Extreme hill-climbing was apparently inevitable in the quest for fine Bolivian modern art. After the heart-splittingly steep trek up the calle Blesario Salinas, I could taste the blood at the back of my throat and was ready to collapse. Then I discovered the art galleries had already closed. I wanted to cry with despair. Had I punctured my lungs in vain? Not quite. Still open was the Centro de Comics – a comic book library funded by the Fundacion Simon I. Patino offering free access to graphic novels from around the world.

Having always loved Japanese manga, I was mesmerised by their extensive collection. Then, who should casually stroll in but one of La Paz’s hottest comic book artists, Joaquin Cuevas. It turns out all the La Paz-based artists are preparing for Viñetas con Altura (“Vignettes at Altitude”), a comic book festival that has been held annually in Bolivia for the last six years. And I had not even known there was a comic book culture in South America, let alone Bolivia. Comics, or historietas, first appeared in Bolivia as political satire. Particularly influential was the Cascabel series, but its publication was swiftly banned after the military coup in 1971. It was only in the 90s, after a string of dictatorships had come to an end, that comics made a come-back. Influenced by global comic book trends, from Japanese Manga to America’s Marvel action heroes, Bolivian historietas became more apolitical and began to explore themes of fantasy and escapism. One of the greatest debuts was that of Supercholita – a female action hero in traditional Bolivian dress and a magical cape that flies through the skies. However, Bolivian artists do not confine themselves to reworking established characters. In general they tend to be more experimental, and pride themselves on their exploration of comic book genre aesthetic. 

The Bolivian comic book scene is still relatively small. The artists rely on self-publishing, meaning they can only afford to publish a certain number of copies of their works. Circulation and readership is thus limited, making the Viñetas con Altura festival doubly important. It is a way to reach out to aspiring artists, enthuse the younger generation and launch Bolivian comics onto the international scene. Over a meal of salchipapas in the back-room of a printing shop, we interviewed some of the key figures in the world of contemporary Bolivian comics.

Only 10% of comic book artists in Argentina are women, but in Bolivia it’s 30%. I don’t really think there’s that much difference between the works produced by men and women, but maybe there’s some truth in the idea that women tend to focus more on the emotional. I’d say there’s currently a search for a Bolivian identity not just in historieta but in all art forms.

Susanna Villegas

“Bolivian comics have always been influenced by styles from other countries. We’re on a constant search for a style unique to Bolivia, and to ourselves. Creating a comic is a one-man show; there’s no collaboration between writer, artist and editor, which allows for artistic freedom.

Fabian Requena

When I was young there weren’t many comic books available, so I basically read whatever I could get my hands on. Thankfully Marvel and DC comics came out with a Spanish edition when I was fourteen. There certainly weren’t any Bolivian comics. For me, comics are the most natural, intimate form of expression. I like there to be a message, whether it’s personal or political; I don’t like my comics to be hollow.

Joaquín Cuevas

I originally studied to become an architect, and it was through Vinetas con Altura that I really found out about the comic book genre. I find inspiration everywhere, just seeing what’s going on in the streets of La Paz. I’d say the stories found in Bolivian comics are fairly similar. They tend to be concerned with current-day issues specific to Bolivia, and so it’s possible to make generalisations. It’s in the drawing styles that there’s a complete range.

Alexandra Ramirez

Comics are the language of action and allow for a rapid transmission of ideas. I now focus more on straight illustrations as they encourage greater contemplation from the reader, giving them the time to form multiple interpretations.

Edwin Alvarez

I learned the skills needed for comic drawing through studying graphic design at the Bellas Artes [an Art Academy in La Paz]. I see comics as a unique means of communication, and think it’s important that aspiring artists acquire the technical skills first so they can accurately convey their ideas.

Oscar Zalles Sanjirez

Modern Bolivian comics are characterised by a search – one that’s both aesthetic or gráfica, and personal; a search for identity. As a result, the style is very varied, both incorporating folkloric elements and relying on foreign influences

Roman Nina

Going into the heart of La Paz with the sun beaming down upon me and my guitar on my back, dressed down in order not to look too much like a tourist, I was filled with a great apprehension. In Europe or America buskers are commonplace but in La Paz you can count the amount of buskers that you see in a day on one hand. I had a brief conversation with one of these rare Bolivian buskers in the Mercado and he seemed optimistic enough. “It’s not as big here as in Europe”, he told me, “but you can get enough to eat from it”. This optimism seemed odd for if such gains are attainable, then surely there would be more buskers. Thus, I took my guitar out from the case that I had recently bought from the witches’ market and began with quite some intrigue. I was very curious about how the Bolivian public would receive a gringo busker and I was interested as to whether I would be able to buy lunch with my earnings after two hours of busking.

I took my place on the steps outside the Basilica Maria Auxiliadora, a tall white building which looked down on the city as though from the heavens, and began to play amid the gentle hubbub of city life. I chose this place as the noise of the traffic did not overpower my guitar and there was a constant stream of pedestrians passing by. Also, I was hoping that the sight of a church may provoke some strange irrational generosity in my audience. At first it seemed as though I was playing outside a tourist convention such was the perturbation of the passersby. The looks of utter disdain that were steered towards me initially eroded my optimism and the first five or ten minutes seemed like an eternity. I was playing some kind of strange concoction of funky riffs in order to establish to the people that I might actually be quite good at the guitar. Initially this didn’t seem to pay off but when the first coins were dropped into my little white pot, the optimism began once more to flow through my plucking fingers. The fact that the first contribution (five bolivianos!) was from a fairly nice looking young lady, who then wished me luck for the rest of the day, gave me a real urge of confidence.

