Lunch With A Bolivian Cholita: A Lesson On Subconscious Prejudice

By Belen Maluenda | May 27, 2020

I gazed out of the taxi van window at the passing landscape: ancient Incan terraces descended like enormous staircases into the gleaming waters of Lake Titicaca. Several cholitas, indigenous ladies dressed in the traditional Bolivian attire, sat in the seats in front of me. The two black braids that fell from each of their bowler hats followed the movement of their heads as they chattered amongst themselves. They spoke in Quechua, the ancient language of the Incan empire. I listened absently to their unintelligible conversation, soothed by their matronly voices as I watched the countryside roll by.

I was headed to the village of Yampupata, from where I would begin a 17-kilometer day hike through the countryside. I was looking forward to my nature day, planned in an effort to hit reset on my unpleasant experience in Bolivia before I left for Peru. I never imagined that I would soon befriend one of the indigenous cholitas in my taxi van, and that she would radically change my view of Bolivia.

A Hopelessly Negative First Impression

I was hoping to salvage my negative experience in Bolivia, which had begun in the city of La Paz. The city had left me with an abysmal image of the country and its people. When I’d arrived, I had been solo backpacking for about three months, yet it was the first time I felt unsafe and uncomfortably aware that I was a woman traveling alone. When I passed locals in the street, many women regarded me with distrust or scorn, while male gazes were condescending or blatantly predatory. Some ignored me altogether, such as multiple street vendors who preferred to lose out on a sale rather than interact with me.

A few backpackers I’d met had warned me about the frosty treatment I might experience from Bolivians, particularly Bolivian men. “They don’t like foreigners,” a fellow solo female backpacker had told me. “The only people that won’t treat you like crap are the ones selling souvenirs. Those see us as walking ATM machines.” I took the scathing reviews with a grain of salt, but I was prepared for a little hostility. I never imagined the extent of the local people’s unfriendliness, which made me feel like an intruder instead of a visitor.

My experience led me to cut several destinations out of my itinerary, but I was determined to visit Lake Titicaca and Isla del Sol, the Island of the Sun, before I left for Peru. Lake Titicaca was one of the crown jewels of my travel itinerary: the mythical birthplace of the Incas. I was reminded of its lore as I gazed out of the taxi van widow at the lake’s tranquil waters, which stretched as far as the eye could see. Viracocha, the Incan creator god, was said to have first emerged from its depths to create the sun, moon, and stars.

An Unusual Acquaintance

After waiting for the remaining cholitas to exit the taxi van at our last stop, I clambered out and looked around. The tiny village that bordered the lake seemed frozen in time. The hilly landscape was dominated by ancient agricultural terraces, some of which were still in use. Donkeys grazed in the uneven patchwork of fields, and villagers in vibrant clothing stood out against the earth tones of the countryside as they worked the land.

I was getting ready to set off on my hike when I noticed one of the cholitas from the van. Though her black bowler hat made her seem taller, she was a little over 5 feet in height and appeared to be in her late 50s. Despite the warm, cloudless day, she wore a wool sweater along with her traditional full, patterned skirt. Sweat beaded on her brow and her dark features reddened as she carried a heavy bundle to a passenger boat at the water’s edge. She had several more bundles, each wrapped in handwoven fabrics and filled with bottles of soda, packaged snack food, and other merchandise. I walked over and picked up one of the bundles, following the cholita to the boat. 

As she put down her bundle and turned to go back for more, she noticed me for the first time. Her small, almond-shaped eyes were wide with surprise below her faint eyebrows. “Ay! Gracias!” she exclaimed as I set my bundle down. I smiled and told her it was no bother. She continued to thank me profusely as I helped her load the rest of her cargo onto the boat. I was somewhat saddened by her astonishment. Had she grown accustomed to cold indifference from tourists, as I had come to expect animosity from the locals?

When the last bundle was on board, I bade her good day and stepped off of the boat. “Espere,” wait, she said. She rummaged in one of the bundles and pulled out a clementine. “Muchas gracias por su ayuda,” she said, handing me the clementine. I thanked her as I took the gift from her outstretched hand and turned to go. “Espere!” she said again, more excitedly this time. “Venga conmigo! Venga a almorzar a mi casa en Isla del Sol!” I was silent for a moment, incredulous. Have lunch with her? At her house? On the island? Was she serious? 

Her kindness was a sharp contrast to the unfriendly treatment I had come to expect from Bolivians. I had given up on trying to connect with the local people, using my presumption of their hostility as a shield against further disappointment. I forgot my little coping mechanism as I looked into the woman’s dark eyes: they shone with friendly warmth, not disapproval. I decided I could hike some other day.

