Last Sunday, the Premio Eduardo Abaroa is given at San Felipe Neri, an eighteenth-century monastery two blocks from our house. A stage is set up at one end of the cloister; in the middle, surrounding the fountain, are tables and chairs; everything is bedecked with flowers. Video screens flash below the stage; other video screens are set up high on the second floor, showing the action. The Bolivian National Orchestra, in white tie, plays some vaguely folkloric music; models in evening gowns present awards; then come some Tarabuqueño dancers and musicians reenacting Pujllay around the fountain; then more prizes. It’s a bit like the Oscars, with the guests impeccably dressed (the indigenous ones, like Santusa and Damian, wear their best traditional clothes rather than Western formal dress); three prizewinners are announced in each category, they come up on stage, the third-place winner is announced first, and the first-place winner gives a short speech. We have never seen anything nearly as fancy in Bolivia, and neither has Philly, who has lived here for seven years. The theme of the contest—for the non-folkloric artworks—is the sea, since the presentation is given at the close of the Día del Mar, a day devoted to military parades. Bolivia gave up its only seashore to Chile in 1904 as a result of losing the War of the Pacific; now getting it back, however far-fetched that seems, is a major rallying point for the country. Santusa, who has been sitting at a table with Bolivia’s vice-president, wins first prize—30,000 Bolivianos, about $4,000, which is probably what she earns in a year—in the category of “textiles originarios” (traditional textiles); the whole family is delighted and overcome. The ceremony lasts until one a.m., though we leave earlier. She gets a nice big picture in the paper the next morning, as one of only three Chuquisaqueños out of 87 prizewinners to win a first prize.