered a game-changer and hugely prominent figure in the cinematic world, with his work as a film director and screenwriter continuing to be felt today. His standout motion picture, encapsulating this era of revolution, is Yawar Mallku (Blood of the Condor), a film Claudio Sanchez described as ‘one of the most important films of the 20th century.’ This 1969 production portrays a narrative of indigenous Andean women being secretly sterilised by a Peace Corps–styled American group called Cuerpo del Progreso. Based on accounts of real experiences, this film ignited public outrage which in turn led to the Bolivian government questioning the Peace Corps’s intentions in the country and their eventual expulsion from Bolivia in 1971. Demonstrated by the film’s stark ability to enact such change in the country, Yawar Mallku rightly deserves its reputation as a Latin American classic for illustrating the power popular culture has in influencing politics and international affairs.

In the following decade, filmmakers began to move away from Sanjinés’ vision as a wave of dictatorships arrived in South America. Directors began experimenting with a lighter form of social realism and attempted to concoct a new kind of film through different methods of production. This genre is characterised by a more traditional and commercial narrative style, contrasting with Sanjinés’ love of flashbacks and nonlinear narrative structures. At the time, this branch of film was known as ‘Possible Cinema’ and tended to focus more on urban social portraits. Chuquiago (La Paz, 1977), by Antonio Eguino, and Mi Socio (My Friend, 1982), by Paolo Agazzi, are typical of this style with their descriptions of contrasting Bolivian cities and regions and playful adaptations of class stereotypes. This transition eventually paved the way for a new generation of Bolivian filmmakers who enjoyed experimenting with genres in an allegorical exploration of social realism.

In more recent decades, Bolivian cinema has been completely transformed with the advent of digital media. What was once a mammoth task, that of filming feature-length movies in daring locations with unwieldy equipment – a task that Bolivian film critic Pedro Susz once likened to ‘building the Concorde aeroplane in a car garage’ – was suddenly made accessible to the masses. Digital editing made production cheaper, and subsequently over a dozen feature-length films have been produced each year since 2010, a stark contrast to the two-films-a-year average seen previously. The variety of genres appearing in popular Bolivian film at this point also began to expand as filmmakers continued to move away from Sanjinés’ iconic cinema of denunciation. Films employing the already popular social-realism mode prevailed whilst broadening their range of social commentaries to include those of problems surrounding immigration, drug trafficking, corruption and gang violence. Secondly, ‘auteur cinema’ made its way to Bolivia as films featuring a clear artistic signature began to form the emergence of another popular cinematic genre within the country. And finally, moving away from the 1960s film-era mission to offer an alternative to the Hollywood style, a more commercial realm of film production eventually began to emerge, with Bolivian filmmakers trying their luck with comedy, action and even horror.

Despite the benefits of this expansion in Bolivian cinema and artistic expression, there are a select few who would argue that in some ways the industry has suffered as a result of this increased saturation. Commenting on this belief, Claudio Sanchez said, ‘As a consequence of digital intervention, [Bolivian] cinema has lost its place in the international arena as well as losing popularity locally because most filmmakers are solely interested in is producing these ‘genre’ movies: crime films, horror, action. All they are doing, however, is competing with similar Hollywood films, which are always better made. A [Bolivian] horror movie will never triumph over a Hollywood equivalent.’ In this alternative take on the trajectory of Bolivian cinema, Sanchez believes that in order for it to prevail and retain its international name, it must focus on that which it does well: social commentary made by Bolivians for Bolivians.

Bolivian film has woven itself into the fabric of Bolivia’s past by both creating and recording the nation’s history.

But upon closer inspection, however, there are modern Bolivian productions that do just this. Eduardo López’s Inalmama (2010), for example, is an 85-minute motion picture bringing Bolivian cinema full circle as it takes on the form of filmmaking first popularised by Retrato de Personajes Históricos y de Actualidad in 1904. The film, according to López, depicts a ‘political, visual and musical essay of the coca leaf and cocaine in the cultures of Bolivia.’ This documentary challenges the criminalisation of a product that exists not only as the key ingredient in cocaine, but more readily as a source of vital and legal income for many Andean communities.

