‘The New World’, a term coined by Amerigo Vespucci in the 16th century to refer to the Americas, carries the idea that history on this side of the globe started when Columbus arrived to this ‘undiscovered’ continent. There is still a lingering misconception that there is not much history here in the Americas, that all is new here. However, the pre-Columbian civilisations have left a rich legacy behind that one can experience in the food, such as chuño, quinoa and anticuchos; the traditional dances of Gran Poder; the work of artists such as Roberto Mamani Mamani and Joaquín Sánchez; and the ruins of the Tiwanaku, Aymara and Inca cultures. Even the landscape tells a million-year-old story: the footsteps of dinosaurs imprinted in the sedimentary rocks of Torotoro National Park, where one can see the natural history of the world itself.
This issue of Bolivian Express wants to challenge this notion of ‘the New World’. We want to embrace the past that surrounds us, whether we realise it or not. History binds us and survives in the customs and conscience of people, but history is also being written and shaped by the difficult and continuous struggles that the indigenous peoples of Bolivia have faced against wave after wave of colonisers.
One of these long and harrowing fights was the recognition of the victims of the 2003 Bolivian Gas War. It took 11 years of long judicial procedures to have their pain and suffering recognised. On 3 April 2018, a US court, under the Torture Victim Protection Act, declared former Bolivian president Gonzalo Sánchez de Lozada and his minister of defence, Carlos Sánchez Berzaín, responsible for the violence that left 60 people dead and nearly 400 injured in El Alto. But 11 years is nothing compared to the centuries-long indigenous struggle to be acknowledged, and in this context, the Goni trial represents a huge step forward. It’s the beginning of the end of impunity for foreign leaders who escape abroad from their crimes.
On a lighter note and facing a different type of oppression – but roaming now freely on the altiplano and experiencing a recovery in numbers since the 1960s, from 13,000 to 112,000 specimens – vicuñas are a fitting symbol of longevity despite long odds. The wool from this wild camelid, when properly processed, is one of the warmest and most water-resistant natural fabrics in the world, and it is highly coveted on the international market. The challenge is now to find sustainable ways for Andean communities to maintain and increase the population of this gracious relative to the llama.
But perhaps the secret to longevity is the menthol-based ointment called Mentisan, beloved to generations of Bolivians. Since 1938, this same recipe has been curing Bolivians from burns, bruises and afflictions of all types that they may suffer. After 80 years, Mentisan’s longevity in the Bolivian market can be attributed to a long-lasting recipe and the loyalty of a people who, in all aspects of life, don’t give up easily.
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Images: Niahm Elain
Bolivia’s beloved balm is turning 80
A tin of Mentisan is as common in a Bolivian household as a bible in a hotel room. The menthol ointment was invented here back in 1938, which is why this special Bolivian concoction is turning 80 this year. Taking a queue from its name, a combination of ‘menta’ (mint) and ‘sanar’ (to heal), this product does exactly what it says on the tin. Actually, it does a little more than that too.
Its German inventor, Ernesto Schilling, migrated to Bolivia in the 1920s. His aim was to create a product that would alleviate the symptoms of the common cold, an illness that is rife in the Andean altiplano; and what he came up with has certainly been successful. Massaged directly onto the chest or onto sore, rubbed-raw noses, or vaporised to decongest the respiratory tract, Mentisan’s effectiveness made it an instant hit in the country. Not long after its conception, Bolivians started using the ointment for other ailments. The cherished product is now used to calm rheumatic as well as neuralgic pains, and to relieve burns caused by flames and sun rays alike. It’s also said to have the power to heal insect bites, moisturise cracked heels, and even fade bruises. In short, it serves as a multi-purpose, miracle, cure-all product.
Its healing abilities are so well-known here that, although it is sold on a prescription-free basis, even doctors recommend Mentisan as a kind of home remedy. ‘People know that Mentisan cures everything and that if they apply it, everything will be OK,’ claims Ronald Gutierrez, who works at the business department of Inti Laboratories, the sole manufacturer of the product. According to Gutierrez, since the ingredients of Mentisan are all natural, you can even use the paste on an open wound. It may not heal the wound, he says, but it won’t aggravate it either. In its long history producing Mentisan, Inti Laboratories has never received a formal complaint about the product failing to deliver the palliative results it promises. The only issues that have emerged in the past involved people who were having trouble opening the tin container. With the can’s new design, however, it’s even easier now for people to get their hands on, and fingers in, the stuff.
