Cover: © 2019 Gobierno Autónomo Municipal de Cochabamba
IDENTITIES
The 2012 census revealed that 41 percent of Bolivians self-identified as belonging to an indigenous group, a figure that caused controversy and confusion when compared with the 2001 census in which 58 percent of the population identified as such. The figure from the 2012 census was a surprise because the creation of the plurinational state in 2009 and the government’s official recognition of 36 indigenous groups seemed to mark a new beginning where Bolivia embraced its diversity after centuries of colonial domination and assimilation. Reasons for the drop in indigenous self-identification could be attributed to the way the census was framed, the lack of a mestizo category, a resurgence of racism, social changes, or some combination of all of these factors. Indeed, identity is an incredibly complex concept, and a census wouldn’t be able to reflect that accurately – especially in Bolivia, where identities are shifting and are constantly being reinvented and imposed by a dominant group.
The word itself, ‘indigenous’, may seem harmless enough and has been used by the United Nations since the 1970s to help identify and protect the rights of Bolivia’s indigenous peoples. But for Carlos Macusaya, an indianista-katarista thinker and member of the Jiccha collective, the use of the word ‘indigenous’ comes with a price. According to Macusaya, the word represents ‘a colonial category used to name an undifferentiated population subject to colonisation.’ Macusaya also points out that South American countries only started to recognise and adopt indigenous policies in the 1990s, when they started to come with international funding.
If you ask Macusaya, he will say that he is not indigenous; rather, he is Aymara. To him, the indigenous identity is imposed and represents the interests of other groups. Macusaya also considers the notion that in Bolivia everyone is mestizo to be a colonial concept. ‘We must think of a country not of "indigenous" and not of "mestizos", because these are colonial identities with which the population is racialised to justify exclusions,’ he says. ‘It is useless and even dangerous to be trapped in ideas like "all Bolivians are mestizos because there are no pure races," because it is a mixture of something that does not exist: races.’
The current Bolivian Constitution refers to and recognised the rights and autonomy of inhabitants of rural areas as ‘indígenas originarios campesinos’ (native indigenous peasants). For Macusaya, the ‘native indigenous peasants’ evoke people who live in the countryside and are reluctant to change. Meanwhile, mestizos live in the city. The social changes that indigenous groups experience, moving to new economic spaces, are assumed as biological changes (miscegenation) and are read in racialised terms, Macusaya points out.
A census may need to categorise individuals for practical purposes, but one’s identity is personal and even private. Identities shift over time, and they can’t be reduced to one word and can’t be imposed by anyone else. The next Bolivian census will take place in 2021, and its results will surely be analysed and discussed extensively. As the country goes through a period of political and social change while questioning and trying to assess the legacy of Morales’s presidency, maybe it is time to start rethinking and reflecting on these words we take for granted – mestizo, indigenous, native – in order to avoid repeating the failures of history and create a true and durable ‘plurinational’ state.
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Photos: Rhiannon Matthias
An Afro-Bolivian entrepreneur brings braids to the fashion forefront
Afrobolivianidad is often presented as being defined by saya and discrimination. The former is the music that Afro-Bolivians connect with their long-lost roots, and the latter is the inescapable result of centuries of slavery. Hair forms part of both of these realities – it is an inseparable part of Afro-Bolivians’ identity and culture. Saya dancers wear their hair in braided hairstyles so that it sways to the bass of the drums, accentuating the dancers’ movements. The hairstyles of people with African ancestry are historically and politically charged. Whether it is a gravity-defying Afro, a curly mane, dreadlocks or intricate braids, the way black people choose to wear their hair is important. Afro-textured hair is incredibly versatile and diverse. It’s able to take on a variety of textures and shapes, but it is also very fragile and misunderstood – and therefore needs to be tended to with skilful hands. Siboney Angola is a young Afro-Bolivian radio presenter, dancer and model turned entrepreneur who is also the proud owner of Áfrican-Queen, a business specialising in hair extensions and braids – the first of its kind in La Paz.
