The Precarious Prospects of La Paz’s Ageing Ice-Cream Men

A ubiquitous sight across the plazas and pedestrian walkways of La Paz are the city’s army of ‘heladeros’ (ice-cream men). Mostly male and relatively old, they scrape a living selling ice cream, either homemade or sometimes selling branded products from companies such as Delizia, Frigo, and Panda.

As I approached Alberto, an heladero near the San Francisco Cathedral, I had to wait for several minutes before speaking to him as he had his old battered shoes meticulously polished by one of the city’s many shoe-shine boys—he wasn’t about to start work in shoes he couldn’t see his face in. This summed up the general attitude of the heladeros fairly well. 

Most are fiercely proud of the way they’ve managed to eke out a living when all the odds are objectively stacked against them, 'I do this as a last resort when seasonal tourist work dries up. I barely earn enough to feed my family but I’ve never been on the streets and never had to rely on anyone, I always find a way'. If the old shoes represented their tough lives, the polish showed their pride in being always able to 'find a way' and fall on their feet regardless of what is thrown at them. 

Another heladero I met outside the cemetery had closed his ice-cream boxes and had started selling umbrellas the second it had started raining. This is the level creativeness and versatility that’s needed to survive in today’s climate. Their role as ice-cream men can’t be seen in a vacuum; they can be seen as a byproduct of a series of socio-economic policies which took place in the country over the past three decades.

Understanding the rise of neoliberalism in the late 1980’s is key to understanding the birth of the heladeros and the evolution of their work. The closing down of key state-owned companies (along with the privatisation and eventual failure of several others) radically altered the situation of hundreds of thousands of Bolivians. Workers who were formerly protected by powerful and highly-organised unions were progressively left abandoned and made redundant. The period produced a situation of extreme ‘labour flexibility’ or precarious work (if we’re to move away from euphemisms) that the heladeros are the products of today. They have neither a fixed salary nor stable working hours, and only earn a percentage of what they manage to sell on the streets; if they don’t sell they don’t eat.

Despite a gradual change in socio-economic policies since Evo Morales came into power, almost all the heladeros were explicit in articulating their sense of betrayal that the current administration has left them with. One Frigo employee told me, 'this government always talks about basing itself on the poor, but nothing has changed for me, there’s still no job security, no real benefits and I still struggle to feed my family. Just like always'. 

Looking at the shape of Bolivia’s labour market certainly backs up the sense of frustration shown by the Heladeros. Recent statistics relating to the labour situation of Bolivians is clearly reminiscent of the neoliberal ‘ancien regimes’. A study by Escobar de Pabón estimates that in 2008, 82.9% of workers across the country were in lines of work considered ‘precarious’ with 58.9% of these considered to be in work classed as ‘extremely precarious’. In El Alto the figures are as high as 90.1% and 71.7% respectively.

It is not possible, however, to speak of the heladeros as a uniform group. There are significant differences between them in socioeconomic composition and in relation to their products. While the ice-cream men are generally a precarious group, some, such as the women who sell ‘helados de canela’ (cinnamon slushies) near the General Cemetery in La Paz are self employed and enjoy a more stable and comfortable standard of living. Doña Gladys, a woman I spoke to, had been working fulltime with these products for decades, ever since she helped her mother set up the stall over 30 years ago. Those with a fixed stall typically represent a privileged layer. For many of these heladeros, making ice cream is a family tradition and vocation rather than precarious employment of last resort, like it is for the old men roaming the streets of the city. 

Another complicating factor in the work practices of the heladeros are the rivalries that exist among them. For example the ‘independents’ and ‘raspadilleros’ look down on those selling branded lollies, such as those made by Delizia. Rodrigo, who works around the Prado area told me: 'the Delizia and Frigo ones just sell whatever packaged product is given to them. We learn how to make a real cone—and that takes skill'. 

