Although we arrived more than 30 minutes late to the MUSEF (Museo Nacional de Etnografía y Folklore), where Viñetas con Altura was being held, the conference had not yet begun. An eclectic selection of people mingled amongst the stands: aficionados who’d already come in previous years, amateurs who’d read about the events in the newspapers and showed up out of curiosity, and authors who wanted to attend conferences and workshops to perfect their art.

South American and European authors gave a range of workshops over the course of the week; the time when Bolivian comics were almost exclusively dedicated to political humour is far away. These days they produce a huge variety of comics and the festival exists to demonstrate this diversity: from autobiographic comics and Manga, to fantastical and horror genres. ‘Viñetas con Altura’ wants to bring it all to the public and help authors gain recognition. For the past eight years the association has been collaborating with foreign artists in order to help Bolivian authors export their work. Indeed, “before the festival, few people knew about Bolivian historietas outside our frontiers. Now they know Bolivian comic authors in Argentina, Peru and Chile. Few books are exported but there is an exchange. For instance, we publish authors in Bolivian magazines, not only Bolivian authors but also Argentine, Peruvian... and in Peru, the same author invites a Bolivian to take part in their magazine. So there is an exchange of talent,” explains Joaquin Cuevas, one of the main organisers.

However, although the festival has helped authors and their historietas achieve some visibility and fame through Latin America, only few Latin American authors manage to live from their art: most are forced to take another job. Surprisingly enough, Diego Jourdan, one of the few artists who lives from his creative output, does not consider himself an artist, as he works por encargo i.e. most of his work consists in putting someone else’s stories/ ideas into images, which also means adopting a style that is not his own.

Although Joaquin confirms this rather pessimistic account of the comic artist’s situation, he is satisfied with the success of ‘Viñetas con altura’. His awareness of the difficulties that these artists face make him believe even more firmly in the importance of promoting their works.

""And so the prince in shining armour rides gallantly upon his white stallion across strange and foreign lands, high and low, all in search of his beloved, so that he may take her and wed her in holy matrimony...”

As beautifully romantic a story as this may seem, such stories tend to remain in the realm of fiction, and thus I have dubbed it ‘the fairytale curse’. The unfortunate truth for young girls in the UK is that we are more likely to find our Prince Charmings mounted on a J-reg Ford KA than mounted on his noble steed. But despite this gas-guzzling reality, the fairytale dream lives on, and all little girls are taught to dream of a prince charming and white wedding. On my arrival here, I asked myself whether Bolivian princesses are slaves to the same ideals.

Certainly the time, care, and effort that is expended in planning and hosting a Bolivian wedding may rival what we are used to in the UK, but a Bolivian matrimonial ceremony is certainly not the average ‘White Wedding’ that British kids remember from their Disney-days. Bolivians remain attached to the practices and traditions of their ancestors, which like religion, are a syncretic blend of pre- and post-Hispanic influences.

In a blending of new and old, many brides today have exchanged the pollera and ruana for a more contemporary white wedding dress. Still, in a delightful blending of cultures, the gift-giving tradition of pinning money on the bride and groom persists.

However, the ingenuity with which traditions is intermixed with the ‘new’ practices that we are more accustomed to in the West may give some surprising and altogether amusing results. Marriage is universally considered a fundamental rite of passage, but in the Aymara and Quechua traditions it is the most significant social event in an individual’s life: a step down the aisle into adulthood, taken with huge symbolic gravitas and enriching the community life culturally, spiritually, and alcoholically.

Following the religious and state formalities, the real wedding festivities begin late in the evening. This is when aunts, uncles, and relatives you probably didn’t even realise you were related to hit the dance floor, sometimes too literally for comfort, as the customary alcoholic offerings to Pachamama pouring over the ground transform the environs into a beery, treacherous ice-rink. Although the first dance for many couples in the UK may mark the beginning of a wonderful and fruitful marriage, the obligatory opening waltz by the bride and groom in Bolivia is less emotion-stirring than comical. Let’s not forget that heels and slippery floors do not go well together.

The Paceña and Chuflay is a-flowing, and if you don’t have an alcoholic beverage in hand already, you’ll be sure to have one very soon. Refusing a drink might well cause offense, as a result of which many guests pass the night pouring it down raucously in reciprocal demonstrations of respect and appreciation for their neighbours. The rate of alcohol consumption is similar to that in the Indian Sikh tradition where a lot of drinking and a lot of dancing makes for quite a spectacular and enjoyable wedding.

Some Bolivian customs do bear resemblance to those that are somewhat mechanically carried out in the ‘White Wedding’ tradition, for example, the throwing of the bride’s bouquet to all the ‘single and ready to mingle’ ladies in the room. However, how often do you see this happening to the dulcet tones of Shania Twain’s ‘Man, I Feel Like A Woman’? No, you can never criticise the Bolivians for choosing context-inappropriate music.