Siboney is a member of one of the most prominent Afro-Bolivian families in the city of La Paz. Her uncle, Juan Angola Maconde, is an economist and historian who is most recognised for his investigations into centuries of lost Afro-Bolivian history. Her sister Carmen Angola Campos is a former gymnast and a prominent photographer, and her late brother Pedro Antonio Angola was the founder of the rock band Aeon. Siboney credits her Aymara mother for much of the success that she and her siblings have experienced, saying, ‘She always enrolled us in lots of activities, and she really pushed us because she knew that in order to be recognised and respected we had to be outstanding.’
But coming from a family of trailblazers did not spare Siboney from racism. ‘In school, I had it really bad,’ she says. ‘I would never wish for anybody to experience what I did. I was called all sorts of names. They would pick on me all the time. It was awful. The worst part was the teachers – they would just blow it off as kids being kids.’ Siboney’s hair was mocked constantly. Siboney credits her paternal grandmother, who was renowned for her braiding skills, for teaching her how to braid. But she says she also had help from her sister. ‘When I was 8, my sister taught me how to braid my own hair,’ Siboney says. ‘It kept my hair out of sight, which helped with the bullying and allowed it to grow.’
Braids are a protective style, adopted by men and women around the world as a practical and aesthetically pleasing way to wear their hair. But it was on the African continent where individual braids turned into an intricate art form, with individual tribes across different regions adopting a multitude of braiding and locking styles. The intricacy of patterns was a way to decipher the origins, background or relationship status of a person – this intricacy also means that certain hairstyles could take over 24 hours to complete, turning a braiding session into an intense bonding session.
‘I have always felt like being black makes you a global citizen. We are all over the world and we are deeply connected.’
—Siboney Angola
Siboney started her business in 2014, the year she found out she was pregnant and left her journalism degree behind out of the need for a fixed income. She describes the business as her second child, though it is not without challenges – all of her materials and merchandise have to be imported at a steep cost and she has far fewer clients than a ‘conventional’ hairdresser. African braids are new here in Bolivia, she says: ‘Braids really came into fashion in 2015, because of Instagram and other websites.’ Instagram has birthed thousands of black influencers who challenge the conventional notions of beauty without the need for a high-fashion stamp of approval. ‘I have always felt like being black makes you a global citizen,’ Siboney says. ‘We are all over the world and we are deeply connected.’ Now with social media, this connection is even closer. And for Siboney, braids are far more than an internet trend. ‘I feel connected to my African roots because of my hair,’ she says. ‘Everywhere I go, whether I am attending an event as a guest or modelling, I am representing my people, and my hairstyles are a huge part of that.’ Braids are more than just a style to protect hair or a trend; they are a connection between the African diaspora, its descendants and the continent’s tribespeople. A connection to the roots, from the roots – literally.
Siboney holds her head high – even under the weight of her extensions and in light of racist microaggressions. Apart from dealing with ignorant comments about her and her mixed-race daughter, she and many other black Bolivians have had unsettling experiences of being pinched and touched by strangers who believe in la suerte negrita — the belief that black people are lucky charms. ‘I used to get really angry,’ Siboney says. ‘My sister still does. But I realise that being aggressive makes everything worse. I try to be calm and speak to people in a way that makes them rethink their words and their actions.’ And she feels optimistic about the future of Afro-Bolivians. ‘Now we are more visible,’ she says. ‘More of us are daring to dream, finishing school, getting involved in politics. I’d love it if more of us could stand up and demand what we deserve.’ Siboney is a symbol of the potential future for Afro-Bolivians: educated, proud and independent.
Photo: Michael Dunn [www.michaeldunca.com]
The history and significance of the wiphala in the Bolivian imaginary.
