Anticuchos, The True Heart of La Paz

It was late one evening, possibly early in the morning, and I had one single mission: to find some sustenance in order to make bearable the walk to our next destination. As I made my way slowly across Plaza San Pedro, staring up at the daunting façade of the infamous prison, I spotted a flame shooting up on the far corner of the plaza. Moments later, the wind shifted and the telltale fragrance of anticuchos wafted around us. 

The smell, just as much of a part of La Paz at night as orange-tinted street lamps and lonely taxis prowling for fares, was intoxicating. Compelled by the aroma and the sight of the slow-burning charcoal and well-marinated meat, I was instantly drawn towards the flame that I had glimpsed moments earlier. The next thing I knew I was holding up my peanut-sauce-covered finger to ask for one more plate of sliced and skewered cow heart, even before I had finished my first portion. As I shoveled yet another plate of anticuchos into my mouth, I began to marvel at the simplicity of this tiny establishment—just one elderly woman, a grill, a small stack of plates, and a bucket full of glistening red, thinly sliced cow hearts. I also marvelled at how anticuchos are still as popular today as they have been in their 500-year history. I realized then that there is more of a connection between anticuchos and love than just the literal ‘heart equals love’ relationship that exists in much of the world. There is the love for the anticuchos themselves, a love that virtually all Bolivians will admit exists somewhere in their own hearts. But even more, theirs is a love for what this dish represents. It is uniquely Andean, and for many people, they are an integral paceña tradition.

Photo by: Carlos Sanchez

Anticuchos have been a popular Andean dish since the sixteenth century, in both Peru and Bolivia. They are made up of thinly sliced pieces of cow heart, which are grilled on skewers, and served with potatoes along with a spicy peanut sauce with ají. A short walk around La Paz at night reveals the dish’s enduring popularity—lone women sitting behind grills, on just a few square feet of the sidewalk, set up when the sun goes down, enticing drinkers and late-night revelers with their sizzling and fragrant combination of meat and potatoes. While there are myriad of street-food alternatives throughout the city, anticuchos are brimming with history and cultural significance. Some historians believe the origin of the word ‘anticucho’ comes from the quechua ‘antikuchu’ (where ‘anti’ means Andes and ‘kuchu’ means cut, or alternatively ‘uchu’, which means hot paste). It is said that this dish was brought over from Africa by slaves during the colonial period, and was combined with local and imported ingredients, such as garlic which was brought from Europe by the Spanish conquistadors. The dish responds to the necessity of using unpopular cuts which are otherwise unpalatable or hard to eat, such as heart. As I started to learn at El Alto Market, it’s telling this dish comes from a culture where nothing goes to waste.

The best anticucho that I tasted came from that anticuchera near Plaza San Pedro. She consistently produced the highest-quality anticuchos I could find—moist, succulent meat, cooked perfectly, tender and topped with a hearty amount of peanut ají. I returned frequently throughout the following week, and each time I found myself eating more than I thought I would. The meat was perfectly chewy, delicious but not overpowering. The potatoes, always perfectly cooked, warm and soft—and never too small—soaked up the meat juice and the all-important peanut ají.

Anticuchos normally cost around six bolivianos per serving—less than a US dollar. With such cheap prices, one might think that the typical anticuchera is an unskilled laborer. But the women who make this dish are true experts of their craft. Possibly the only thing better than actually eating anticuchos is watching how they are made: the anticucheras deftly maneuver the thin slices of meat around, simultaneously making sure the potatoes don’t burn and the fire keeps going. And don’t attempt these at home, readers. By all local accounts, there is no such thing as a good homemade anticucho. They say the secret is in the sauce, which no anticuchera was prepared to share with me.

Photo by: Jay Chowdry Beeman

But while the anticucheras normally present a great night-time meal, not all anticucheras are equal. Because they are often part and parcel of a drunken night out, some anticucheras don’t depend on skill to sell their platters, they depend on the drunkenness of of their customers, who might not notice if the meat is overcooked or a little off (I’m looking at you, anticuchera who sets up in front of the club Forum in Sopocachi).

