Pachamama has provided fertile ground for the growth of Catholicism in Bolivia.

Coming from a Catholic high-school background, I thought I'd find plenty of common ground with the people of Bolivia. After all, about 95 percent of Bolivia's population professes the Catholic faith. But 85 percent of Bolivians are of indigenous descent, with ancestors who worshipped Aymara, Quechuan, and other pre-Hispanic deities. The influence of indigenous belief still reverberates today, even in the Catholic Church. It's particularly evident in the Bolivian portrayal of the Virgin Mary.

The Catholic Church has always portrayed the Virgin Mary as chaste, of course, and Jesus Christ as being born without sexual corruption. But in Bolivia, far from being simply the remote and largely silent figure portrayed in European Catholicism, the Virgin Mary is often seen as an active and beneficent divine being. It is not uncommon to see a student ask the Virgin for a good grade on a test, or to hear a helpless romantic ask the Virgin for intercession in a starcrossed romance. The Virgin Mary is not just a distant religious figure whose only role in Catholicism was giving birth to Christ; here, she takes center stage and 'acts as the Mother of the People', says Father Ivan Bravo, the vicar of the Montículo parish in La Paz.

But why is that? The answer can be traced back to the introduction of Catholicism in Bolivia. When the Spanish invaded the Americas, they brought with them their Catholic religion, forcing it upon the indigenous people. But the people, devout to their own gods, resisted these advances. 'The Spanish were able to eliminate the natives' temples, but they couldn't eliminate their beliefs,' asserts historian Dr. Fernando Cajias. The Aymara and the Quechua, the dominant tribes in the Bolivian highlands (the altiplano) based their faith on the natural world, holding the sun, the earth, and the water as sacred, and worshipped deities that represented them. The earth provided for them, so they had a strong connection to it. And the Spanish, even at the height of their power, were never quite able to stop the sun from rising, or the earth from producing food.

So the Spaniards had to adopt a different plan of attack. As Dr. Cajias says, 'The missionaries realised they couldn't completely destroy the indigenous belief after struggling to force Catholicism on the people. They then decided to mix Catholic beliefs and figures with native beliefs and figures.' At the center of this syncretism are Pachamama and the Virgin Mary. Pachamama is an Aymara and Quechuan word loosely meaning 'Mother Earth.' The Andean people saw Pachamama as a mother who gave them food, water, and all of nature. She was considered a fertile mother because of the fertile land. And the Catholic figure most resembling a caring mother? The Virgin Mary.

With this the new strategy in place, Catholicism slowly took root. Outside Cochabamba, in the town of Quillacollo, the Festival of Urkupiña is held every August, celebrating the fusion of the Virgin Mary and Pachamama. The story of this mingling of two cultures dates back to pre-colonial times, when the indigenous people of the Cochabamba Valley would make offerings to a waca—a sacred hill where spiritual energy is concentrated—where Quillacollo now sits. This particular waca was revered for its female energy, and devotees would make offerings to the Pachamama there.

Then, in the late 18th century, when Spanish colonialism was in full bloom and the Catholic Church was trying to make inroads among the native population, a young indigenous shepherd girl was approached by an apparition of the Virgin Mary on the waca. The next day, when she returned to the hill with her parents, the Virgin appeared once again. The girl shouted, 'Ork'hopiña! Ork'hopiña!'—'She's already on the hill,' in Quechua. Since then, the Festival of Urkupiña is held every year, celebrating not only the Virgin and her Pachamama predecessor, but also national integration, the combining of Spanish and indigenous culture. It is, though, an uneasy synthesis, with plenty of disagreement as to how the Virgin and Pachamama actually fit together. Dr. Cajias maintains that although indigenous belief is superimposed on Catholicism in Bolivia, the two systems are still distinct. 'It is not a fusion. There is not a temple for the Virgin Mary and Pachamama,' Dr. Cajias says. 'It is simply a symbiosis, because each has its own role in society.' And for the most part, the two have remained separate. 'People in Bolivia believe in Jesus Christ and follow Catholic teachings, but they also adhere to their ancestors' original Andean beliefs.'

But Father Bravo disagrees with the separate but equal belief. 'The Church in Bolivia has presented Mother Earth as a creation of God,' he says. 'Pachamama is so important in the people's belief that it can not be ignored, but Pachamama was created by God, and is not a separate goddess.' In other words, the Church accepts the people's love of Mother Earth because being grateful to Mother Earth is being grateful to God. 'The Second Vatican Council recognised that we have to reach people in different ways,' Father Bravo continues. 'Bolivian priests are able to understand the traditions because we come from them, and are able to reach the people because of it.' Open-mindedness and creativity are helping Catholicism stay strong in Bolivia.