Looking back, it’s clear how fundamental cinema’s role is in documenting Bolivia’s modern history. It is not just an account of the past 122 years of Bolivian cinema, but an account of the past 122 years of Bolivia itself. Bolivian film has woven itself into the fabric of Bolivia’s past by both creating and recording the nation’s history. In the words of Claudio Sanchez, ‘[Bolivian cinema] is a cinema that keeps on questioning its reality, and that, in each one of its films, reflects a history of all that has occurred in our country. I feel it is important for foreigners to see that Bolivian cinema is constantly reacting to its context. You cannot separate one from the other. When you watch a Bolivian film, you have to locate it in its moment, in that context.’

In the past year alone, a spectacular array of films have hit the screens of Bolivia and countries further afield, such as Loayza’s Averno (Hell), a fantasy story which plays with Bolivia’s attitudes to life and death; Richter’s El Río (The River), a story of young love amidst a culture of machismo; and, most recently, Erick Cortés Álvarez’s El Duende (The Goblin), a psychological horror thriller. With the arrival of these new filmmakers and new films, there is no doubt that Bolivian cinema is on the cusp of many more exciting cinematic possibilities. In Bolivia today, filmmaking is no longer as complex as building a jet in a shed, and so hopefully this modernisation of storytelling will prevail and expand for many a year to come.

 Chuquiago

Mi Socio 1982

Wara Wara 1930

Ukamau 1966

Instituto Cinematográfico Boliviano 1953

Inal Mama 2010

Photo: Agencia MARKA REGISTRADA 

It's halftime at the Estadio de Villa Ingenio on a ferociously sunny day in a dusty corner of El Alto. Always Ready are two-nil up to Real Potosí, and ‘the Red Fury’ – the self-styled moniker of the most hardcore home fans of Los Millonarios, as Always Ready are also known – are taking a well-earned breather after a half of chanting and jumping up and down on the concrete terraces. The trumpeters are washing their instruments and slapping water against their faces; the models are taking selfies and comparing outfits; the horde of shirtless teenagers are hiding from the sun, chatting with their friends underneath a canopy of flags. This is the calm in the centre of the storm, and my chance to take up a position in the heart of the Red Fury to join in the action in the second half. I'm a little nervous – even though most of the hardcore fans seem slightly younger than me, there is no mistaking that these are bona-fide ultras (the term for South American fanatics who can be compared to English hooligans – except with full brass bands and all black uniforms instead of Stone Island, beer bellies and violence). I am an ultra-in-training, trying to blend in with the true faithful. A burly-looking teenager walks up to me with a deliberate look on his face – am I to be booted out of the Red Fury’s turf and made to sit with the casual fans? He reaches an arm out towards me: ‘Hola, brother!’

A brief sketch of the history of Always Ready looks something like this: They were founded in 1933 by a group of La Paz schoolchildren, who took the name ‘Always Ready’ – the English translation of the scouts’ motto siempre listo. They chose to have an English name, like many Bolivian clubs, as a nod to football’s fatherland and the country that first brought football to South America through missionaries, business and war. They were a founding member of the Bolivian football association, and it is crucial to note that prior to the 27 years in the wilderness of Liga B, they were seen as one of the biggest clubs in not just La Paz but Bolivia itself, finishing as high as second in the national league in 1967. However, if there is one year that defines Always Ready it is not 1933, the year of their founding, and not 1961, when they had a heralded European tour. The year that defines Always Ready is 2018, the year the club was promoted back to the Bolivian first division and when they moved from La Paz to El Alto.