Several of the heladeros are organised under a ‘sindicato’ which sets out to act as a labour union and a mechanism of collective representation. This organisation however, hasn’t always been the bulwark needed against struggles that they face in their line of work. The union itself has little history of struggle and victory on behalf of the heladeros. An heladero who works near Perez Velasco called Juan (an ‘independent’) had recently resigned from the union saying 'They’ve never fought or won anything, they charge you a membership but then do nothing, its just a way for some to make extra money, its better to just not be involved and carry on'. This attitude was certainly reflective of a pessimism that was widespread among heladeros about their future. 

Alberto, another heladero said 'maybe in the future there’ll be secure work and heladeros will be able to feed their families comfortably, but not in any of our lifetimes, most of us are old and only do this because we can’t manage hard manual work anymore, we won’t live to see these changes. We’ll still get by though'. 

These men are certainly characters, they have to be to survive in a period where ‘just getting by’ isn’t an option. They themselves are not so in awe at their ‘ingenuity’ and ‘creativity’ as the readers may be. This isn’t a path they choose and most of them longed for their previous lives as tourist guides or factory workers where they at least had a fixed income and a level of stability. Most hover around the ripe old age of 65 and would prefer to not be working at all. Elsewhere they might be lucky enough to be able to retire and live off a pension. 

Towards the end of my research I went to look for heladeros outside a distribution agency (where they pick up their ice cream for the day) near Puente Avaroa. We turned up at 8am —the time they were due— though none of them turned up. An hour later the owner opened up and told us ‘you are wasting your time’. He told us that ‘if it’s an overcast day the heladeros know they won’t be able to sell enough so normally don’t bother turning up, instead they’ll look for day labour jobs or sell something else'. Like the heladero selling umbrellas in the rain, it is clear that these levels of awareness and planning are necessary for these men to get by. Paradoxically, to make it as an heladero often involves not being one all the time.

An exploration of Bolivia’s most unexpected delicacies

Cabecitas

The restaurant El Solar de las Cabecitas is an open room painted with warm red and orange. Decorative mirrors cover the back wall and, from the wide windows, the sounds of the street rise to us on the top floor. I’ve come with Bolivian Express editor Andres to try cabecitas, the restaurant’s title dish. Direct translation: 'little heads'. Lambs’ heads, to be exact—they’ll be boiled in a prepared soup, along with vegetables and seasoning, for three to four hours before serving. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever heard of.

When my food arrives, it’s hidden quite modestly under a covering of shredded lettuce and tomato. 'If you take off the salad, you’ll see the eye', Andres says with a tinge of anticipation.

I eat a forkful of rice. Then, gingerly, I scrape away the lettuce with my fork. Underneath is an assortment of meats and bone and cartilage, but no eye. Maybe it’s on the other side? Andres flips the head over and it suddenly becomes extremely apparent that what’s sitting on my plate is an animal’s skull. The (empty) eye socket gapes at us, the jaw stretches into a horrific grin, and wet sinews strain across the bone. The most odious, however, is the tongue, a thin white slab that lolls to one side. I quickly flip the head back over.

Examining the various types of meat, I decide to go for the tongue, which seems the most tender. It slices off easily, revealing the blackened teeth of the lamb. I put a small chunk in my mouth, chew briefly, and wash it down with some Coca-Cola.

Andres looks at me expectantly from over his completely average lunch. 'It tastes like morning mouth', I tell him. He takes a bite from my plate and agrees with me. Moving on, I cut a piece of the cheek, delicately removing it from the cartilage. This meat has a more irregular texture than the smooth muscle of tongue, but a much better taste.

The last part to try is the brain, a mass of white-yellow tissue and purple veins folded into each other. The skull cradles it like a perfectly-sized bowl. This section, despite seeming the most cringe-worthy, is actually my favorite by far—I imagine uncooked ground beef would have the same consistency.

Feeling slightly ashamed of my squeamishness, I ask to get the remains of the head wrapped up before chatting with restaurant owner Walter Rocha. Apparently when El Solar de las Cabecitas first opened, they served rostro asado , a different type of cooked lamb’s head that’s fried rather than boiled, allowing the head to retain the skin. This proved too grisly for most customers, however, and cabecitas replaced the dish. Both variations of cooked head originate from Rocha’s home of Oruro, and he’s pleased to bring to La Paz a unique dish that’s enjoyed by Bolivians and adventurous tourists alike.