There is minimal, if any, concrete historical evidence of the origin of the wiphala, the multicoloured flag common to the Bolivian Andes. Aside from its links to Bolivia’s pre-Columbian civilisations and present day Quechua-Aymara philosophy, the flag’s story has been appropriated, twisted and turned to the point of obfuscation in order to foster the rise of popular movements, political discourses and fantastical tales. Many scholars and historians have managed to trace the patterns and colours of the flag to precolonial times, all the while debating its primary function: Did it serve as an astronomical calendar or merely as a vibrant decoration that would come to mean much more? Sure enough, the flag’s history may seem vague, yet the wiphala has become one of the most symbolic and controversial national symbols of Bolivia.
Franco Limber, an advocate of the indianista ideology and author of Breve historia real de la wiphala, dedicates his book to deciphering historical truth when it comes to the flag’s beginnings. He believes it is important to consider some hypotheses behind the wiphala’s historical roots. Despite Limber’s disclaimers warning readers that his ideas may ‘lack veracity’, his findings have such an intimate relationship with their respective historical contexts that it would not be absurd to value their rationale and probability. For example, an uncanny resemblance of the wiphala pattern can be seen in textile artefacts from the Tiwanaku era: There is no mistaking the colourful, diagonally aligned squares that appear on some weavings from that time. Limber also attaches a photo of a precolonial keru (also spelt qiru) – an ancient Andean ceramic vase – to his study to provide visual evidence of one of the first recorded appearances of the wiphala. Although this vase is considered to be Incan, it’s worth noting that the creation and use of flags in general was thought to have been exclusively European. In fact, wiphala in Aymara is simply translated as ‘a flexible, waving, square object’, possibly suggesting that it was originally meant to be the linguistic translation for ‘flag.’ On the aforementioned vase (which can now be found on display in the Archaeological Museum of Cuzco), an indigenous figure carries seven-by-seven rainbow-coloured squares over his shoulder. This same pose and pattern would be reproduced in colonial baroque art by anonymous artists who illuminated the walls of the church of Calamarca with ethereal paintings of angels carrying representations of the wiphala. The artistic and historical record of what we now consider to be the wiphala undoubtedly points to a certain significance and prevalence of this pattern in Bolivia’s past, even if its true essence and precolonial meaning has disappeared over the years.
The wiphala has beenhistorically viewed as ananticolonial symbol thatwas carried by indigenousrebels.
In 1979, Bolivian historian Germán Choquehuanca began the next chapter of the wiphala’s history. Based on the design and the seven colours that appear on the keru exhibited in Cuzco, the historian was inspired to redesign the flag that is presently sewn onto uniforms nationwide, and proudly flown over La Paz. Choquehuanca’s contribution to the story extends far beyond redesigning the flag; he also played an important role in reinstating the flag’s revolutionary political value in a modern context. The wiphala has been historically viewed as an anticolonial symbol that was carried by indigenous rebels such as Tupac Katari and Pablo ‘Willka’ Zárate during their struggles against colonial forces. Many years later, in 1970, this revolutionary Aymara icon would serve rural Bolivian syndicate movements in their protest against hegemonic powers. Nowadays, you will be stretched to find a popular social uprising across the Andes that is not accompanied by a multitude of colourful wiphalas. Choquehuanca, much like Limber, believes the wiphala to be inherently Andean – something that was born into and will always be an emblem of Quechua-Aymara culture and the indigenous populations of the Andes.
The colours and the design of the wiphala are equally as meaningful as its history. Each of the diagonally aligned colours that appear on the wiphala stand for different concepts relating to the cosmovisión andina: the red represents man’s relationship with Pachamama (Mother Earth), the orange represents social and cultural expression, yellow stands for ch’ama-pacha (power and energy), the white represents time and development, green is the richness of nature and agricultural production, the blue stands for cosmology and the purple represents Andean ideology and indigenous politics. Although these concepts stem from Quechua-Aymara culture and thought, the overarching themes of unity, revolution and justice that are so frequently tied to the wiphala have engendered the flag’s widespread appropriation across many native populations in Latin America that fight similar battles against discrimination and political oppression.
