As is the case for many Latin American cities, fútbol is the sporting lifeblood of La Paz. And here, the fans are as devoted as anywhere. Just go to any clásico at Estadio Hernando Siles, where the two rival local clubs battle it out, and you will understand what passion really is. The teams’ rabid supporters camp on opposite curves of the stadium – Bolívar to the north, The Strongest to the south – each side trying to outdo the other with songs of support to their heroes and jeers of insults to their rivals across the bowl. This is one of the biggest, rowdiest events in La Paz, and is not to be missed.
At these games, the stadium becomes a sea of two colours. The rough and rowdy Strongest fans, identifying themselves as ‘Tigres’, cast a golden hue across their half, their bright banners waving in the wind. Across the divide, Bolívar supporters adorn themselves in blue, shouting calls to their dear ‘Celeste’. Both sides exude this passion inside and outside the stadium, and the colours of a person’s clothing on the street is often an easy signifier of their loyalties. It is clear that these two colours hold very special meaning to the people of La Paz.
This month, we wanted to explore those colours, gold and blue, a little more thoroughly. With such cultural significance for our city’s sports-minded denizens, we sought out other ways in which gold and blue make La Paz, and greater Bolivia, what it is.
This issue of Bolivian Express is divided in half between the gold and the blue, much like the stadium during a crosstown matchup. We meet a Bolivian hopeful striving for Olympic gold, and learn some of the myths of golden corn that have been told for generations across the Andes. We imbibe on the sweet golden nectar of chicha near Cochabamba, taste the variety of flavours of local brews, and learn of one man’s vision to turn fields of grain into Bolivian alcohol independence. Perhaps most importantly, we ask the hard question on everyone’s lips: why is all the chicken at Bolivian carnicerías unnaturally golden-hued?
Turning to the other side of the stadium, we explore the realities of feeling blue, from a lighthearted look at the common experience of traveller’s blues to the very real issues of mental health and psychological treatment. We meet an incredible woman leading the way for members of Bolivia’s transgender community, often identified with the colour blue. And we learn about an important national archive often associated with blue that is affecting Bolivian politics from the top down and the bottom up.
Walking the streets of La Paz in the small hours, thinking about the colours gold and blue, the obvious becomes clear. Morning light here can offer a golden sun so close you can touch it, and a blue sky so crisp you can feel its soothing chill on your face. In this city, these colours seem brighter, and offering sensations to those standing under them. This may just be an effect of the altitude. But it may be something else. Like sitting in the stands at a clásico, gold and blue are all around you when in Bolivia, and if you let these colours sink in, the feeling can be electric.
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Photo: Federico De Blasi
A Truly Bolivian Vodka Takes the Stage
In 1825, Simón Bolívar and Antonio José de Sucre y Alcalá finally defeated the Royal Spanish Army, bringing independence to Bolivia and sanctioning the end of the Spanish reign in Alto Perú.
Now, nearly 200 years later, Bolivia is reaching for another independence of sorts, less important of course, but a significant one nonetheless. And this time, the hero doesn’t wear an ornate jacket, nor have a gun, nor travel on horseback. The protagonist is Leonardo Diab, who is trying to gain an alcohol independence for Bolivia, which until recently has imported most of its spirits from abroad (save for the traditional singani and a few others). In 2012, Diab and his partners realised that Bolivia was rich in raw materials that could allow for production of high-quality liquors. And so began their effort to give Bolivians an authentic national vodka.
This is the idea behind Bolivian alcohol independence: to abolish the country’s ‘dependence’ on alcohol imports. According to Diab, his mission is ‘to create a national product which can compete with foreign products’. And in December 2014, the first bottle of 1825 Vodka was ready, with a name that intentionally recalls Bolivian independence.
1825 Vodka is made with a special trigo amazónico, cultivated during winters in a region close to Santa Cruz. Once harvested, this golden grain is transported from the Media Luna to the Parcopata neighbourhood in southern El Alto, where the distilling takes place. (This location is key, because it allows Leo and his partners to take advantage of a law that grants benefits to entrepreneurs who want to start businesses in El Alto.) Here, the wheat is fermented for four days, distilled, and bottled.