Given Mentisan’s success in the Bolivian market, there have been attempts to launch knock-off products in the country. There was once a reddish-tinted Chinese ointment circulating in the pharmaceutical market and there is, of course, the commercial giant, VicksVapoRub. But both threats were short-lived. ‘Vicks’, and other similar products fail utterly to enter the Bolivian market because Bolivians are already so committed to Mentisan,’ says Gutierrez. Inti’s only factory, situated in El Alto, is exclusively dedicated to producing the balm and manufactures around six million units annually. Some of them are exported to Peru, Germany, Macau, the United States, and Denmark. The rest are sold in pharmacies and supermarkets across Bolivia.
So, what’s the winning formula? Emollient petroleum jelly, to soothe and hydrate; essential oils of eucalyptus and pine, to calm and clear the throat; and menthol, which works as a light antibacterial. Despite being well into retirement age, Mentisan’s recipe has barely changed over the years. Perhaps it is the recipe’s simplicity that makes Mentisan such an effective and timeless product. Quality and consistency are the most important factors in Mentisan’s production, says Gutierrez, meaning Bolivians come back to it time and again. It’s dependable, like a backbone. But slippery.
Since Bolivians were frequently using Mentisan as a lip balm Inti Laboratories released an 8g tube applicator designed especially for this purpose. The lip balm container now appears alongside the tiny 15g and 25g tin containers, but they all contain the same stuff. The underpinning philosophy of ‘if it isn’t broken, don’t fix it’ has also been applied to Mentisan’s seemingly unwavering branding. The alterations that have been made to its distinctive logo and complimentary colours have been only to adapt the product for sale in foreign markets. The tin sold in Germany, for example, has a more clinical appearance: a dentist-chair turquoise is separated from a marine blue background with a white toothpaste-stripe, curved in the shape of a nose in profile. But the Bolivian packaging doesn’t need to be so suggestive of its pharmaceutical benefits since they are already common knowledge. Indeed, keeping the packaging similar to the original only consolidates the staple product’s status as a national treasure. It is as charmingly familiar – and stubbornly unchanging – as an old relative. And just as loved.
Photo: Iván Rodriguez Petkovic
The Dance of Death
‘Let him die dancing, so he will pay for his faults.’ This is a phrase from the movie The Clandestine Nation, made by Jorge Sanjinés in 1989. The film features the ritual tradition of Tata Jach'a Danzanti, a ritual in which a member of a community has to redeem himself with his people for some fault he has committed – by dancing to death.
The tradition of Tata Jach'a Danzanti is practiced in the Aymara culture, specifically in the Pongonhuyo-Achacachi communities of the Omasuyos province of La Paz. Tata Jach'a Danzanti translates roughly to ‘Great Lord Dancer’, and there is a great deal of mysticism surrounding this ritual. One of the ways in which it is understood is as punishment of the dancer for letting his community down. Another is that the dance is a sacrifice of a member of the community to increase the earth’s fertility, regulating the agricultural calendar. In either case, the chosen one is prepared for the feat by being given food, drink and even virgin women. He then dances for three days in a row without rest until he dies.
According to Milton Eyzaguirre, anthropologist for MUSEF (the Museum of Ethnography and Folklore), ‘It is a ritualistic phenomenon that is very interesting, because the dance is only the representation of a ritual that has a lot to do with the support that is given to a community.’ In a 2007 documentary made by MUSEF, the tradition is presented as a Preste festival, related to a celebration organised by a member of the community in honour of a Catholic figure such as San Pablo.
Whatever the true significance of the dance, it shows its syncretism through different manifestations in the Bolivian Andean culture and, in particular, the Aymara culture. On the one hand, we see the figures of saints and virgins linked to the Catholic faith, and on the other the Andean cosmovision that shows the representations of mystical rituals. ‘Death, for example, is not something negative in the Andean cosmovision,’ says Jimmy Calla professional choreographer and director of Artistica BDB-Ballet of Bolivia. ‘Village traditions are different, since death is something symbolic, a part of life.’
