Richie Goldman eased back into the darkness.
Most of the Bolivian farmworkers were sitting around the nightly campfire, eating their salteñas—spicy quinoa-stuffed pastries. He’d learned to pretend that their food didn’t agree with him. It gave him an excuse to duck into the trees frequently, though in truth he’d learned to enjoy the local food nearly as much as a good New York pastrami on rye.
salteñasA few of the farmhands were idly chewing on a strip of charque de llama; the llama jerky lasted forever despite the jungle heat. Others chewed on coca leaves—not much more than a low-grade stimulant in that form, and it grew in lush abundance all across the hillside above their camp. Refined cocaine was too valuable for mere farmers, but chewing the leaves was practically a national pastime