El Alto is one of the fastest-growing cities in Bolivia and was only officially founded in 1983. Despite being cheek to jowl, La Paz and El Alto feel worlds apart. La Paz is cosmopolitan, the centre of government and tourism in Bolivia, a city of steep hills, breathtaking views and apartment tower blocks. El Alto is dusty and completely flat, with a red brick grid-system sprawl of unfinished construction. If La Paz often feels like the setting for a classic western film, then El Alto is more like No Country For Old Men – brutal, unforgiving and blessed with a people possessed with a stark civic pride. El Alto has needed a football club since its foundation, and Always Ready has arrived to provide that ultimate outlet for civic pride.

The link between Always Ready and El Alto becomes even clearer when I chat with fans during halftime. Ramiro and Ruben, two best friends dressed head to toe in Always Ready merchandise, describe the team as ‘an icon that symbolizes the unity of families in El Alto – it brings together families, friends, and even reunites people that haven’t seen each other for a long time.’ Mauricio ‘Chipi’ Caballero, a well-known sports journalist, describes football as ‘the biggest social movement in Bolivia.’ Ultimately, Always Ready is El Alto and El Alto is Always Ready. ‘People from El Alto need to support Always Ready because we need to be represented as a city nationally,’ Ramiro says with a chuckle.

The desire for Always Ready to qualify for a CONMEBOL (the South American football confederation) competition runs deep. Caballero, the sports journalist, even refers to it as an ‘expectation’ that the club have – quite an ambition for a club in their first year back in the top flight. It's important to note that this transformation from also-rans to genuine competitors has been quick and recent – Caballero notes that as recently as 2013 Always Ready were only getting an average attendance of no more than 500 people in their stadium in La Paz. It's not a transformation that has happened on its own, however; there has been a significant investment of time, money and nous into the club by the father-and-son pair of Fernando and Andres Costa. Fernando Costa is the owner and president, whilst Andres runs the day-to-day operations – even performing a popular stunt of kicking footballs into the crowd at half time. It was their decision to move into the government-built Villa Ingenio and their canny marketing that has made the connection between El Alto and Always Ready seem inevitable, even divinely ordained. Reading interviews given by the Costas, it is clear they are incredibly ambitious – their ultimate goal would be to surpass River, Boca et al. and win the Copa Libertadores. They also have ambitions to develop the often undeveloped domestic footballing infrastructure, working with the Bolivian Football Federation to improve conditions and also introduce a proper parallel women’s league.

Most of the fans I have spoken to are newcomers who tied their colours to Always Ready’s mast when they first moved to El Alto, or since qualification to the Primera Liga this term. Particularly in La Paz, when the team fell from the top flight many fans moved to Bolívar or the Strongest and haven’t returned. However, there are a scattered few diehards who stuck with the club through thick and thin. Grover Murillo is one such member of the old guard. His perspective is interesting, stressing the importance of old-school fans as a tie to the club’s history. Many of the new fans, he tells me through email, will have joined so recently that they might as well assume that Always Ready was born in El Alto. It seems really important to him that Always Ready don’t forget about their past, and keep a link to the rich history of the club through the fans that have seen it all.

Back at the stadium, a teenage boy next to me gestures for me to stand up. The band pick up their instruments and the fans start jumping up and down as the second half begins. The Red Fury knows that Always Ready’s success rides on the back of the fanatics’ joyous cacophony. The ball pings about on the right flank from floppy-haired fan favourite Eduardo Puña to gnarling, lion-like striker Marcus Ovejero. Always Ready play a style of football based around the pass-and-move, knocking the ball into space before throwing themselves into the tackle. The players wear their passions on their sleeve, and Ovejero ends up being booked by the linesman for backchat after appealing for a foul. Despite playing on Bolivia’s only 4G pitch, the players aren’t afraid of sliding in, aren’t afraid of giving away fouls – they aren’t afraid of anything. And the fans love it, reacting eagerly to every challenge, every through-ball and defensive clearance. When Always Ready score their third goal – a tap in after a neat bit of ping-pong buildup play – the fans go absolutely crazy.  This is the chorus of the pop song, the happy ending of of a rom-com – the moment we’ve all been waiting for. One thing that's often forgotten about football – lost amidst the tactical analysis, the tribalism and the slide tackles – is its capacity to produce pure joy.

