John Downes roams the streets and bars of the country in a quest to discover Bolivia’s most traditional tragos

Singani:

WHAT:

Singani is Bolivia's national drink. It is made using Muscat of Alexandria grapes which go through a distillation process (unlike in the making of wine, for which they must undergo a fermentation process). The outcome is a clear, distilled spirit classified as a type of brandy. There are a lot of well-known singani based drinks in Bolivia, with chuflay and té con té being two of the most popular.

WHO:

According to Edmar, 25, a bartender at Diesel, one of La Paz's trendiest bars, singani is popular predominantly amongst older adults. Nonetheless, singani still has some popularity among younger generations, not least Emiliano Rojas. A big fan of singani sour, he soon intends to open a restaurant in Zona Sur called El Fenómeno where he will serve various singani-based cocktails.

WHERE:

Production of Singani in Bolivia dates back to the mid 1500’s, when the first muscatel grape vines were introduced in the valleys of Mizque, Cochabamba, later extending to Camargo, Chuquisaca. Singani is now distilled from a type of grape that only grows at high altitude (between 5,250 and 9,200 feet) in Southern Bolivia, which results in a distinct flavour and higher levels of antioxidants. The Bolivian government has ruled that Singani must only come from this region, in the same way that true champagne can only come from France’s Champagne Valley.

TIPS AND TRIVIA
For Emiliano Rojas, the best singani sour is prepared using egg whites, sugar, lemon juice, two ounces of singani, and a wedge of lime. His pro-tip is adding blended strawberries to give the drink a more appealing texture and colour.

Diesel’s Chuflay is made with a couple of ice cubes in a tall glass, a quarter of singani, and three quarters of Sprite, 7Up or ginger ale. It's then served with a slice of lemon, and an optional touch of lemon juice.

Té con té is said to be good for colds.

Chicha


WHAT:
Chicha is a sparkling alcoholic beverage which can be clear or cloudy, and which comes in a variety of colours (typically white, yellow or brown, or even purple). Modern production methods involve grinding the corn into flour and then mixing it with water in order to create a paste that is left to dry in the sun. It is subsequently placed in jars before being ready for consumption.

WHO:

Chicha, meaning “liqueur” in Quechua, is drunk all over the country, though is especially popular in peri-urban and rural communities due to its affordability and the fact that it can be homemade. Famously popular among Tinku fighters.

WHERE:
Chicha originates in the valleys near Cochabamba though is also made in Chuquisaca, Oruro and La Paz. The people of Torotoro are famously very proud of their chicha, and in Aiquile it is drunk at open-door wakes and cemeteries on Todos Santos, the Day of the Dead.

TIPS AND TRIVIA

Chicha originates in the Inca Empire, and has been made and consumed in the plains and valleys of South America for several centuries.

The alcoholic content of chicha varies between 2 and 12%. The alcohol composition depends on how long the mixture is left in the jar. Chicha is traditionally prepared by chewing corn. An enzyme in saliva turns the corn into sugar, which will then ferment with help from the bacteria. This mixture is then stored for around a month in airtight clay jars.

Chicha is traditionally drunk out of tutumas, bowls made from the shells of the fruit from the eponymous plant. Foreigners often remark it tastes similar to cider.


Balde:

WHAT:

The drink derives its name from the way in which it is distributed and administered. Balde (literally meaning 'pail') is made by filling a large bucket with one part vodka to four parts orange juice. Or generally, any spirit and mixer in roughly the same proportions. What’s important is the bucket.

WHO:

In 21st Century Britain, a teenager's rite of passage into binge drinking generally involves consuming copious amounts of fizzy alcopops. For me, these blurry occasions occurred at house parties or in the park with my friends, under the illusion that the likes of WKD and Smirnoff Ice gave substance to our efflorescent adolescence. For many young Bolivians, balde is the most influential drink of their formative drinking years.

WHERE:

While the constituent items of the balde experience can be bought separately, in select markets, such as La Paz's Mercado Achumani in Zona Sur, balde can be purchased in its entirety as a combo, with market sellers offering its constituent parts at a discount.