Calla explains the characteristics of the dance, El Tata Jach’a: ‘The dance has peculiar rhythms with four beats per bar, which are repeated throughout the dance. The instruments used are a pinquillo, a kind of long quena [Andean pipe], and a wankara [an instrument similar to a bombo]. A colourful costume is worn, comprising a blazer along with a skirt or leggings and brogues. A heavy mask is with an undefined zoomorphic shape is worn – it looks something like a toad, with large ears and pronounced lips. The dance has no strict steps; one must only move to the rhythm of the music, grabbing onto the mask. It’s very simple.’
El Tata Jach'a was presented at the festival of Gran Poder in La Paz for the first time in 2017. With much anticipation already among the public, this year’s festival will be held on Saturday, May 26. This dance will be performed along with many other traditional dances. Bolivian culture in general is enigmatic and mystical, and it is kept alive by the marvellous city of La Paz and the recognition it receives of the value and cultural contribution of the dances of the indigenous population.
Photo: Iván Rodriguez Petkovic
If you’ve tried to send postcards, letters or packages from Bolivia in the past couple of months, you may have encountered some difficulties – and this for a tragic yet very simple reason: The Bolivian post office has closed.
On 1 March 2018, the government announced via Supreme Decree 3495 that the Postal Company of Bolivia (ECOBOL) would be permanently closed due to massive debt. According to the La Paz–based newspaper La Razón, ECOBOL had accumulated an impressive 37 million bolivianos – about 5 million USD – of debt in unpaid taxes in the last 20 years. And that’s just the minimum – some other sources report a debt of 200 million bolivianos. More alarmingly, 30 tons of undelivered parcels were sitting in ECOBOL offices around the country as of 1 March 2018, and over 300 workers were left without a job.
However, the decree also announced the creation of a new agency to replace the defunct ECOBOL, the Agencia Nacional de Correos, which is meant to take over the operations and modernise the service. To date, the new agency has been busy dispatching the undelivered letters and packages to a disgruntled population that has been waiting in some cases for over six months to have their packages merely identified.
Receiving packages and letters in Bolivia has always been an unpredictable affair, due to several factors. First, there are no postmen in Bolivia. ECOBOL used to contract private couriers, and official documents were also delivered via private companies; the profession of postman never quite existed here in the same way as in other countries. Second, Bolivian houses don’t have mailboxes. Some residences have a small slit in their doors, allowing for letters to be passed through, but buzones are not commonplace. And postal codes? They are just not used. Delivery waiting times vary from weeks to months, and where I live, bills and official documents are usually dropped on the ground on the other side of my front gate. It’s quite easy to overlook the mail as it just lies unattended on the concrete and is exposed to the elements, or the wind blows it into the rose bushes. (Maybe this is how ECOBOL accumulated such heavy debt – it never received its bills!)
It would be easy to blame the advance of online shopping and private couriers such as Amazon and DHL, but it seems that ECOBOL’s debt is more than the result of simple financial trouble and poor management. Bolivia’s crisis feels more atemporal. The postal system never really quite worked properly here. And the closure of the post office happened quietly, to general indifference from the Bolivian people. No one seemed surprised, nor did they seem to care, and when discussing the topic with other Bolivians, I’d receive confused and intrigued looks from them, as if they were saying, ‘Why does she care so much about the post office?’
Perhaps there’s a reason for that. The postal service never quite worked here – it’s always been a system imposed onto a culture that never really needed it. The main post office was always this odd place that existed, sure, but I would never venture there, unless to show how out-of-this-world it looked like. And maybe modernity did play a role: Instead of sending letters, people now use WhatsApp to get in touch with family and friends, and when sending packages, the most common way has always been the encomienda, in which bus companies drop parcels off at corresponding terminals for the receiver to collect.
Eventually, and under a new name but located in the same premises, the postal service will fully resume its activities. Meanwhile, modernisation of the system is overdue and maybe – just maybe – a new postal service could allow Bolivia to be better connected to the world and to each other.