Anticuchos are less of an actual meal and more of an experience: the smell that is instantly recognizable a block away, the quiet expertise of the anticucheras, the sizzle of the meat as the flames gently wrap around them. In the end, it is this experience that outweighs everything. Standing in the dim light of La Paz at night, eating off a plastic-wrapped plate and licking your fingers for extra peanut sauce—it’s all as important as the actual food.

Whether we’ve been heartbroken or experienced deep suffering at the loss of a loved one, most of us have been lovesick at some point in our lives. In the Andes we have a name for this malady: amartelo. Amartelo is a state of melancholy that may lead to graver consequences if not dealt with appropriately. I still remember my grandmother telling me stories about children that died of amartelo when one or both parents died or abandoned them for long periods of time. One of her solutions to avoid amartelo was to tie a red lace on one of my wrists so I would not suffer when my parents traveled for long periods of time. Amartelo is a chronic sadness that invades our soul, channeling itself into a feeling of emptiness within the chest. It can keep us from getting up in the mornings yet it perversely keeps us awake at night.

We feel amartelo when someone we love leaves us and we fear or know that they won’t be back. We also feel amartelo when we leave, or left behind by our family, friends or land. We may even feel amartelo for the sea (that many Bolivians will never get to see), or remembering idyllic times during in our past that may never come back. It presents itself as an interruption of our happiness in our daily lives, and it leaves us with a profound longing. We experience amartelo as an absence which is ever present.

Not long ago, I read an online forum that discussed intercultural medicine in Spain where a case related to amartelo came up. One of the doctors shared their particular experience with a three-year-old child that was sick. The child, the doctor said, was the son of a South American immigrant and was left behind by her mother for two years until they could be reunited in Spain again. When the child got to Spain, he was sick. He did not want to eat, he did not feel like playing or going to school, and he cried often. The doctor explained that the mother had boiled her own clothes in water, which she later gave to the child to drink, as if by doing so, the child would reunite spiritually with the mother and create the bonding lost after a long absence in the child’s life. The doctor explained that the child actually did get better.

Anthropological studies show that amartelo features among the causes of death in accounts from indigenous people of the Altiplano, in both rural and urban areas of Bolivia. In some regions, Khasgo Nanay and Pecho Nanay are names for the types of amartelo that are directly related to sentimental frustrations that lead to chest pain, sighs, and lack of air. It is quite common among teenagers. Children are especially vulnerable to amartelo. That is why parents put clothespins or bracelets on their babies, most of which use a seed called Huayruro to protect their young from the love sickness.

Huayruros are seeds that can be found in jewelry or small bottles. My mother used to say that if you leave two Huayruro seeds inside a little box filled with cotton, a little huayrurito would be born shortly after. One female huayruro, red in colour, needs to be placed with a male huayruro, which are both red and black. Put on some music, leave them in privacy and wait a few days to see what happens. ‘Una wawa huayrurito!’ they will exclaim. Watching this happen makes it easy to believe that this seed has magical and curative powers. For Andean people, huayruros not only represent love and fertility, but also amulets to scare away bad energies in general.

Amartelo may be triggered by many factors. It is the absence of a very deep love that was experienced and somehow vanished, leaving us with the love inside, yet without our loved ones. We can hear amartelo in some wind instruments from the Andes and in popular huayños, a music closely identified with love maladies. Amartelo is contained in the sound of many sighs, if you listen closely, as well as in the words of Jaime Saenz, in ancient textiles, and many other Andean cultural forms. What’s most curious is that expressions of Amartelo can be at once nostalgic and blissful in their approach to life and the spiritual world. Amartelo may begin as an emotional rupture but later break out from our soul, finding its expression in our bodies. One thing is certain: while amartelo is initially experienced as a period of grief, it is said to be followed by a powerful period of rebirth.

From the outside it seems like a perfectly happy marriage. The husband makes a good living; he can provide for his family everything they could possibly want. They have two happy and healthy children who they have found good schools for, the wife is cheerful and chatty with her friends; she explains to them how good her husband is with the kids. She cooks family dinners, which they all enjoy together. It is a harmonious household.

