Almost two-thirds of Bolivia’s economy is classified as ‘informal’, but as Kate MacLean, a senior lecturer in social geography at the University of London, points out, informal doesn’t necessarily mean illegal; the IMF report providing that statistic in 2018 didn’t include illegal, criminal and do-it-yourself activities in its calculations of the informal economy. Using the term ‘shadow economy’ to describe the informal sector, the IMF indicated that Bolivia has the second-largest shadow economy in the world.
What it means is that 62.3 percent of the Bolivian economy is not accounted for (officially); the money generated in this sector doesn’t go towards taxes and social security programmes, and it rarely ends up in a bank – but that doesn’t mean that it’s not contributing to the country’s GDP. Some minibus drivers and street vendors are amassing cash surpluses in their homes, which they then rapidly invest in land and new buildings.
This issue of Bolivian Express explores the meaning of ‘behind the scenes’, but doesn’t just focus on the money. First, we look into the making of movies, music and crafts by focusing on small, artisanal productions and the people behind them. Inevitably our search takes us to a different realm when we realise that the material and spiritual worlds are always inextricably intertwined here in Bolivia. For example, before attempting to climb the mountains he and his team wanted to film for a documentary, Juan Gabriel Estellano had to ask for permission from the Achachilas.
We also look at the ajayu – spiritual energy, what we sometimes call ‘soul’ – that drives us. Ultimately, according to local beliefs, life doesn’t end with death, so we went to La Paz’s General Cemetery to capture the place where our ajayu-less bodies rest. Cemeteries can be places associated with sadness and sorrow, but the city’s necropolis is full of activity and decorations, where instead of being mourned, the lives of loved ones are celebrated.
Bolivia is a place full of surprises, contrasts and paradoxes where appearances can be deceiving. Behind Bolivia’s shadow economy is an extremely lucrative marketplace for those who know how to benefit from it. It’s something that’s caused a profound and permanent change for Bolivia’s different socioeconomic classes, and it can be observed during prestes with opulent displays of jewelry, alcohol and wealth – but it might not be that evident the rest of the time.
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Illustration: Hugo L. Cuellar
Investigating the concept of the ajayu in the Andean world
According to Aymara belief, everything in nature, from the towering mountains to the people below, has an ajayu that acts as an energy, spirit or soul. If this soul is lost and is left unrecovered, the effects upon a person can be disastrous. I wanted to know what people really believe about the ajayu, if they actually think it can be lost, and what they think could be the consequences of this happening.
Even the concept of ajayu is difficult to translate. Since I couldn’t find an agreed-upon definition, I spoke to various citizens in La Paz to hear what the word meant for them. Alejandra suggests it is a ‘very complex Andean concept of what the soul is, in the spiritual sense’, while Sonia, who is originally from Coroico, says it ‘also has a meaning of strength.’ Adriana, from Potosí, defines the word as ‘the essence of things; the spirit and energy of a being.’ Rather than being a fixed element or component of a person’s being, the ajayu is a dynamic presence instead, a dynamic quality of one's being.
According to sociologist Verónica Auza, although the ajayu can be an abstract ideal, it is governed by ‘a physical principle.’ The ajayu, she proposes ‘is assumed as the energy that gives life… There is a tendency to folklorise these things,’ she says. ‘It can be exotic and strange to explain energy from a cultural perspective, when in reality it is rooted in physics… If you lose your energy you are like the living dead, because without energy we are nothing. For that reason, it is necessary to prevent losing the ajayu and take care of your energy.
From this perspective, the ajayu appears crucial to everyday life as the force that motivates each living being. Auza describes the ‘speed’ in the artwork of English painter J.M.W Turner – which is often characterised by expressive and turbulent marine scenes – as ‘the prime concept of ajayu.’ These vivid comparisons bring the notion to life. As Auza refers to ‘energy’ over ‘ajayu’, it becomes clear that the concept relates to the needs of the human spirit, rather than to specific cultural beliefs.
While the majority of people that I spoke to agreed that the ajayu is the immaterial part of a person, the beliefs surrounding the concept varied greatly. Some people are convinced of the existence of the ajayu, and that it can leave the body. Vania, for example, believes that ‘when our body is not active, it is likely that the ajayu leaves it’. Adriana suggests the ajayu can leave your body ‘when you experience a strong emotion.’