The bottle’s design represents the dualism between the Andes (through the shape of its lower half) and the Amazon (its upper half) to show the contrast of Bolivia’s natural landscape. And in order to confer even more Bolivian-ness to the product, the centre of every bottle features the face of Inti the Sun God, a symbol of Inca culture, surrounded by plumages of Eastern macheteros in a fusion of camba and kolla. Diab and his partners wanted to create ‘an imposing and easily recognisable bottle’ that reflects the company’s motto: ‘The perfect balance between the Amazon and the Andes’. Even the water used in the process is carefully selected, sourced from local mountains and rainwater, endowing the vodka with an excellent freshness.
Although the Bolivian consumer is often skeptical about new products, and its international competitors are strong and consolidated (think Absolut and Smirnoff), 1825 Vodka can be found in La Paz, Cochabamba, and Santa Cruz. It is also exported to Lima, Peru, and Diab and his partners are reaching out to fine-dining establishments throughout Bolivia, hoping to convert the drink into a cultural staple.
As evidence of the success and quality of 1825 Vodka, it has won two international prizes to date. First, at the 2016 San Francisco World Spirits Competition in the United States, it won a silver medal. And later that year, it received the same award at the International Spirits Challenge in London. Vodka 1825 even made its way to the Bolivian pavilion at the Expo 2015 in Milan, Italy.
Internationally recognised and increasingly popular at home, 1825 Vodka is leading Bolivia’s alcohol independence, warming chilly Andean nights while cooling broiling Amazon afternoons.
Photo: Aida Muratoglu and Federico De Blasi
Corn, family, and anti-colonial resistance in the fermented drink chicha
Soft morning sunlight filters through a rectangular hole in the metal roof, a high ceiling hovering over the brick room. I can only imagine what the orchestral sound of rain pounding onto the corrugated tin would make when it visits the small village of Tarata, an hour south of Cochabamba.
A tentative beam of light hits rising steam, illuminating the chilled, dark room with silver wisps of warmth. The room smells of soft fermentation, of a bowl of cereal left one too many nights in the kitchen sink, of a forgotten tea bag found weeks after the caffeine high. A fire crackles humbly beneath a bubbling cauldron-like structure, and the sharp notes of smoke balance out the sour stench of the slowly fermenting chicha.
We have been invited into Xenón’s chicharía, a space reserved for the creation of the ancient Andean drink chicha, a fermented mixture of water and maize. Chicharos in this region make chicha using choclo, a type of juicy, white corn native to the Andes. Xenón’s family has been brewing the beverage for longer than he can recall.
In this valley region of Bolivia, the role of chicharo passes through the male line of this family, but Xenón has no sons to his name. Nevertheless, he works tirelessly, silently scooping the hot liquid between vats to accelerate fermentation.
Xenón handed us a large gourd full of the murky, golden-tinged liquid and urged us to try it. We each took a tentative sip. We could taste the sweet fermented taste of kombucha. The chicha felt smooth in the mouth but sharp on the back of the throat. Looking up expectantly to give our thanks, Xenón scolded us for not finishing the serving in one go. Sheepishly, we stuck our heads back into the bowl and gulped down the dregs.
While in Tarata, we stumbled upon a chicharía full of men of all ages playing dice and sipping the drink at 10:30 in the morning. They greeted us with warm handshakes and single kisses on the left cheek, offering sips from their cups. Such congregations have defined this community for thousands of years.
Chicha’s origins are, much like the drink itself, quite murky. Although the exact date of its inception has been lost to collective memory, chicha has served as a central part of Andean daily life for millennia. Spanish colonists coined the umbrella term chicha to describe both alcoholic and non-alcoholic derivatives of the maize-based drink, found all over South and Central America, effectively erasing the history of the varied tradition with colonial violence. Thus, Peruvian chicha morada, made of purple maize, resembles a dark red wine, while chicha de jora, made of choclo, has a golden hue. Chicha found in the Peruvian village of Pinchoyo is served with small chunks of maize.
As brewing techniques vary from chicharía to chicharía, the categorisation of the drink and its various forms is far from complete. This evasion of classification serves as a powerful form of indigenous resistance. Chicha is the people’s drink.
