News flash: there are no Lays potato chips in Bolivia, I have searched the streets for them believe me. Thousands of vendors. They just don't exist.
They have disappeared along with Che Gueverra.
That's it. I'm leaving.
At least in Peru when you are tired of eating guinea pig and chicken feet and have serious munchies you can hunt down that big crunchy yellow bag with the red letters "L-A-Y-S" rip it open, and smell that instant puff of glory. (like when someone first lights a cigarette after it rains in the spring and you inhale even though you know it's killing you, but you love it, but then you hate it, I miss that)
You then disgustingly wolf down the entire bag, washing it all down ever so satisfyingly with a nice warm coke or a very peculiarly coloured Fanta.
You may look like a gringo on crack, but who cares?
Enter the Bolivian impostor Pringles, neatly packed and stacked with a texture like asphalt.
Pringles may seem like a buena idea at the time to satisfy, but they just don't cut it.
They. Don't. Cut. The. Mustard. (and don't get me started on Bolivian mustard)
Damn, tengo hambre ahora.
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