More people started to contribute including some jolly old men and some mesmerised young children. There was one young girl in particular who passed by on a number of occasions, each time stopping to watch. She, however, was too poor to give any money for she herself was carrying a bucket hoping for donations. I therefore decided to give her a couple of my bolivianos as a thank you for her attentive listening. After two hours I had amassed thirty one bolivianos and fifty centavos, despite my donation to the girl, and having packed my guitar I went to ‘Toby’s Chicken’ where indeed I was able to buy myself a meal with plenty dineros to spare. The two hours I was there busking were therefore successful and I was feeling pretty happy with myself.

Yet, as I sat there eating my hard earned chicken nuggets, I was in a reflective mood. When you look at the poverty and desperation etched into the faces of some of the people here in La Paz, you have to wonder why there are not more street performers. Obviously a lot of these people do not have the skills to do this, but in a city of millions of people you’d think there’d be some sort of busking presence - this is especially the case when you consider the vibrancy and musicality of Bolivian people. However, that there is not the same culture for busking as there is in Europe is not too surprising. Seeing people on the streets and in the markets, one realises that there is far more of a salesmen culture here – the vast stretches of markets, the stall on every corner and the food trolleys taken around the spectators at the football screens, Bolivians will take to selling should they not possess a ‘normal’ job. While this salesmanship does not stifle music (the country is a very musical one of course, as shown by the generosity of pedestrians towards my efforts), it may be the case that it does stifle busking. The streets are filled with vendors, leaving not too much room for the street performers that we are so used to seeing back home.

Thus, as I left Toby’s with my guitar on my back and my change in my pot, I left satisfied that the market busker’s optimism was more than vindicated and my stomach was indeed replete with this vindication.

“El Cementerio de los elefantes” is a cross between a 1990´s B-Movie and a documentary by Louis Theroux. The budget comes across quite clearly with the quaint cinematography, Nollywood acting, and the rustic editing which could quite easily have been made using Window´s Movie Maker 1.5 Trial Version. However, as I was sitting in la Sala 3 of the Cinemateca, it struck me that this film was never going to be about Avatar-style effects or performances worthy of a Cannes award, but instead about the social content and the dizzying truth behind one man and his quest for redemption through intoxication. His story captures the uncertain reality of the thousands of Bolivians who suffer from alcoholism. I wanted to see the truth behind the film, but wasn´t aware that it is probably better not to kick the hornets’ nest.

According to urban legend, there are bars dotted about La Paz (four are still said to be in existance) where alcoholics who want to die come to drink themselves to death (much like elephants in the wild that, sensing their end is near, join a herd of other elephants on the brink of death). Bolivian author Victor Hugo Viscarra secularised this legend and is widely credited to have given this phenomenon its name.
It is in one of these bars that the protagonist Juvenal, 33 years old and an alcoholic since the age of 14, comes to die. His alcoholism leads him eventually to betray his blood-brother “El Tigre” during a drunken frenzy, offering him for ritual human sacrifice at a building’s construction site (forgot to mention, word has it that this is common practice in the construction world). I thus set out to investigate whether there were any fragments of truth among the superstitions and hearsay, leading me to seek out construction sites in La Paz to see what I could find.

The act of making an offering to the Pachamama in Bolivia is not uncommon. Whenever foundations are laid an act of violence is committed against Mother Earth: the earth is dug into causing her to bleed. This creates the necessity to heal and appease her. According to a yatiri that I spoke with on the Calle Santa Cruz (near the Sagárnaga), “the earth needs to eat just like you need to eat a fricase when you are hungry”. Small buildings will normally have a llama foetus or perhaps even a living llama buried underneath it along with a mesa containing small items and bits of grass called kora which is then burned. However, bigger buildings require bigger offerings. 

 
Saturday, three o´clock in the afternoon and Jonnie Quisbert who is heading the construction of a new patio outside the Iglesia de Calacoto is initially taken aback by my questioning him about the myth. He says he knows it happens, but has never personally seen it. Every other site manager that I spoke to repeated this quasi mantra. Another man, however, was a little more open. “Of course it still happens. A layer of concrete is poured, then the victim is laid down and covered in another layer of cement. It happens at night, always at night. The yatiri comes in and does his business. We ask no questions.” My own questioning about the legality of it led to blank stares. After speaking to a few yatiris, one offered to perform such a sacrifice for 500Bs. Though I wanted to accept, deep down I felt that I shouldn’t.

As for the bars, initially I had the idea of visiting one to see if the reality behind the film is what it’s cracked up to be. But then, as I regained awareness that I was only a white, bespectacled, middle-class boy from England, it struck me that these places shouldn´t be disturbed. Every country has its own hornets’ nest and the sensible foreigner must respect that. However, if you do fancy a trip to Tembladerani, Munaypata or Rio Seco, we are told you may find a Cementerio de Elefantes there. Look out for metal jugs chained to the tables and drinks served by the bucket. Just make sure you don’t get locked in the “Suite Presidencial” (as Juvenal did in the film), lest this be your last visit to a bar. Once the patron hands you the bucket and locks the door to your room, the show is over.