Chanfaina

My quest for the next unusual food takes me to the market of Cementerio, where cholitas display their wares in front of them—fish, potatoes, wheels of white cheese. I pass stalls of chicken legs and bowler hats to find the market’s equivalent of a food court. Eating a variety of hot soup and warm drinks, small groups of people crouched on low chairs spread out down the street.

I approach several vendors before finding the stew I’m searching for—chanfaina. There’s a few different ways to make it, all of which involve various parts of mutton or goat. This version, according to my confused communication with the cholita vendor, contains lamb’s heart and lung, along with slightly less exciting ingredients like potatoes. I hand the vendor a note, she passes back a somewhat sticky coin from the depths of her apron, and I leave with my dinner double-wrapped in plastic bags like a lumpy hot water bottle.

At home, as with the cabecitas, I offer my housemates a taste of the dish; but, as with the cabecitas, there aren’t many takers. The stew is quite good, despite a strange metallic blood taste that I might be imagining.

Lagarto

I next meet with Huini Dominguez, owner of the Amazonian fruit business Ama-Fruit. But he’s come to talk with me instead about lagarto, an ingredient in many Amazonian dishes that translates directly to 'lizard' but which means anything from caiman to crocodile. Unfortunately, I’m not able to try any of these dishes—the most notable being chicharrón de lagarto—as recent floods have caused transportation of the meat to become increasingly difficult. This is not to say that the lagartos are unavailable, however. In many rural areas, they’ve been brought by the floodwaters to small towns, where they now live alongside people.

‘Lizard’ meat is apparently both delicious and nutritious, but there are regulations placed on how much can be harvested from the rivers. Even the fishermen who set traps to keep lizards from eating out of their fishnets must first receive permission from the Bolivian government in order to deal with the lagarto thieves. That said, Dominguez is pushing to expand the meat into greater Bolivia as a more mainstream ingredient. Though popular in the amazonian region, it’s usually only found in La Paz in fancy restaurants. He explains a gradual process involving several stages, starting with families and small communities, to keep development sustainable. His larger vision? Conquering the international market.

Cui Asado

Walking up the steps into Layka restaurant, I am confronted with an alarmingly vivid mural depicting some sort of horrific Last Supper-style feast. Cholitas tear into cabecitas, grinning devils dance around the table, men eat boars and boars eat men. Of the many painted walls, this one is certainly the most captivatingly gruesome. I ask the owner, Mauricio Mier, about it and he simply laughs, telling me about his plans to commission a second mural on the ceiling, depicting a meeting of Heaven and Hell. He’s not one to shy from spectacle.
The dish that pulled me here is cui asado, whole roasted guinea pig. The one I’ll be eating comes, according to Mier, from a partner in the countryside who sends the restaurant only the biggest pigs ready to be cooked. Eating guinea pig is traditionally Peruvian, 'but it has a La Paz twist', Mier tells me.

When my plate arrives, I have a strong urge to play with my food. And by that I mean pick it up by its tiny claws and make it dance. Luckily, I’m able to restrain myself. The guinea pig is splayed on its stomach, arms akimbo, eyes squinted shut. I think briefly of my childhood wish for a pig as a pet, then slice my knife into its side. The meat has an odd silky texture, but what gives it flavor is the delicious yellow pepper sauce spread over the back. I offer a bite to Rodrigo, the Bolivian Express editor accompanying me, and he nods in approval.

Then the night takes a strange turn. Mier brings us two shot glasses of bronze liquid from a large clear jug containing coca leaves and some unidentifiable white knobbly lumps. He refuses to tell us what’s involved in the process of creating the homemade alcohol, which burns pleasantly—he calls it llokalla and says that he gives it out on the hour, only to women. After a brief period of musing over the ingredients, Mier gives us two shots of singani, which we quickly down.

He gives us a look. 'Do you want to know what you just drank?' Reaching behind the counter, he pulls out something shrouded by a checkered napkin. From the way he holds it, it’s obviously quite heavy. Rodrigo and I eye it suspiciously.