In line with Adriana’s thinking, it is often said that children are susceptible to the loss of ajayu through fear. Even though the attachment of the ajayu to the body is said to be strong, which reduces the danger of losing it, people like Sonia believe that ‘when a person is severely frightened his ajayu can goes away and they must call it back with yatiris’. A yatiri is a traditional healer in Andean society who can call the ajayu with clothes and other personal items of the person who lost it. When the ajayu is lost, however, the space can be filled by evil spirits that drain the body of its energy.
Since children are supposedly more prone to feelings of fear than adults, the risk for them is said to be much higher.Some parents have been known to keep small children from going outside to prevent the loss of their ajayu. Others dismiss the concept entirely, either because they ‘believe in facts with more scientific support’, like Jose, or because the concept is incompatible with their religious beliefs. There are even parents who remain unsure of whether the ajayu is real or not.
There are many techniques to call the ajayu back to a person’s body. According to one of them, the energy must be called back from the place in which the person lost it. In some cases, the yatiri will take part of the soil where the ajayu was lost and place it under the victim’s pillow so it can return at night. Another technique says a person must immediately drink three sips of water right after a scare to swallow the ajayu back into the body.
Auza recalls the story of a thirteen-year-old girl who suffered severe burns and was slow to heal. When friends suggested that the girl had lost her ajayu from fright, her mother called it back with the girl’s clothing. Immediately after calling the ajayu, the girl began to recover. ‘There are many illnesses that sometimes do not have explanations because part of your energy passes out of your body when you’re scared,’ Auza explains. She further suggests that the loss of your ajayu may not cause you to physically die, but losing your energy can bring mental sickness and lethargy, including depression. ‘In the Andean world,’ she says, ‘when you are feeling melancholy, people could tell you that something is wrong with your ajayu.’ In this way, the presence or absence of an ajayu can provide answers to questions of unexplainable medical conditions.
‘The belief of having or not having an ajayu is very powerful’, Auza says. Although the belief can be impossible to prove, believing in the spirit can hugely impact a person’s daily life, by appealing to deceased loved ones or protecting children from fear. Auza explains that most cultures have similar concepts of the soul, some of which see it as the defining feature of a person’s existence. Even though many religions make a distinction between the soul and the body, ‘it’s the same in the Andean world,’ Auza asserts. According to the Andean cosmovision, without an ajayu or soul, one is nothing but a vessel.
Photo Essay by Talulla Cragg
This colourful place of devotion and respect provides insight into the celebration of life and death in La Paz
The General Cemetery of La Paz was made public in the 1930s to allow poorer citizens to inter the remains of their loved ones while accommodating the growing population of the city. Funerals are held in a small church at the entrance, while a crematorium sits in the middle. After 10 years in the cemetery, remains are cremated and returned to the deceased’s family in order to prevent overcrowding.
Coffins are placed in vaults in the cemetery’s many crypt walls rather than being buried underground. There are separate graves for well-known figures, many with statues and engravings dedicated to the deceased’s life and work.
While murals can be found all over the city, a cemetery seems an unlikely place for such colourful works of art. Nevertheless, the Ñatinta mural-painting festival in 2018, in coordination with the Perros Sueltos artists collective, brought artists from Bolivia and beyond to decorate the cemetery and represent a ‘culture that sees death as a compliment of life’.
Each vault is different; some have photographs of the deceased displayed, while others have flowers and offerings such as sweets and water for the departed to enjoy. This is important, as Aymaras hold the belief that once you have died, your soul, or ajayu, remains in existence, and death is not the final goodbye. Therefore, providing to those souls their favourite luxuries is one way to show respect and devotion to a deceased loved one.
Spread over three square kilometres, the cemetery is certainly hard to miss; the red teleférico line passes directly above and there’s a station right beside it. The cemetery’s so large, in fact, that when I was visiting I failed to find my way to the main gates before they were locked, and had to find an alternative exit.
Photos: Talulla Cragg
A museum on Calle Jaen celebrates the late actress
As I enter the Museo Rosita Ríos on the bright and historic Calle Jaén, warmly greeted by her granddaughter and co-founder of the space, Paola Claure, I am struck by the immediate intimacy and special homeliness of the place. The rose-coloured walls – I am assured that the colour is a complete coincidence – are covered in paintings, photographs and awards belonging to Rosita Ríos Valdivia, the native paceña actress and theatre director who passed away last August at age 83.
