From mountains to moonshots: How Bolivia has shaped my work

After living in the U.S. for six years, returning to Bolivia this past summer felt both familiar and new, as if I were seeing my homeland for the first time. I grew up surrounded by Bolivia’s mountains, markets, and myths, yet distance had reshaped the way I experienced them. What I once accepted as ordinary now revealed layers of history, culture, and significance I had never noticed. This trip to Bolivia became more than a homecoming; it was a new lens through which I could understand my life today and the laboratory that initially nurtured my growth as an engineer.

One of my first stops was the Valle de la Luna, just outside La Paz, where jagged clay spires rise like frozen waves. Local lore says that when Neil Armstrong visited after walking on the moon, he looked over the formations and remarked that they reminded him of the lunar surface. Whether fact or legend, the story has endured because it folds Bolivia into the imagination of outer space. Standing there in August, I remembered visiting as a child and already thinking of the place as another planet. Craters were never just holes in the earth; they were invitations to wonder. That same spark – the urge to imagine and connect landscapes to possibilities – still fuels my path in aerospace engineering today.

As I traveled south, I thought about the stories tied to the land, particularly coca. In much of the world the leaf is misunderstood, reduced to its association with cocaine, but here it carries a deeper history and significance. During the height of silver extraction in the city of Potosí, in the 16th century, coca was so valuable that it was used as a form of currency. For hundreds of years, miners, farmers, and travelers have chewed coca leaves for strength and endurance, a practice still part of daily life inside the Cerro Rico mines. Often accompanying its consumption are ceremonies to the spirit of the underworld, El Tío. To outsiders he may look like the devil, but here he is not considered an enemy. He is a presence that must be respected. If honored with offerings of coca leaves, alcohol, or cigarettes, he can offer protection. Otherwise, if ignored, El Tío could punish miners during their shift. I was reminded of the duality at the heart of Bolivia: power that can harm or protect, depending on the relationship you choose to build with it.

It was fitting, then, to walk through the streets of Potosí and think of the city’s global reach. Four hundred years ago, Potosí was a booming mining city larger than London or New York. The silver mined here funded the Spanish empire and was distributed throughout the world. Centuries later, I would stand in New York’s Financial District, staring up at skyscrapers stamped with the dollar sign, a symbol that some historians believe traces back to Potosí’s mint mark. To realize that this global emblem of capitalism may have roots in a Bolivian mountain left me astonished. Bolivia, far from being a minor player, had been shaping world economies long before I was born.

Shifting from history, I refocused my attention on landscapes. The Salar de Uyuni, or the Uyuni Salt Flats, stretched endlessly before me. It is the largest salt flat in the world, a desert of white that during the rainy season transforms into a mirror of the sky. A younger me saw only its beauty, where flamingos walk against a horizon that seems infinite. This time, I thought of what lies beneath. The salt crust hides the largest lithium reserve in the world, the same element powering satellites, electric cars, and the phone in my hand. Bolivia, often portrayed as isolated, is in fact deeply connected to the technologies shaping our collective future.

Other lessons revealed themselves in daily life during my visit. In Bolivia, food is sacred. Businesses close at noon so that people can gather around the table. Meals are given the time, attention, and care they deserve. And the variety of dishes is overwhelming, tied to regions, seasons, and longstanding traditions. Food here is more than fuel; it is community, ritual, and joy. By contrast, in the U.S., I often see people eating while rushing to their next destination, driving, typing at a desk, or while running between meetings. Efficiency consumes even the act of eating. In Bolivia, food insists on being lived with fully. That difference reminded me that nourishment is not just physical; it is social, cultural and emotional too.

Bolivia also teaches patience in other ways. At altitudes above 4,000 meters (~13,000 feet), sorojchi (altitude sickness) grips even the strongest traveler. You cannot rush the mountains; you must slow down, breathe deliberately, and adapt. I have come to see my aerospace and sustainability research in the same way. Discovery does not always come from forcing progress but from respecting the process, adjusting, and allowing knowledge to reveal itself in its own time.

By the time my visit ended, I realized Bolivia had been teaching me all along. The Valle de la Luna nurtured my imagination, coca and El Tío reminded me of endurance and respect, and the salt flats revealed how resources connect to technology. Potosí tied local history to global systems, every shared meal taught me about time and presence, and the mountains required my patience. Traveling back and forth between the U.S. and Bolivia, I see more clearly now that each place illuminates the other.

Bolivia has always been my first laboratory, training me to ask questions, to see connections, and to respect complexity. Having ventured home to Bolivia, I understood that my path as a scientist began here, in a place where myths, minerals, and mountains demand that you pay attention.

As I return to Stanford and start the second year of my degree program, I carry with me the lessons of Bolivia’s land and people: to slow down, to honor community, and to see connections that stretch from local rituals to global technologies, and even into space. And I’m eager to share my new insights with my Knight-Hennessy community – scholars like me who join from around the world here in Denning House to share ideas, pose questions, and deepen one another’s understanding of just how connected we are, no matter where in the world we’re from.

Alina Santander Vinokurova is pursuing a master’s degree in aeronautics and astronautics at Stanford School of Engineering and is working to reduce the environmental impact of space exploration. Photos courtesy Alina.

Knight-Hennessy scholars represent a vast array of cultures, perspectives, and experiences. While we as an organization are committed to elevating their voices, the views expressed are those of the scholars, and not necessarily those of KHS.