Bolivian Cuisine

Since my last post I have been diagnosed with an infection in my leg, been to a Bolivian hospital (twice), completed 16 days of antibiotics at 6 pills per day, and successfully avoided salmonella.  I have also started doing my grocery shopping at the outdoor market a few blocks from where I live.  Whereas you will pay just as much at the grocery store here for a week's worth of groceries as in the US, at the outdoor market I can buy my food for the week (including beef, pork, chicken, seafood, spices, fresh fruit and vegetables, cereal, milk and juice) for around US$30.  Though I'm sure you would all enjoy hearing about Bolivian hospitals and the huge open-air meat market, I'm inspired to write about something else.  Today I cooked my first Bolivian dish.

Aji de fideo is a typical paceño dish (native to La Paz).

This dish is typically known as "poor man's food" here because the ingredients are so inexpensive.  It basically consists of noodles, potatoes, onion, aji molido (a ground pepper resembling paprika), peas and lima beans.  Regardless of the class label, people of all economic means eat aji de fideo in La Paz (though the wealthier people add meat).  It's easy to make, great for cold weather and delicious.  If Chef Boyardee got ahold of this recipe, America would never eat Spaghetti-O's again.

I was inspired to make this dish because they were holding an aji de fideo competition Sunday at the street fair downtown.  Mind you, I had no intention of participating in the competition.  After spending a good 30-minutes watching 80-year-olds dance their hearts out (thankfully not literally) to Good Golly Miss Molly and the Happy Days theme, and then sneaking into a 5-star hotel to use the bathroom, I had completely missed the competition.  So I had nothing to base my aji de fideo on besides a vague memory from when Jaime's mom cooked it a year ago.  I had already bought the basic ingredients, so I decided there was no other option but onward and upward.  After some brief instructions from Jaime's mother, I began my culinary journey.

Aji de Fideo
(all measurements are estimated)

1/2 lb. ground beef
2 cups noodles (I used shells, but any kind will do)
3 small potatoes, peeled and cubed
1 cup red onion, minced
1/2 cup peas
1/2 cup lima beans
3 T red aji molido (I encourage any of you in the US who want to attempt the recipe to substitute paprika)
salt to taste
cooking oil
lots of water

-serves 6-

Who wouldn't love cooking with views like these from the kitchen window??

I began by cooking the onion with salt over medium heat in a large pot without any oil, until the juices had boiled out.  This process was surprisingly long (about 30-40 minutes) so, in the meantime, I browned the ground beef (seasoned with salt and pepper) in a pan with a little bit of oil.  I stirred the onion frequently to keep it from burning.  Once the onion was "dry," I added about 4 tablespoons of cooking oil and the aji.  I let this steep for a few minutes and then added the beef.  When everything was red in color and pasty in consistency I added as much water as possible to the pot (about 3 cups).  I dumped in the potatoes, peas, and lima beans, and turned up the heat.  While those began to cook, I toasted the uncooked noodles in oil.  I had to use two small frying pans to do this, but ideally you would use one big one.  When the noodles were toasted, I dumped them into the big pot as well.  Then I let the water boil for 35 minutes, adding water as necessary to cook the noodles.  I also turned the heat down towards the end to keep it from burning to the bottom of the pan.

I brought Jaime in to judge my attempt at aji de fideo, and it looks like I passed.  We both went back for seconds, which was a mistake.  This dish fills you up quick.  Now I think I need a nap.

I'm not sure what I'll try next, but I'll be sure to keep you posted.

Night and Day

La Paz is a city that sleeps.  Except for Saturday and Sunday and major holidays, the city drifts off after 11pm and doesn’t wake up again until 7:30 the next morning.  Between these hours the normally bustling streets are completely deserted.  An early morning airport run allows you to see this side of the town.  The main street from the wealthy, residential southern zone to downtown is closed to traffic during the wee hours of the morning, before the sun rises, to keep the President safe while he sleeps.  Driving through the empty boulevards you pass the occasional night guard, whistling to announce his presence to the probable thief or vandal, as he walks around the same square block in a perpetual circuit.  A guard outside of the bank is asleep at his post.  Dogs dig through trash left earlier in the day and awaiting tomorrow’s pickup.  A drunkard stumbles down the sidewalk, uncertain of where he is going and oblivious as to where he has been.  A lone taxi passes, surely headed to pick up another airport-goer.  The driver sleepy and reluctant but happy for the work.  Farther down in a plaza, three teenagers are drinking, avoiding their inevitable homecoming and their parents’ reactions to their inebriated state.  Nearby, a middle-aged man has fallen asleep on the sidewalk, no pillow for his head.  It is difficult to distinguish if he is homeless or intoxicated, but it matters little.  The state of the city at this hour makes me feel lonely and sad.