Yet she starts to have her suspicions. Her husband is becoming more distant; he doesn’t really seem interested in spending time with her anymore. It has been several weeks since they had sex. She starts getting worried. What is going on? Is she growing old and unattractive? Has he just lost interest? Is he depressed? Or maybe, just maybe, is he having an affair? She becomes more worried. She starts becoming paranoid. Every little thing her husband says or does seems to imply to her that he is indeed having an affair. A seed of suspicion has been planted inside her mind. And it’s already growing.

She just has to know if it’s true or not. It doesn’t even matter anymore if he is having an affair; she just needs to know the truth, and she knows she can’t get it from him. She does what hundreds of other desperate individuals in La Paz do: she hires a private investigator.

He is very easy to find; his ad is quite clear in the newspaper. He accepts her request. At first he just follows the husband around, becoming familiar with his daily schedule. He knows where he goes for lunch. He knows what he eats. He knows when he leaves work. He knows his route home. For a few weeks, the private investigator knows his target more intimately than anyone else on the planet. The husband has no idea he’s being followed.

For almost three weeks he doesn’t notice anything particularly unusual about the husband’s behaviour. He seems just like a regular person. That is, until one day he sees him outside his office on his way home from work. Usually at this time, he would simply get in his car before driving home (although stopping off most days at the Pollos Copacabana drive-thru), but today he is greeted by a very young man. So young, in fact, that he must still be at university, if he’s at university at all. He definitely isn’t one of his two children, the investigator knows exactly what his children look like. So who is this person?

Quietly, the investigator starts to weave conjectures aided by his trusty pair of binoculars. Eventually he decides, based on a past case , that the boy could be the illegitimate son of an affair he had several years ago. This could be the proof that he needs to show his wife that her spouse was not only unfaithful, but had been so for several years. Yet the investigator knows he needs more evidence before he can make such a bold claim to his client. He begins to follow them. At first there is nothing really incriminating; they both get in his car and drive away. They could be going anywhere. He follows.

After a while they stop outside a motel. This is extremely strange. Why would he be going to a motel with his illegitimate son? They both get out of the car and enter the motel. The investigator watches them through his binoculars from the backseat of his car. He watches them go in and then sees them again after about ten minutes in one of the rooms facing the street. It turns out the boy, the young man, isn’t the husband’s son after all. Oh no, he cannot, surely, be looking at the man’s lover? The investigator can’t quite believe his eyes. After all his years of work in the industry he has never seen anything quite like it. Sure, he has seen years and years of infidelity and debauchery, but never a 45 year-old man sleeping with a 20-something boy behind his wife’s back. He takes a couple photos and speeds off to talk to the wife.

She is devastated. She cries for about an hour, inconsolably. He tries to help her, but she is distraught. She doesn’t really know how to process the information. She thought she just wanted to know for sure what was going on, but now she wishes she had never known.

As I sat in the coffee shop in central La Paz listening to this remarkable tale, completely shocked by what I was hearing, I couldn’t help but notice seeing a small glint of pride in the private investigator’s eye. He had caught his target. He was successful. The weeks of hard work had paid off for him. ‘The woman’s reaction was pretty common among my clients. They think they know what they want, but at the end of the day, does anyone really know what they want?’

This really is the dark side of love. Those corridors of horrors that people seem to readily walk into, before realising their grave mistake. He says ‘I do my best to be mindful of inflicting psychological damage’, yet at the end of the day he is only offering them a service they themselves request. Oftentimes, people will contact him hastily and in a panic. ‘People often see giants when they should be seeing windmills’ he tells me, pointing out that a non-trivial proportion of cases turn out to be fruitless and unfounded. ‘If, after a few days it becomes apparent nothing unusual is taking place, I have to tell them it’s not worth them spending their money, and it’s not worth me spending my time on this’.

The private investigators community (if it can be called a community at all; they only seem to know each other by name) is larger in La Paz than one might think. Prices start at $10 per hour, and at the higher end cost over $300 per week. At the end of my conversations, I couldn’t help feeling slightly rattled. The story I have recounted above is one of the stranger ones, but by no means the strangest that was told to me. I kept wondering how being exposed to so much deceit and duplicity affected the lives of these investigators. I asked one of them whether his line of work ever made him suspicious of partners he’s had. After a calm pause he looked up and said ‘I know all the tricks there are to know, they would never do them to me. They simply wouldn’t work’.