Traditionally, choclo is blanched and then masticated, mainly by female members of a community; chewing the maize helps release specific enzymes that later aid in the fermentation process. Although most chicharías have long since traded out mouths for mashing tools, the tradition still stands in some communities today.
In Tarata, chicha is brewed in the early hours of the morning, before the noon sun overwhelms the quiet town. Daily maintenance is minimal – as with most fermenting substances, the process regulates itself.
Four chicharías lie in quick succession just beyond Puente Melgarejo, a bridge built into the middle of the street, where, legend has it, generals would celebrate military victories with chicha-fueled dancing. Celida Tapija owns the chicharía two doors to the right of the bridge. She wears a bright red apron atop her floral shirt and serves us lunch as she patiently explains her brewing process.
Having visited three different chicharías and spoken to their respective chicharos, we discovered at least two alternative ways to make the drink. They each, though, agreed that the complete process lasts a week. This starts with the harvesting of maize, followed by the drying and crushing of it. With this, mucu is created, a dense substance that will eventually become chicha. On the second day, the mucu is boiled, drained, and boiled again. Then the compound, called arrope, must be put back into a large clay pot for another day. On this third day, it is drained again to separate the residue, and to be mixed by a large wooden stick called a mis’keta. Finally, the liquid is ready to ferment for up to four more days.
Historically, women and young community members were responsible for the first steps of the fermentation process. These gender roles seem to remain today in Tarata, as women own chicharías and spearhead the fermentation process.
At the artisanal chicharías we visited in Tarata – rumoured to offer the best chicha in Bolivia – chicharos don’t export their chicha in any sense; they don’t even sell it at the local mercado. The only way to try the drink is as it was originally meant to be tasted – fresh out of the warm clay vat, sitting on a plastic stool, surrounded by laughter under the warm sun.
Xenón’s family has been brewing the beverage for longer than he can recall.
Over lunch of fried chorizo and boiled choclo, Serrus, a local, tells us chicha could be dangerous if ingested in large quantities. Twenty minutes later, Esperanza, who works in the chicharía next door, boasts that she sips the good stuff eleven hours a day. Whether drinking chicha religiously or casually, supporting local chicharías remains a steadfast and important part of the culture here, and perhaps provides recognition to the local resistance.
Chicha is the people’s drink.
Photo: Nick Somers
Big questions, small answers
Now, we all know that you can’t make an omelette without cracking some eggs, and neither can you truly master investigative journalism without asking the big questions. 2017, the Year of the Rooster no less, has prompted Bolivian Express to pluck up the requisite courage to answer the biggest chicken-related question of all. Having put to bed the respective debates over which came first, the chicken or egg (the egg, obviously), and why on Earth the chicken keeps on crossing the road (because it’s got a death wish), it’s time for the crux: why is La Paz’s chicken quite so golden-orange?
Immediate assumptions proved unsatisfactory. Due to Bolivian chickens’ notorious ability to see in the dark, the obvious answer might be a densely carrot-heavy diet affecting their skin pigment. Alas, not true. Next, we wondered whether a double yolk, one destined for chickenhood, the other acting as a dye, might be the cause of these vibrant-orange caracasses. Again, a misconception. Could it be that the right-wing cockerel community wanted to resemble their tangerine-hued ringleader, Mr. Trump? Apparently not. Finally, it was posited that the media omnipresence of the artificially golden pin-up family, The Kardashians, might have led to an idolising culture of fake-tanning among this, the cluckiest of birds. Perhaps, much like the aforementioned omelette-destined eggs, we’d cracked it. ‘Don’t count your chickens,’ they said. . . ‘Go and do some actual research,’ they said. . .
An afternoon knocking on the fiercely guarded metal gates of the La Paz headquarters of Sofia and Imba, two of Bolivia’s major chicken vendors, proved as unfulfilled as the bucket list of an aspirational battery hen. However, as it so often does, our answer came courtesy of the workers on the ground.
Trawling through Mercado Villa Fátima, a vegan’s equivalent of Hell, or Hull to use its biblical name, we discovered that the bizarrely satsuma-coloured chicken on show was a result of an orange preservative embalmed on the late-chicken’s skin in order to increase the death-span of the animal on the shelf, and to feign the golden hue acquired by a rich, corn-heavy diet.
Groundbreaking stuff.