TIPS AND TRIVIA

It is largely consumed at house parties and festivals, not least during La Paz's annual Bacanes carnival party in February. Billed as 'a party organised by friends and for friends' by one of my sources, this four-day festival is aimed at chicos and chicas between 18 and 25 years old. Once the $150-$200 ticket is purchased, pretty much everything is free for the partygoer. Huge barrels of balde are prepared by the organisers and it is drunk during barbeques (which start at midday), at drinking games, and during the live music acts. It is consumed through beer-bongs at the bar. Seemingly neverending, it is guaranteed to keep on coming no matter how many cries of 'seco!' are offered by one's “friends”.

Alcohol (by Amaru Villanueva Rance)

WHAT:
Precisely that. Plain, old alcohol distilled from potatoes, elsewhere used to dress wounds and sold for medicinal purposes. A small Bs 1 bottle can be mixed in with a 2L bottle of juice to produce an incredibly cheap concoction guaranteed to do more than ‘just the trick’. Borrachos with etiquette and experience customarily burn off the excess ethanol, only drinking it when it goes out (apparently this makes it OK). It is also a key ingredient in misiles, Bs 1 clear plastic bags filled with alcohol and some sort of juice, tied at the top and sold with a straw included for the drinker’s convenience. And we’ll just go ahead and point out that the most determined drinkers just take it straight, like swallowing cold fire.

WHO:
Of course, alcohol in Bolivia is sold as a disinfectant and also bought as a vital element in the ch´alla, but it is no secret it is consumed by the city’s most determined and impoverished drinkers. It is also drunk by teenagers during their first alcoholic experiences, usually on account of its price.

During his experience of the legendary tinku spectacle in 1972, photographer Alain Mesili recounts how the ‘lethal nectars’ of Caimán were the true winners of the fighting perimeter, knocking out any warriors who didn’t fall in combat.

WHERE:
Small bottles of Ceibo are sold for Bs 1 at corner shops across the city, paradoxically making alcohol at once the most hardcore and most accessible of drinks. Pre-prepared Misiles can be found near the calle Los Andes just off Avenida Buenos Aires.

TIPS AND TRIVIA

In Bolivia, brands such as Caimán are labelled as ‘potable’ despite being 96% pure. Tied first with Spirytus Rektyfikowany Vodka from Poland, it lays claim to being the world’s most alcoholic beverage. In comparison, the strongest bohemian-style absinthes are bottled at 89.9%.

Ceibo branded alcohol even promises ‘buen gusto’, or a good flavour.

In the residential Zona Sur district, children go from door to door demanding sweets in exchange for a laugh or a fright. Elsewhere, children from the countryside approach mourners in the cemetery and offer prayers in exchange for bread and fruit to take back to their communities. Is it possible that these traditions have a common origin, or more so, become combined?

Origins
There is something very special, yet intense about Halloween. In the United States, children leave their homes, their safe havens, wandering around in masks and makeup, surrounding themselves with complete strangers. Despite this, it is one of the most enjoyable holidays of the year because of the dressing up, visiting houses of horror, and best of all—trick-or-treating. But when did thousands of people begin to disguise themselves and knock on the doors of their neighbors in hope of receiving some delicious treats?

Hallowmas is the term in which the three days spent honoring saints and recently departed souls can be collectively referred to. These three days include Halloween or All Hallows' Eve, All Saints' Day, and to keep it fair, All Souls' Day. Some believed that All Hallows' Eve was the last chance the dead had to gain vengeance before they moved forward to the next world the next day—All Saints' Day. The living would disguise themselves with makeup, masks, and costumes to avoid being avenged by the dead. But the living couldn't bear sitting at home all night, so 'Souling' was introduced. Beginning in the 15th century the custom of baking and sharing soul cakes grew immensely. Back in the day large groups of people, mostly poor, instead of trick-or-treating for candy, exchanged their prayers for souls in purgatory for soul cakes. The families of those who passed away believed that for every cake eaten, a soul was relinquished from the horrifying grip of purgatory. This custom has floated around various countries, over an extensive period of time, and has developed into what most people now refer to as trick-or-treating on Halloween. The tradition of Souling has instead moved to All Souls' Day, the day that has become most widely known as the day of departure of the souls of the dead. Instead of going from house to house in search of bread, many go from grave to grave in the local cemetery to pray for the dead in exchange for 'treats'. Have you noticed any similarities yet?

Halloween

Halloween is celebrated in the most common way here in Bolivia. I took to Zona Sur to find out exactly how children and adults celebrate this holiday and was pleasantly surprised. Toddlers, children, teens, and adults were dressed up, holding goodie bags, walking around the entire neighborhood looking for doors to knock on in hopes to top off their bags and sugar levels. It was a day of pure enjoyment. All of the kids I ran into had nothing but smiles on their faces, and their parents were more than happy to speak to me and have their children and their costumes photographed.