The wiphala is an omnipresent symbol to be reckoned with in Bolivia. Its visibility throughout the nation, as well as its inclusion in significant cultural works such as the artwork of Bolivian artist Walter Solón and Jorge Sanjinés’s film La nación clandestina, highlight its emblematic nature and how deeply embedded it is as a national symbol. It is a flag that directly represents the ongoing struggles that the majority of this country face on a daily basis. It has withstood a turbulent history of modifications, and commodifications, and never lost its inherent revolutionary spirit in the postcolonial period. It is a flag that does not just belong to a select group, or represent a presidency or a person – it belongs to all Bolivians.
Photo: Courtesy of Master Blends
One for the Taste Buds
Vermut Titicaca, produced by the renowned Master Blends company, claims to be Bolivia’s first ever take on the traditional vermouth used in cocktails across the world, and it is certainly not one to be overlooked. Inspired by agricultural engineer and wine expert Joan Carbó, who originally hails from Barcelona, the vermouth ‘blanco’ and ‘rosso’ have only just appeared on Bolivian shelves. But already the product is showing signs of huge potential on the global stage with interest from the Cuban, Chilean and Argentinian markets.
Anahí Cusicanqui, a business administrator with the Master Blends company, says with a laugh that thanks to Carbó’s ‘crazy ideas’, the company was able to produce a product whose aim is to ‘maximise all that is Bolivian.’ Encompassed under this identity are the flavours that are so particular to Bolivia due to the plants and herbs that can be found exclusively on the altiplano and in Amazonian rainforest.
Master Blends’ vermouth ‘blanco’ – or Andino – is a drink inspired by the Bolivian altiplano and the flavours and culture that it represents for Bolivian people. The herbs rica-rica and ajenjo (also known as wormwood) are the main contributors to the vermouth’s flavour, and they are sourced in the renowned Salar de Uyuni and ancient Inca settlement of Isla del Sol in Lake Titicaca, respectively. A beautifully designed image on the label of the bottle shows a tableau of indigenous on the aforementioned Isla del Sol. Cusicanqui says that altitudes of more than 3,000 metres does not affect vermouth production as it does the distillation process of other alcohols, and that this white vermouth is a much more fruitier alternative to a dry vermouth ‘blanco.’ She adds that Master Blends makes a special effort to locally source all 32 of the distinct and natural ingredients that contribute to this vermouth’s rich and characteristically Bolivian flavour.
Bolivia’s first ever take on traditional vermouth.
The vermouth Andino’s counterpart, vermouth Amazónico, gains its flavour from the extensive Bolivian Amazon region. Its most noticeable ingredient is canelón, a plant found in the heart of the tropical rainforest. This is an even fruitier vermouth, composed of approximately 24 locally sourced ingredients, among which are more berries and fruits than herbs, unlike the vermouth Andino. The history encompassed by the colourful and detailed label of this bottle tells the story of the arrival of Hispanic colonists and their search through the Amazon for El Dorado. Canelón was considered to be nearly as valuable as gold in this era, as it was a flavour that the Spanish had never before encountered.
In order to produce both the vermouth ‘blanco’ and ‘rosso’, Master Blends has teamed up with the Kuhlmann Distillery, located in Tarija. Vermouth is approximately 90 percent wine, and so the balancing and mixing that takes place in Tarija carries equal importance to the infusions of herbs and fruits that is carried out in La Paz. The infusion, which reaches an 80-90 percent alcohol content, is sent to the Kuhlmann Distillery to be mixed, balanced and bottled with high-quality white and red wine. Kuhlmann’s Franz Molina says that a white muscatel wine is used for the white vermouth that is extremely aromatic, fine and clean. The red vermouth is produced from muscatel and tannat, which thrives at Tarija’s 2,000-meter altitude.
Both vermouths are already showing great potential in the international market; however, at this early stage of production the Master Blends company is prioritising making it available in Bolivia nationwide in restaurants, bars and cafés.