Father Bravo uses the Parable of the Farmer Scattering Seed, from the Book of Mark, to illustrate Pachamama's significance to Catholicism. Jesus tells the story of a farmer who throws seeds on different surfaces. The seeds thrown on rocky soil sprout but then wither in the sun, and the seeds thrown among thorns are choked out from the sunlight. Only the seeds sown in fertile soil grow and yield crops. In Bolivia, the seeds of God's message must combine with the fertile, fecund, and ancient Mother Earth—like Jesus in Mary's womb—in order to yield a successful crop of Catholic Bolivians.

Cast a look into many Bolivian homes, and you'll likely spot a small, moustachioed ceramic figurine called an Ekeko. These jolly-looking statuettes resemble small men in Andean attire with enormous smiles, and they usually bear accessories that represent goods people want to obtain in the coming year. They represent a pre-Colombian god of fertility and abundance, and they're typically given to newlyweds and people who are moving into a new house, in order to bless them and ensure prosperity in the future.

While the provenance of the Ekeko figure is obscured in history, some scholars date it back to the Tiwanaku culture, which was dominant in southern Peru, northern Chile, and western Bolivia over a thousand years ago. The Ekeko god was revered as a phallic symbol, responsible for male fertility. Later, the Incas adopted the Ekeko, whom they called Iqiqu. He wandered the altiplano, bringing harmony and abundance wherever he roamed. Then the Spanish arrived. According to legend, they were wary of the Ekeko's power and the devotion he inspired in the people, so they captured him and cut him into many pieces, which they scattered across the land so that the Ekeko could not come back to life.

But the Ekeko didn't die. In fact, his beneficence toward all, even toward the Spanish, would provide his lasting legend. In 1781, during an indigenous insurrection led by Tupac Katari, an Aymara army surrounded La Paz and laid siege to it for six months in order to force the hated Spanish occupier out. A young soldier in Katari's army snuck across lines into the city to visit his paramour, who was a servant in a Spanish officer's household. While everyone else in the city was starving, the young soldier delivered food to her daily in secret, laying it in front of the girl's Ekeko figurine. The Spanish officer, witnessing the appearance of food every day in front of the Ekeko—and perhaps willing to cast a blind eye to it as long as he received a cut of the food—popularised the legend of the Ekeko when the siege was finally lifted, and he's now known to help provide for people in need.

While the Ekeko is now largely denuded of his religious connotations, his cultural significance abides. He's the star of the Festival of Alasita, and now some are appropriating the Ekeko's traditional macho aspect and giving it a feminist spin. Mujeres Creando, a women's collective located in La Paz's Sopocachi neighborhood, has introduced a female Ekeka to be debuted at this year's Festival of Alasita. This figure is a representation of the cholita, the indigenous female archetype that dominates the altiplano. It shows the burdens that women carry— including, in some depictions, a drunk male—in addition to the material goods they provide.

But far from being a radical reinterpretation of folklore, the Ekeka might be a rediscovery of ancient beliefs. Some researchers have recently unearthed legends that indicate there was once a female Ekeka god, one also worshiped for fertility, abundance, and prosperity. It would make sense, as Aymara belief typically emphasises duality in nature, stressing the importance of both the female and the male.

But even as the Ekeko has changed throughout the centuries, one thing remains the same: you should never purchase an Ekeko for yourself. In the true spirit of his mythological spirit of giving, the Ekeko only blesses those who receive him as a gift.

You buy small, fake money with life-sized, actual money in hopes that you will become rich? Am I the only one not lost in the irony?

Bolivianos! Dólares! Euros!' shouts the street vendor directly in front of me, as similar cries ring throughout the Sopacachi district of La Paz. At 11:55 the street is swarming with festival goers rushing to buy miniatures for the 12:00 start. To my left, a crowd of people surround a one-stop shop for everything tiny: cars, pots of gold, houses, graduation certificates, alcohol bottles, luggage and of course, stacks of money. To my right, there's another stand selling what appear to be newspapers the size of napkins and a doll smoking cigars. Did I enter an episode of the Twilight Zone? I step back from the bustling crowd to catch my breath, only to fill my lungs with burning incense. Trying to find the source of the smell, I encounter men and women sitting in the middle of the street hunched over incensarios, flower petals, coca leaves, hand bells and bottles of alcohol. At the centre the Yatiris chant blessings. These wise men are dressed in traditional Bolivian garb, some displaying crosses from their necks. Suddenly from above I hear a booming noise and jerk my head upwards to see a small firework show marking the midday hour. Alasita has begun.

