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One<br >N the Day of the Dead in Bolivia， children<br >take food and presents to the cemetery to leave on<br >the graves of the departed. An interesting blend of<br >the pagan and Christian traditions， and highly ap-<br >lztroprlate the way-things turned out. But even the<br >h~aOdt superstitious of Bolivian peasants would<br > ly expect the dead to get up and walk on such<br >an occasion~ I did.<br > La Huerta was a mining town of five or six<br >thousand people， lost in the peaks of the high<br >Andes. The back of beyond. There was no direct<br >passenger flight from Peru， so I d flown in from<br >Lima in an old DC-3 that was doing some kind of<br >cargo run to an American mining company.<br > It was raining hard when I arrived， but by some<br >dispensation or other there was a cab standing out-<br >side the small terminal building. The driver was a<br >cheerful Indian with a heavy moustache. He wore<br >a yellow oilskin coat and a straw hat and seemed<br >surprised and gratified at the sight of a customer.<br ><br >