A Thought-Provoking Exchange

We boarded the small passenger boat and chatted as the boatman pushed off toward the island. The cholita’s name was Doña Justina, and she seemed as keen to answer my questions as I was to ask them. We mainly talked about Isla del Sol’s legends, and she pointed out ruins and landmarks on the shoreline as we passed them.

Before long, the passenger boat reached a small dock on the island. We took a break to enjoy a couple of popsicles before Doña Justina went to fetch her donkey. It took us several minutes to lash the hefty makeshift bags onto the faithful donkey’s back. Once everything was finally secure, the three of us made our way up a steep stone stairway that led from the lakeside to her house in the village of Yumani. 

Doña Justina lived on her own in a neat two-story brick house with a shop on the first floor. Once we’d unloaded the merchandise and set the donkey loose in her garden, Doña Justina asked, “Te gusta el arroz con huevo?” I replied that I loved eggs and rice, and she scurried to her kitchen to prepare lunch.

Before long, the two of us sat down to for our meal of savory vegetable soup, rice, eggs, and coca tea. We ate slowly, chatting over our food. She told me about her late husband, with whom she had built the house, raised four children, and run the little convenience store before he passed away. Her voice was wistful as she spoke of him, and I could tell that despite the years that had passed, his loss was still a fresh wound. It didn’t help that she didn’t often see her four children, who had long since left to work in the cities.

When I asked Doña Justina about her life on the island, she said she enjoyed running her store but didn’t associate much with other villagers. Though she had come to Isla del Sol with her husband over a decade before, the tight-knit local community apparently still saw her as an outsider since she was born on the mainland. I wondered if perhaps her loneliness was what had made her open her home to a stranger. She mentioned that before that day, she had never spoken with any foreigners other than the tourists who occasionally entered her shop.

When Doña Justina asked about my life, I opted for telling her about my trip to avoid talking about my more privileged upbringing. She was shocked to learn that I was traveling on my own. “Y tus hijos?” what about your kids, she asked. I smiled and told her I wasn’t a mother. She looked confused. “Tu marido te deja viajar sola?” your husband allows you to travel alone? she asked. I raised my eyebrows at this, but simply replied that I was single. Her dark eyes widened in silent shock.

Doña Justina was quick to offer some maternal warnings, saying I should look for a group of women to travel with, since a male family member wasn’t there to chaperone and protect me. She added that I should never trust any men, since all of them “only wanted one thing” from me. I was taken aback. I was used to paranoid warnings from worried family members, but her condemnation of all men struck me.

I considered Doña Justina’s words for a few moments before answering. I told her that many of the most kindhearted people I had met while traveling were men. Reading the skepticism in her eyes, I added that one of my favorite travel companions was my oldest close friend, a guy I’d been friends with since I was seven years old. Doña Justina held my gaze thoughtfully. “Well,” she finally said after several seconds, “I guess they can’t all be bad.”

I did not find Doña Justina’s warnings absurd, only sad. I imagined living my life without ever enjoying friendship and mutual respect from men. How restrictive it would be to live in constant fear, assuming that all men were solely interested in using me for my body.

As I tried to imagine the world through Doña Justina’s eyes, I began to feel ashamed of my rejection of Bolivia. I realized that many of her biases were just defense mechanisms that had shaped her worldview. I saw the effects not just in her view of men and foreigners, but in her acceptance of her own status as an outsider on Isla del Sol. Assumptions and subconscious defense mechanisms similar to hers had clouded my view of Bolivia, making me close myself off to the locals. I was dismayed by the ease with which defensive prejudice had obscured my vision. How many opportunities to connect had passed me by?

I was lucky enough to be sharing this meal and this conversation with Doña Justina because she had seen me not just as a foreigner, but as a fellow human being. Getting a glimpse of her world reminded me that people are a product of their story and of their environments. Bolivian distrust of outsiders didn’t necessarily make them cold-hearted people.

After our meal, Doña Justina clasped both of my hands in hers and thanked me for coming. I promised I’d come see her again when I returned to spend a night on the island and explore its legendary ruins properly. After a tight goodbye hug, I hurried to catch the day’s last ferry to the mainland.

When I went back to visit Doña Justina, I found her shop closed. A neighbor told me that she had gone to the mainland to see her family. I lamented the reality that I would probably never see the sweet cholita again, but I was thankful that our paths had crossed. I had almost left Bolivia believing its people to be cold and hostile by nature. Luckily, life sometimes offers signs that point our errors out to us. Meeting Doña Justina was one of those signs, a stroke of good luck that reminded me that the most important thing to bring with you when you travel is an open mind.