The fans keep on singing at full voice - backed by an ensemble of brass and drums played by a well-drilled band – la hinchada. The leader, Mauricio Salas, explains the ethos behind the band: ‘I’m always looking to give my best so others can give it too, supporting the team at every moment.’ The band are remarkably well drilled and, like the rest of the fans, contain people of all ages. Salas says that he cannot play in the band because he is too preoccupied with the organisation of it – sorting out flags, teaching the songs to newcomers, getting water for halftime. Standing next to la hinchada makes the spectacle blur between elite sport and a live music concert and makes me wonder how everyone can keep singing, dancing and cheering for 90 minutes in the fierce sunshine.

There is a belief that courses through the veins of everyone involved in Always Ready – the staff, the players, the fans. Spend a few sunny afternoons in the company of Los Millonarios and their faithful and you too start to believe. You’ll believe that a team in its first season in the top flight can challenge for a place in the Copa Libertadores. You’ll believe that a city that has only just begun hosting the side has been Always Ready’s spiritual home since the dawn of time. And you believe that it's these fanatics – the father-and-son drumming team, the 16-year-olds in bucket hats, the best friends draped head to toe in red and white – these fanatics are what will make Always Ready an institution to rival Bolívar down the hill, with Estadio Villa Ingenio their fortress atop the altiplano.

If there’s one word that sums up Always Ready, then and now, it’s this: youth. Named after the scout’s motto, founded by a group of schoolkids in 1933, based in a 35-year-old city, attended by joyously rowdy teenagers – it’s this that has provided the backbone for Always Ready, and it could be youth that holds the key to the club’s future – continuing to find new talent from across South America, and continuing to bring in young fans throughout the city.

Never stop singing when the other team scores.

Real Potosí eventually pull a goal back, but the Red Fury shows no signs of quietening down. They’ve learned from ultras all across the world that one paramount rule: never stop singing when the other team scores.

Photo: Michael Dunn courtesy of Cábala

Photo: Alex Melean 

What does the future hold for craft brewing in Bolivia? 

I'm drinking an Artesana Cobriza Red Ale in La Paz’s Cafe Vida near the Witches’ Market. It’s full-bodied but light, fruity but not overly fussy. It’s also 6 percent ABV and the third in my Cafe Vida trip – I'm already tipsy and about to soar above the altiplano and write the whole afternoon off. Ninneth Echeverria, a sunny café staff member, tells me, tongue-in-cheek, that ‘Bolivian people drink the most alcohol in the world’ – despite the high altitude making sobriety a difficult state to maintain.

The conversation shifts to drinking culture in Bolivia in general, and about the craft beer scene that's been popping up over Bolivia – there are 75 microbreweries in Bolivia and growing. The two biggest independents are Niebla and Prost, which are sold in many restaurants and even some supermarkets. Niebla specialises in IPAs, red ales and a somewhat Anglo-American focus in terms of style; Prost draws most of its inspiration from Germany with dunkels, Weissbiers and even a quinoa beer. There’s also a multitude of smaller breweries, some run by crafty entrepreneurs and others crammed into spare rooms by enthusiasts. There’s Vicos and Ted’s in Sucre, Cochabamba-based Stier and Bendita from Santa Cruz, to name just a few.

There’s a multitude of smaller Bolivian breweries, some run by crafty entrepreneurs and others crammed into spare rooms by enthusiasts.