Mier places a hand on the napkin, telling me to count down.

'Three, two, one-and-a-half-' But he’s already unveiled the object. One dull grey eye stares at me from the jar. A thick snake’s body wraps around itself, singani covering it completely. It’s difficult to tell exactly how long the snake is. I glance at Rodrigo, who’s smiling in a horrified sort of way. It’s a tense moment.

Apparently Mier captured the constrictor himself—he mimes the method of cramming it into the jar and the motion of the drunk snake trying to escape. It seems intensely over the top and possibly hazardous. But then, it was the best singani I’ve ever tasted.

Inside Gustu’s research lab

Since its doors first opened in 2012, Gustu has quickly earned its place as one of the top restaurants in South America, and possibly even the world. Gustu has established itself as one of the most important cultural and gastronomic centres in La Paz’s residential and affluent Calacoto district.

But it is not merely a place for fine dining. Perhaps above all else, Gustu should be seen as a school—in the traditional sense of the word. This might sound strange to some, but considering its position in a world obsessed with university degrees and fuelled by self promotion, we find in this restaurant a highly unusual model of organization based around the formation of young bolivians. 

Gustu provides an educational program in collaboration with Melting Pot. This foundation helps among 20 to 30 young students to gain world-class training in gastronomy and entrepreneurship.

The business model behind Gustu is experimental, so it seems especially befitting for it to enclose a cooking lab in its basement. It is here that sophisticated international cuisine, ancient knowledge, and local ingredients come together in a gastronomic alchemy. 

The business model behind Gustu is experimental, so it seems especially befitting for it to enclose a cooking lab in its basement. It is here that sophisticated international cuisine, ancient knowledge, and local ingredients come together in a gastronomic alchemy. 

Something that stands out about Gustu’s kitchen is its obsessiveness with starting everything from scratch. Trial and error are fundamental parts in this process, as nothing but the very best will do. In fact, it is not enough to simply get the right recipe of ingredients in a dish—each of the latter must themselves be prepared using a unique formula. This goes a long way in explaining why the results they obtain are unique.

The palm hearts they use must travel all the way from Pando (the northernmost province of Bolivia) to La Paz, before reaching the southern side of the city where Gustu is housed. Before entering your mouth this ingredient has travelled from a small producer in the Amazon to the dry and cold plains of the Andes. Gustu’s ‘kilometer 0’ policy strictly restricts the restaurant to work with products sourced inside Bolivia’s borders. In addition, they must only work with micro-producers, adding to the individuality of the experience.

Soon-to-be-Chef Jhon Montoya, shows us the process behind preparing the perfect palm heart. When it arrives in Gustu it’s a medium sized trunk covered with small prickly spines (the mere thought of a tinned product around these parts amounts to heresy). First, Jhon says, you must cut a thin vertical layer from the outside without touching the trunk.

The heart isn’t exactly found underneath. What awaits the chef is another layer (the previous one is kept for some mysterious purpose). The surgeon must cut through it once more before revealing clusters of thin filaments which belong to the heart. He begins to pull them down, patiently and labouriously until the palm heart itself finally disappears.

The idea of taking these filaments off one after another reminds me of the Japanese term muga , which denotes the process whereby which you lose perception of the action being performed through its repetition, combined with high levels of concentration. Jhon indeed appears like a monk while he manipulates the heart palm. The results after all these efforts are plain to see. The palmito is one of the star items in Gustu’s menu.

Watching this process, we could not help but wonder at just how long it takes to prepare a palm heart portion for a single dish -- especially when one serving involves up to three trunks. 

In a country such as Bolivia, which is obsessed by tradition, we find a small gem: a space where apprentices are encouraged to experiment continuously and where creativity is prized. Other items to come out of their research facility include dry cured alpaca meat, egg yolks fried in almond oil, as well as an edible clay.

Gustu is not only a restaurant to look out for, but also a cultural movement in itself. The artist Joseph Beuys wisely once said: “My best work of art is teaching”. In a similar spirit, Gustu may continue to provide an ingredient vital in the development of Bolivia’s ancestral and emerging culinary tradition.