Claure tells me that 11 artists have donated work to the museum, with two more submissions on the way. Portraits range from Roberto Mamani Mamani’s ‘Rosita de los Andes’ to a Simpsonised depiction of Ríos as la sanguchera de la esquina, a role she famously portrayed onstage, her performance driving many audience members to tears. However, the museum holds more than just portraits. In one corner lies an elaborate shrine, representing Ríos’s strong devotion to the Catholic faith, while a cabinet holds many of her personal belongings, including a rosary made by her granddaughter and a locket that Ríos had kept beside a sugar sculpture of Mount Illimani to ‘keep life sweet.’ It is no wonder that the space feels personal – the building on iconic Calle Jaén had long been occupied by the actress, with Ríos opening her own corner shop there in 1997.
In addition to the numerous theatrical awards Ríos was awarded with over the years, she also gained recognition for her previous vocation – she worked as a police officer for 24 years before switching careers. She broke into the acting world after coming to the attention of the renowned Bolivian playwright Raúl Salmón. When Ríos was in the police force, she cut through the red tape that was preventing Salmón from getting an ID card, and Salmón asked what he could give her in return. Taking advantage of the opportunity, Ríos asked to visit to Salmón’s theatre. ‘That’s how it started,’ Claure says. Salmón allowed Ríos into one of his rehearsals and she showed promise. This led to her stage debut in September 1971, starring in Salmón’s play Condeuyo, la calle del pecado. ‘Rosa continued working as a police officer for a few more good years whilst in the theatre,’ Claure says, ‘but then she left and dedicated herself only to acting.’ Audiences loved her stage presence, and while drama was her favourite genre, she also enjoyed working in comedies and musicals, followed later by film.
The many characters that Ríos played are prominently displayed in the museum: a mannequin dressed as old Tia Nuñez, a photograph of Ríos dressed the part at the Fiesta del Gran Poder – a visitor feels almost as if they’ve been granted a seat at the table with Ríos herself. A trunk in the museum holds countless colourful mantas and polleras that were worn by the actress during her theatre career and when she danced the morenada at Gran Poder. Claure says that Ríos ‘had a very special affection for the women in pollera,’ and she frequently dressed in the clothes of a chola paceña in her many theatrical productions. Claure says that as the figure of the cholita ‘gained importance and relevance in our city, [Ríos] began to represent the character very well, and was very fond of the character.’ Through her portrayal of the traditional Bolivian woman, Ríos won the hearts of the Bolivian people, whilst her contributions to some of the most prominent Bolivian films of the 20th century, such as Cuestión de fe and American Visa, asserted her popularity.
'Through her portrayal of the traditional Bolivian woman, Ríos won the hearts of the Bolivian people.'
With Ríos’ son, granddaughter, great grandson and even the local neighbourhood dog present, a sense of community pervades the museum; sculptures by her son surround the space, while lively anecdotes told by the animated Claure show that Ríos’s artistic legacy lives on. One such story suggests a reincarnation of sorts: When the museum first opened, a pigeon entered and wandered around the building, finishing with a visit to Ríos’s room. It then walked back down to the end of the street and flew away. This rebirth could make sense, as Claure tells me that Ríos had a great love for animals, even making canine IDs for her dogs.
Ríos’s memory extends far beyond these tribute-filled walls. In December 2017, the muralist Sandro Álvaro Álvarez Huayllas painted a colourful tribute to Ríos on the wall of La Paz’s Max Paredes Library; pictures of the artwork went viral after Ríos passed away last year. Álvarez, one of many paceños to call Ríos a friend, said at the time that he was happy for people to remember her through the painting. (And he’s clearly not the only one to commemorate Ríos through art. The museum features several other pieces of art that depict the late actress.)
Saying goodbye to Claure, I realise just how welcoming the atmosphere has been, and just how appreciated Rosita Ríos remains. The shop-turned-museum, which fans visited daily when Ríos was alive, gives visitors the impression that a deeply personal space has been opened up for them, allowing them to examine Ríos’s life with deeper insight. The museum is not simply a tribute to Rosita Ríos, nor is it intended to simply show her accomplishments off to the world. The museum is a family-run affair, representing not only the multiple facets of Ríos’s personal and professional life, but also how truly loved she was by the Bolivian people.