As the sun starts to brighten the horizon, cholitas start to make their way out onto the highway, their backs bent over under heavy packs as they wait for the first buses to take them to the other side of town where they sell fruit and clean the homes of those more fortunate.  The city is shrouded in clouds, as it is every morning—a side effect of being over 12,000 feet above sea level.  As the fog lifts and the sun peaks over the top of Illimani (the 21,000-foot, snow-covered peak that looks over and protects the city of Nuestra Señora de La Paz), two million urban residents begin to stretch and rub their eyes.  Showers are rushed, coffee is made, shoes tied, and the homes empty out into the streets and plazas.  Men dressed in their work suits step over the trash strewn onto the sidewalk by the dogs, the drunk still sleeping on the ground.  The teenagers from the plaza the night before put on zebra costumes and stand at the crosswalks, trying to remind the people what the painted lines on the road are there for.  The sidewalks fill with men selling watches and games, women with babies tied to their backs offering laundry services, fruits and phone cards, beggars playing accordions or with empty hands outstretched.  The streets fill with buses, women hanging out the back window shouting the names of neighborhoods that mark their routes: “Obrajes, Calacoto, San Miguel, Achumani, Obrajes, Achumani, Achumani, Las Lomas” or “Plaza del Estudiante, Seis de Agosto, Sopocachi, Plaza Avaroa, Sopocachi, Plaza España.”  Their shrill chants are unintelligible to the untrained ear.  Car horns sound and police whistles are blown to reinforce stoplights.  In the middle of the chaos and confusion, there appears to be some sort of logic and order.  The city gives off an intense energy in the light of day, in comparison to its eerie nighttime vibe.

During the day, the city is a living, breathing organism, but at night, the giant sleeps.

A trip through the Black Market

I arrived in La Paz last week and I am finally getting settled in.  I started my job teaching English, and I have classes at the UN, the Swiss Embassy and the institute where I work.  Over the weekend I took multiple trips to the black market to buy things for my apartment.  First, you have to understand that Huyustus (pronounced oo-yous-twos), La Paz’s huge black market, is one of my favorite places in the city.  Imagine an outdoor Costco on steroids.  Getting there is the most challenging part.  It is straight up hill, several miles from downtown, which rules out the option of arriving on foot.  If you drive, parking is nearly impossible to find.  I think there might be one parking lot for the entire area, and if you park on the street you might return to find your whole car has been stolen.  Arriving by bus or taxi is equally complicated since the market occupies the cross streets of an entire section of the city 6 days a week.  Needless to say, access is difficult.  This is not a tourist market, they don’t sell hokey trinkets or postcards, and no one is there just to look around or pass the time.  This is Huyustus.

Huyustus is in a poor, dirty, dangerous neighborhood.  The people who live there look guarded and desperate.  On the weekends you will compete for street space with block parties, bands and costumed dancers.  Along the sidewalk as you near the market you will find indigenous women, dawning petticoats and braids, sitting on the ground with pots of sizzling oil and pork bits (known here as chicharron) in front of them.  A cholita, as these women are called, offers some food to a customer on a ceramic plate that she will later rinse off in the bucket of water on the ground next to her and use to serve the next person in line.  It’s environmentally friendly, if not hygienic.  The food smells good, but this is the street food the CDC warned you about, my friends.  Even I don’t eat this chicharron.

As you get closer to the market area, the streets become more congested with people, buses, dogs, taxis, and dollies.  Everyone jockeys for space.  Then you reach the first stalls.  Rows upon rows of blue, orange, yellow and white tarps.  People moving like ants between.  Blind men singing and women with babies strapped to their back selling gum.  A boy dressed in white behind a cart full of oranges and grapefruits making fresh-squeezed juice.  Food stalls with people crowded around.  Cheese empanadas topped with powdered sugar, pulled chicken sandwiches, chicharron and beer floats exchanged for boliviano coins.  This is not like other market places in Latin America.  There is no English spoken; Spanish or Aymara is all you will hear.  There is no haggling; Bolivians tend to be too honest for their own good and the price they give you is the lowest one.  Everyone is here for a purpose—either selling or buying—and though it’s in a bad area of town, there is surprisingly little crime within the market place.

The streets of the market are lined with buildings that house stores offering black market goods.  Between the buildings, on each street, are three rows of stalls.  There is no passage for cars and barely any for people.  A woman knocks a pair of gym shorts off the front of a stall and the owner turns to shout at her: “Ma’am due to your girth you should be walking more towards the middle of the aisle” (Señora! Por su gordura hay que ir por el medio”).

You will find just about everything here.  From shampoo and cereal, to towels and underwear, to televisions and toasters, and a variety of other items.  Need a toilet seat?  Huyustus has it.  Need a sponge?  Huyustus has it.  Need a new grill for the front of your car?  Huyustus has it.  The only thing I haven’t seen here are live animals, but maybe I just haven’t been looking in the right spot.  I’ll scope it out next time I’m there.