Bolivia and the UK share many matrimonial customs. It seems that the mandatory “sleeping uncle” is one of them.

This chaotic jubilance may disappoint the dreamy young girl’s ideals of elegance and sophistication, but the genuine celebratory behaviour is what sets Bolivian custom apart. Refusing to be dominated by Western trends, it neatly integrates elements of the white pomp with its own practices and eccentricities. And rightly so: in a nation as colourful and diverse as this, to restrict oneself to ‘white’ only would be despicably reductive. Incorporating both gleeful capering and precarious drunkenness with figurative weight, what in the UK is a stilted performance, an unattainable fairytale curse, here becomes reality in all its accident, beauty and bedlam.

Even the wedding cake has been influenced by western trends. If you look closely, you will see that a single ribbon dangles from each cake. Inside the cake attached to each ribbon is a small trinket. One of the trinkets is a small gold ring. Similarly to bridal bouquet tradition, the girl who pulls the ring from the cake is applauded as the one who will be the next to marry.

Unconventional? Perhaps. But fundamentally, Bolivians know how to throw a great party.

On entering the Cementerio General of La Paz, the presence of Catholic and generally European traditions related to death struck me straight away. Cholitas had unearthed black variants of their traditional attire for a funeral, and as we entered a sign commanded us to be respectfully silent. Yet as we ventured past the whitewashed church into the cemetery proper and listened more closely to our two shoe shiner guides, the individuality of the Bolivian approach to death became ever more apparent. Memorials resemble school lockers– 4 up, many across – with each of the deceased having their own display window, containing photos, flowers and dedications. A common practice is to place within these windows the material goods which the person enjoyed most during their lifetime; behind one pane of glass stood two bottles, of coca-cola and Pilsener beer. Our guide tells us that the coca-cola and beer drinker will be smiling in heaven as he gazes fondly down at his memorial. ‘I’m going to have my shoe platform and polish’, he adds, grinning.

Such a practice could be seen as simply taking the Christian belief in heaven more literally than is customary across the Atlantic. Yet the most distinctive features of the Bolivian relationship with death come from ideas rooted in Andean societies long before the arrival of colonial forces. ‘El día de los muertos’, most famously associated with Mexico, is also acknowledged in Bolivia on the 2nd November each year. One week later a celebration of the dead particular to Bolivia takes place: ‘el Día de las Ñatitas’. It is estimated that around 20% of Bolivians own a ñatita – a human skull which, for Bolivians adhering to Aymaran beliefs, plays an integral part not just during the festival but also throughout the year: keep your ñatita appeased with tobacco and coca, and you can expect good fortune. But neglect to pay due respect, and you will only have yourself to blame as your hopes and dreams unravel to nothing.

Obtaining a ñatita is controversial business. Occasionally they can be legitimately inherited from a relative (more directly than you might think), but more often than not they are bought anonymously on the black market, or scavenged from clearances of overflowing graveyards. At this point Catholic authorities tend to frown upon Aymaran traditions; on bringing up the ñatita topic with the usually jolly priest of San Francisco church, he took on a grave tone, explaining that separating a skull from its body prevents the dead from resting in peace. Indeed, the festival found itself in the midst of religious controversy in 2008, when the Bolivian Church refused to bless the skulls on the grounds that they were profane objects.

Even more acceptable symbols and realisations of Don Death and his friends are inescapable within La Paz. Taking an evening stroll down El Prado on a Thursday, the eccentric ‘T’ili Rock’ show can be found on the central boulevard, watched by a captivated audience of all ages. Two ten-inch high skeletons, one on guitar and the other an accomplished drummer, dance jerkily, and admittedly in a rather mesmerising manner, to a variety of rock classics – amongst which I witnessed some spooky Rolling Stones. The combination of macabre, twitching bones and Mick Jagger’s cheeky vocals is more post-humorous than posthumous, summing up the ease with which Bolivians approach morbid subject matter.

T’ili Rock, along with other the many other traditions in and around La Paz, points towards a more open, communicative and arguably healthier relationship with death than the hushed stance adopted by many European cultures. Whilst the phrase ‘Death is just the next stage of life’ is all too often regurgitated as a clichéd comfort phrase back home, here I am told so in earnest, vibrant tones by every Bolivian I meet. And it’s by no means a one-way street, either. This very personal, real relationship with lost ones is one common to everyone here, Aymaran or Catholic in creed: San Francisco’s priest smiles, ‘I speak with my mother all the time’. The Bolivian approach to death is certainly one I would like to transport back to Europe with me– though I’m not sure how well the ñatitas would fare through customs.