Echeverria explains that the craft beer scene in Bolivia is incredibly tight-nit and friendly. She knows almost all her suppliers personally, begging for rare bottles from the smallest breweries and passing on recommendations of small batch beers that her considerable charm and negotiating skill have, for now, failed to snag. It’s a scene where everyone knows everyone, and they’re all united in a love of beer and conversation. I've finished my fourth beer, a dainty San Miguel IPA – San Miguel being a craft marque made in La Paz – and my journalism skills have completely deserted me. The rest of the interview is mostly swapping Bolivian and English drinking chants – with my limited Spanish skills it certainly helps that alcohol is a true universal language.

Craft beer in Bolivia is clearly at somewhat of a crossroads. It has developed as a scene slightly later than in, say, Peru or Argentina, and the various players involved are gradually feeling their way in these uncharted waters towards developing an independent brewing industry that is sustainable, vibrant and, above all, uniquely Bolivian. I wanted to find out how Bolivian craft beer can become something more than simply craft beer that is brewed in Bolivia – how it can take on its own unique identity.

‘We get on really well with all the other small breweries, we see them as more friends than competitors,’ Cervero brewery’s Enrique Abastoflor tells me over one of his American Pale Ales at Vicio’s, a related restaurant in Zona Sur. It’s clear he sees the philosophy of companionship as crucial to the success of craft beer in Bolivia – a rising tide lifts all ships, after all. The pale ale we are drinking is both strong and refreshing, as all Bolivian crafts seem to be, and we get chatting how Cervero was founded.

‘It started when my brother and I both went to Germany on seperate foreign-exchange trips,’ Abastoflor says. ‘We both came back with this obsession with quality beer.’ From there it was all about market research, how to translate a dream into a career. While Abastoflor was scoping out the market, his brother, Mauricio, tinkered around like a chemist with malts, hops and flavourings, constantly experimenting with recipes. After the brothers made their first batch they knew they were on to something. Cervero was formally founded in 2017 and has been expanding ever since.

Photo: Courtesy of Cervero Craft Beer

‘We're not in the golden age just yet, we just want to be around when that time comes.’

—Mauricio Abastoflor

Sukko Stach, the owner of Miskki Simi, is another young and ambitious entrepreneur looking to make his mark. We meet in a room below his apartment filled with technicolour bottles, three beer vats and assorted paraphernalia neatly organised in labelled boxes. This is where all of Miskki Simi’s beverages are made. If Mauricio Abastoflor is the energetic mad scientist of craft beer, then Stach is more of a sommelier – sophisticated, cool and with an official beer-tasting certification.

Stach has a much more sober appraisal of the Bolivian craft beer scene than the wide-eyed optimism of the Abastoflor brothers. Tapping into a barrel he has left fermenting in his back room, he starkly sets out the many roadblocks to surmount to make beer in Bolivia. First, apart from water, absolutely none of the traditional ingredients in beer (particularly hops) are grown in Bolivia, and import costs and tariffs eat into margins. Also, if beer made in Bolivia has got no Bolivian ingredients, how can an authentic and unique scene ever develop? Stach thinks he has the answers. ‘I don’t really like making beer with hops,’ he says as he open a deep orange bottle and passes me a glass. ‘This is a sour beer.’ I take a sip, it tastes halfway between a cocktail and a beer, at once both sharp and sweet, thick and light. Most Miskki Simi beers are now made with fruit as the base, such as the orange and cinnamon one I'm drinking now. Stach is someone who always wants to do things differently and experiment. He opens up bottle after bottle and keg after keg, and we drink fruity sour beers often modelled after the traditional roadside soft-drinks of Bolivia (a dried peach concoction modelled after mocochinchi being a particular favourite of mine). Making sour beers ensures that as many ingredients as possible have been grown in Bolivia – potentially the first step towards ensuring that the craft beer scene in Bolivia is both unique but also economically sustainable.