Over time people began to associate negative things, mainly satanic ideas and rituals, with Halloween, which led many to stop celebrating it. Despite this many people still take part in the day for the candy and tradition, like one of the various families that I encountered. Even though their children attend a Catholic school, and they do not believe in Halloween, they still go out, enjoying the parties and the tricky search for treats. Despite the hundreds of families that flooded the streets of Zona Sur, there actually wasn't as much candy as I thought there would be.

This brings me to ask why teens celebrate Halloween. After meeting and talking to a couple of few, it became aware that they use Halloween as an excuse to go out. Instead of seeing it as a cultural activity, they view it as a social one. Because they do not associate the holiday with anything but friends and fun, they dress up to for enjoyment, to look cute, and to attract attention. Adults are really open to the holiday as well, even if they do not believe in it. Many were dressed up themselves, and mostly all were more than happy to debut the costumes of their children and their own for the camera. Altogether, the 31st of October was filled with scary monsters, lovely princesses, famous movie characters, scares, and laughs.

Todos Santos

Two days later and All Souls' Day has arrived. This memorable day is spent in the local cemetery, with family, to both remember and say goodbye to the dead. Although many families go to the cemetery to offer a final meal to their loved ones, a sort of trick or treating does occur here too.

Like with the custom of Souling, reciris come down from the countryside to exchange their prayers for food, most commonly bread. So as I took a walk around the cemetery, I observed adults mourn for their loved ones, families put together buffets for their lost ones, children retrieving clean water for decorative flowers, and many other little details.

Not only do families 'hire' children to share their prayers, but they also hire musicians to play songs for the dead. This day is not about the entertainment, but rather the bonds that the living share with the dead. It is a day for remembering, thanking, and paying one’s respects. The children that come down from the countryside spend the day, in a sense, working. So this holiday shares something with Halloween, and what the children do can be seen as a form of trick-or-treating. Despite the differences, children on Halloween and children on All Saints' Day are essentially leaving their homes and making an effort to retrieve non-monetary treats.

Throughout the years these two holidays have been modified, but have for the most part stayed relatively the same. Trick-or-treating was a rather large part of Hallowmas in the 15th century and still is today. Despite the negative ideas that have been associated with Halloween, many people still enjoy the holiday, even in Bolivia. One question that has arisen is how can a Bolivians continue to hold onto their main tradition, All Souls' Day, without closing themselves off to these tempting foreign influences. Some people have made it their top priorities to do just that—bring these two holidays together and celebrate them as one. At several haunted houses across La Paz this year, organisers have emphasised their intention of drawing from local horror stories and legends to combine them with the more cosmopolitan and hip Halloween. Rather than copying customs from the US, many have stated that they have taken their own myths and legends from parts like El Alto and La Paz and have turned them into something new and terrifying. Although these two holidays seem vastly different, maybe even contradictory, they do share some of the same characteristics: family, friends, enjoyment, future memories, and the good ol' trick-or-treating. Don't be surprised if next year, 2014, cholita zombies, kari karis, and famous local ghosts take to roaming the streets of La Paz on the 31st of October.

Asia Hart-Eason locks the door, grabs a blanket, and takes a tour through some of Bolivia’s best -and worst- horror films.

I'm sitting on a couch watching a woman take a hearty bite out of a man's neck. There is a splatter of blood on the floor by my feet. Luckily, there's no cause for alarm, as I am on the set of Olalla, a horror film by director-producer-actor team Jac Avila and Amy Hesketh. Avila and Hesketh, of Pachamama Films, met at a film festival in 2005 and have been collaborating ever since, producing controversial works like Barbazul and Maleficarum. In their Miraflores studio, I feel the energy, their determination to get a scene shot while the light is still ideal. This is the face of Bolivian horror.

Just to make it clear, Olalla is a vampire movie. I am told it is only the second feature length film of its genre ever to be made in Bolivia. The first one, Dead but Dreaming, was also created by the pair and released in July 2013. It is a time-hopping drama that contemplates femininity, religion, purity, sexuality, violence, and, of course, death. It also features dramatic, prominently Bolivian landscapes; areas in Potosí and around Lake Titicaca.