I wander about to find out what else this festival has to offer, only to find more miniatures for sale. The crowd consists of mainly adults. How many Hot Wheel cars do grownups need? I come across another store selling assorted animal figures. I ask around and find that stands sell frogs for good luck, chickens to find a mate and owls to gain wisdom. To my surprise, the miniature nature of the festival doesn't stop with the food. Tiny baguettes and palm-sized cakes occupy the pastries section of Alasita. I can't resist trying the mini-deserts, and find that they taste as good as the normal-sized ones. My stomach satisfied, I step back into the bustling street and collide with a birdcage. The owner informs me that, for a small fee of 2 Bs –about $0.30— the birds will pick out your fortune from a drawer beneath their cage. While the little birds work, my eye spots the first lifesized article of the day: a rotund man with tools, a miniature car, a flute, and other items associated with wealth and good fortune hanging from his neck as pots of gold sit at his feet. I read a gold sign with the word 'Ekeko'.

After sleeping on the unique festival, I decided to sit down with a Bolivian historian, Fernando Cajías, to get a better picture of Alasita. Still very confused about the meaning and purpose of the festival, I asked him, 'What is Alasita?' to which he responded, 'Alasita is the festival of desires and energy. Everyone has desires.' And there it was, the heart and soul of the festival in less than ten seconds. He went on to explain that the miniatures are used to represent desires that people have. Whether you want money or love, luck or wisdom, you can pursue your desires at Alasita by getting your miniatures blessed by a Yatiri in hope that they will become real, lifesized possessions within the next year. This is achieved by offering your miniatures to Ekeko, the Andean god of abundance, whose existence dates to the pre-Colombian era. The concept of this festival, offering miniatures to a god of abundance, dates back even further to the Incan period. However, the original practices were eradicated during the Spanish colonisation and introduction of Catholicism. The history of the fair's development as we know it today is cloudy, but we do know that it has been taking place in La Paz for the last 240 years. It started when Segurola, the mayor of La Paz, converted the feast of the god of abundance into a Catholic celebration. The festival is now devoted to Nuestra Señora de La Paz.

Today not only do people buy the miniatures in hopes of receiving good fortune from the Ekeko, but the festival has expanded into a larger cultural institution. Dr. Cajías went on to describe the artistic language of the fair: ""The artisans compete to have their work prized and recognised. The miniatures are not just amulets and often become works of art.' The festival transgresses simpleminded material desires. Newspapers sold at Alasita (miniatures, of course) are openly allowed to criticise the government. Dr. Cajías also emphasised the ludic language of the fair. 'There is an air of fun and games during the festival and within the people. It's not only buying the miniatures anymore; there are fake weddings and other performances as well. I've even had students make me sign their fake marriage certificates.' Fully armed with the knowledge of a Bolivian historian, I returned to Alasita the next day to indulge in my own desires. I quickly set out to buy a miniature new car, stacks of fake money and a full set of tiny luggage. I took my finds to the nearest Yatiri to bless with coca leaves, incense and alcohol. Now I had a year to make these things a reality.

Next I set out to experience the carnival part of the festival. In the rides section, a bit further away from the entrance, I saw more children than at the shops on the first day. I encountered a Ferris wheel, merry-go-round and other rides that involved some sort of spinning, all classic staples of a fair anywhere in the world. In the games area I came across a gathering of futbolín tables, a popular section. Having years of experience playing foosball in my grandparents' basement during holidays, I thought I would try my luck against a couple of locals. It was a mistake to say the least, as I was easily defeated 4-1, twice. The experience, humbling as it was, felt like I was reliving part of my childhood all the way in Bolivia. This crazy festival was suddenly making me homesick.

After hearing the ideology behind Alasita and experiencing the fair firsthand, I couldn't help but question the tradition. You buy small, fake money with life-sized, actual money in hopes that you will become rich? Am I the only one not lost in the irony? At first it seemed to me like a childish display of human ignorance. But why then where the streets filled with so many adults, many of whom were clearly educated business people on their lunch break? The answer lies in the communal spiritual tradition. Bolivians don't buy these miniatures because they are cool looking or funny; but because amulets are a way of setting goals for the future. Alasita allows Bolivians to acknowledge their desires in an exciting, communal event. Unlike Catholicism, which preaches the repression of worldly desires, here, in this crazy festival of miniatures, people are able to voice their worldly desires without reprimand or guilt. Today's festival may be devoted to a Catholic Virgin in name, but in spirit it remains a celebration of energy, desire, and Andean abundance.