Is producing craft beer in Bolivia a job or a hobby? The Abastoflor brothers at Cervero and Sukko Stach at Misski Simi have equally strong and equally conflicting answers. For the Abastoflors, the first step is to reach more efficient economies of scale; they are planning on moving to a larger venue than their spare room in the near future. Next, there needs to be a unified effort by craft breweries to carve out a space in the Bolivian beer market and start competing with the major industrial beer manufacturers. Most of these, such as Paceña and Huari, are owned by CBN, a conglomeration with a staggering 90 percent market share in Bolivia. However, the brothers have faith and talk about the power of independent breweries working together as the way forward. There’s a WhatsApp group comprising 75 brewers, and there was a recent beer meetup in Cochabamba. There is even talk of an official trade body of small breweries so that the little guys can compete on the same level as the big players. To them, craft beer has the potential to become a large and sustainable industry provided those involved all work together.

Back at Miskki Simi, Sukko Stach is more subdued. ‘We'll never be able to compete with Paceña, so why try?’  he asks. Stach believes that one of the biggest problems with craft beer in Bolivia at the moment is the notion that there is this big, untapped market out there waiting to be exploited by small breweries. If Bolivians are happy with Paceña and Huari, as they seem to be, why would they pay more for something funkier tasting, more expensive and harder to find? Moreover, the bureaucracy of running a small brewery and the overhead associated with importing ingredients will never go away (though a few manufacturers have discussed buying some land in Bolivia to grow hops, the venture might not be profitable and could render pointless the whole idea that each craft brewery should be unique). Stach sees the massive shadow of Paceña as an essentially immovable object: If you can't break through it, you need to work around it. Therefore the solution is not to beat Paceña at its own game, but play another game entirely – a game that is winnable. He taps another keg and out flows a cloudy white liquid. He has a look of pride on his face – a workmen finally seeing the fruits of his labour. ‘This is the first craft cider in Bolivia,’ he says proudly.

Cider, Stach explains to me, is a very common celebratory drink in Bolivia, but most Bolivians buy an overpriced but quite average Argentinian import for Christmas, New Year’s and family celebrations. I have a taste of Stach’s brew. It’s sweet with a crisp nose and a dry smooth flavour.

How to make Bolivian beer uniquely Bolivian is a question that occupies the minds of many independent breweries in Bolivia. Back at Cervero, Mauricio Abastoflor also has plans for drinks that tap into Bolivian culture and the spirit of the Andes. He gets his notebook out and excitedly lists off his ideas for future recipes. In particular, he is keen on using modern techniques and equipment to make a genuine chicha, the traditional corn-based drink of the Andes, in a way that appeals to craft connoisseurs yet does not sacrifice any authentic stylings. There’s a sense that a new age of experimentation, in which ‘Bolivian beer’ means more than just beer that is made in Bolivia, is beginning. Locally quinoa and honey are being incorporated into recipes (as in Café Épico’s Epic Bee brew and Ted’s Ñusta), and there are also myriad other local grains left to experiment with.

So what does the future hold for craft beer in Bolivia? On the one hand, there’s a small, dedicated and endlessly friendly community of producers and sellers who care deeply about crafting a sustainable scene in Bolivia, and some of the beers are so good you think they just might do it. My personal favourite was the Thaquexa Altbier Roja, a perfectly balanced red ale brewed in Cochabamba that I drank over lunch at the boutique restaurant Popular. On the other hand, the gold rush of Bolivian beer is also something of a wild west – the import costs, the red tape and the leering shadow of Paceña and Huari suggest a long and tough journey to carve out the right gap in the market for small breweries to thrive. Ultimately, the jury is still out on whether this is really is a business or a hobby.

Back at Vicio’s, while I sit with the Abastoflor brothers in the afternoon sunshine, sipping on another crisp American pale ale, it's hard to be anything other than positive. The alcohol is getting to my head once more, and I try out some of the drinking chants Ninneth Echeverria taught me at Café Vida. Life is good. ‘We're not in the golden age just yet,’ says Mauricio Abastoflor, ‘we just want to be around when that time comes.’

Photo: Michael Dunn