 Interestingly enough, its soundtrack has a decidedly Old West American vibe to it, as do the scenery and costumes. This is quite baffling, considering its story jumps from 57 BC to 1800s La Paz. ‘It’s intentional’, Avila tells me, explaining he meant for it to be reminiscent of a spaghetti western.
Avila recounts his first movie experience as a child, seeing Bambi at the movies. Although this animated film intended for children may seem to be the opposite of what he produces now, he points out that on a deeper level, Bambi is terrifying—what with the guns, dead mother, and general violence.
But why do people watch horror movies at all? I ask. ‘Fear’, Jac replies blankly. While viewers are intrigued by the unknown, they still like to see what's scaring them. I then ask what attracts a Bolivian audience to horror. ‘Bolivian audience?’ The pair laugh while considering the very idea. An audience for Bolivian horror films is apparently close to nonexistent.

I couldn’t help but notice nudity features prominently in their films, almost as much as blood and guts. I ask them about any related local taboos, which I assume would exist in a predominantly Catholic country like Bolivia. Surprisingly, the duo has received more complaints about violence, particularly toward women, than the somewhat overly-generous helpings of nudity throughout their films. Avila even mentions a woman who walked out of his movie at a festival, stating that it was incredible, but too intense.

The rest of the Bolivian horror industry is dominated by short films, usually produced by university students. I watch a few, each one lasting between one and twenty minutes. Apart from one involving zombies, most use lighting, color, soundtrack, limited dialogue, and camera viewpoint to produce a unique sense of psychological fear—quite different from the gore and physical violence of Dead but Dreaming. Almost all in black and white, they evoke a common sense of isolation—the excruciatingly universal fear of being alone.

Ningún Lado by Alberto Guerra speaks directly to fear of the unknown. The plot: a man hears a couple arguing. It seems simple enough, but when he searches for them, they are nowhere to be found. Their voices escalate, and the protagonist becomes overwhelmed. The pulsating beat of the soundtrack only contributes to the feelings of stress and urgency that, by this point, the man and his audience share. There is no peace and no escape—fear is achieved.

Closer to Avila's style is young producer Mirko Alvarez’s zombie short, Requiem para una noche de farra. Yet, even this one comes armed with a darkly humorous social statement, drawing comparisons between the undead and those who are inebriated. There is quite a bit of spurting blood involved, some of which ends up on the camera lens. My favorite part is the scene in which the main character dramatically smacks a zombie attacker with a guitar, then falls over and gets bitten anyway. Sound effects play an important part in this one—the blend of screaming, moaning, and heavy metal overpowers watchers, ultimately the goal of any successful terror flick.

I ask Alvarez what he thinks of the industry. He shares Avila and Hesketh’s opinion—the horror genre is simply not popular among both Bolivian consumers and producers. He also bemoans the lack of governmental support pointing to the absence of laws that favour filmmakers as well as the corresponding financial incentives. Considering the question of why people watch frightening films, Alvarez asserts that movie viewers are always eager to explore ‘topics that go beyond the comprehension, logic, and normal behavior of the human being’. This brings us back to the widespread fascination with the unknown. 

It is precisely ‘the unknown’ that dominates El silencio maldito, the new film I go to see at the lovely Cinemateca Boliviana. Teenage moviegoers are trapped in a parallel universe filled with zombie-like villains who can't die. Although it is clearly low budget and the acting leaves something to be desired, there is something undeniably frightening about being locked in a completely dark room, unable to see one's assailant. The scariest character is a murderous little girl (children in horror movies never fail to be creepy). Overall, it manages to make viewers vaguely afraid to be in a cinema. Especially when you're one of only two people in the room, like I was.

It seems strange to me, after seeing these movies and talking to the producers, that there isn't a bigger market for horror in Bolivia. There is an incredible amount of potential. So many local legends are floating around, just waiting to be converted into movie scripts. This is precisely what happens in the United States, where urban myths are adapted into moderately successful horror films like Candyman, The Exorcist, Sleepy Hollow, The Mothman Prophecies, and so on. For example, why couldn't there be a blockbuster film about the Kari Kari, the sinister figure who wanders rural Bolivia taking body fat from unsuspecting victims? Perhaps these urban myths are still too real and present to reach the local audience as entertainment. So in the meantime all we must do is wait, under the blankets, with the door locked, until the next chapter in Bolivian horror film comes a’knocking.