Derived from the Quechua word for owl, pajpaku is the term used in Bolivia to denote the innovative salespeople who operate in bustling city squares, inter-city buses and crowded market places. They rely on nothing more than their own business acumen, rhetorical prowess and inventiveness. They are artists and masters of oratory, yet seen by some as charlatanes...Niall Flynn talks us through his experience of the pajpakus.

‘Le ha robado algo?’. ‘Did he rob you?’. The primary assumption as to why I might want to locate one of these public salesmen is petty street theft. This quick fi re answer - the response of a kiosk-working Cholita upon my request to discover the whereabouts of a pajpaku - speaks volumes about these characters. It explains, quite plainly, that no-one goes looking for pajpakus, but rather, one stumbles upon them and often remains entranced against their own conscious will. It explains their societal image: they are con-artists. It explains that they are viewed as people who are toothless when it comes to making money.

Photo: Joel Balsam

As I stood and watched a man in El Alto’s Plaza de Autos selling medicine for colon cancer, I was struck by three particularly impressive traits: his ability to attract and retain a crowd, his humour (despite his complete lack of spontaneity), and his apparent confidence in his product. Underneath a parasol by his portable kiosk, the pajpaku stands equipped with a bucket of his remedies in eyedrop sized vials, several A3 prop cards with a host of graphic pictures, a microphone headset, and a bucket full of cash. He starts, just like every pajpaku,by politely addressing his audience. ‘Señoras y señores, estimados amigos...’

From here on in, it is a battle between his persuasive sales technique and your sometimes subconscious desire to leave; a battle frequently lost by the client. He addresses the crowd throughout his pitch, starting every sentence with ‘amigos’ or ‘estimada gente’, continuously capturing the attention of the stream of potential clients walking by. He boasts confidence in his product by offering a sample to each and every member of the surrounding circle. He lies, I presume, about his product’s popularity and common use in Europe and North America, places he can be almost certain the majority of his audience have never visited; places that breathe confi dence into his product’s effectiveness. The serious matters that have to be confronted are presented with light-hearted humour. ‘Si estas embarazada, por favor no tomes, si lo haces, tu bebé va a salir caminando’. ‘If you are pregnant, please do not take it, if you do, your baby will walk out’. He doesn’t stop talking for longer than a second.

Pajpakus are also known to frequent the seemingly interminable bus journeys, waiting in the congested streets of El Alto to hop onto a flota - Bolivia’s inter-province coaches - where the hard work of attracting a crowd has already been done for them.

On a 12 hour journey from La Paz to Sucre, a man in jeans, polo shirt, denim jacket and baseball cap jumps on board and stands at the front. Just when you thought you had a chance to get away from the chaos and commotion of the city; a chance to escape the frantic hustle and bustle and spend some quality time alone with your iPod. And then you’re reminded that you’re in Bolivia. A loud, booming voice greets the passengers in identical fashion to the man in El Alto. ‘Senoras y Senoras, estimados amigos...’ Just about to nod off and my much needed slumber is interrupted. I suddenly wished I’d never got on the bus.

For the next 30 minutes, he hypnotises his audience, starting with a question (unapparent if it is rhetorical or not) to engage his clients; ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, what do you lose when you fall in love?’. The previously uninterested passengers are intrigued and start to yell a series of answers until someone finally brings the charade to an end: ‘the heart’ is the answer. He has achieved Step One in capturing his audience. Now it is time for him to introduce his product, and a pajpakus introduction wouldn’t be complete without an impossibly verifi able claim to begin with. ‘This is real silver, ladies and gentlemen’.

He unfurls a display of silver chains and necklaces, rhapsodising about their necessity in everyone’s life. He explains the quality of his product and the incredible deal on offer. ‘This necklace, ladies and gentlemen, sells in jewellery shops for 150 Bolivianos. Ladies and Gentlemen, today, I will be selling it for a mere 50 Bolivianos’. He marches down the central aisle of the bus, handing out a necklace for each passenger to inspect closely, not once breaking his speech, casting a spell of trust between himself and everyone on board.

Then he goes in for the kill. He hits you with an unrefusable offer. He announces that he’s willing to reduce his own price, and brings it down to 20 Bolivianos for the chain, plus 10 Bolivianos for each attachable ‘charm’ or pendant, in the shape of hearts, moons and crucifixes. And that’s not all. Having made his initial sales, he cheekily unveils a rack of smaller chain bracelets, which he is willing to sell to those who have already purchased a necklace for the bargain, discounted price of 5 Bolivianos. At this point I asked myself, who, upon boarding the bus, actually wanted, needed or would think about buying a necklace like this.

Despite initially disregarding the pajpaku as no different from the average door to door salesman back home, two friends travelling on the flota fell victim to his ploys and made purchases. And what can I say about the alleged silver: last time I checked, real silver didn’t rust that quickly.

Pajpakus are much more than just excellent public speakers. They combine a range of skills that make them scarily perfect for their job: public speaking, persuasion, salesmanship, deception, hypnosis, psychology - the vast majority of these entrepreneurs never finished school, and yet they have appropriated the techniques taught at top sales schools around the world.

There is one major difference between the vendedores callejeros and pajpakus. Their success depends on much more than a client approaching a stall. It depends on their loquacity and ability to put any fear, embarrassment or timidity to one side and manipulate their audience. In their arsenal, they have an ability to deceive with confi dence: to talk for hours with enthusiasm, as their crowd stands fixated and hypnotised by the ludicrously inviting techniques used to draw and retain their attention.

Similar to the ‘Bid TV’ sellers in the Western world, a lot of their language, although cringe-worthy to some, is incredibly effective. At times, their mouth seems to work faster than their brain. Many of them attended oratory classes, obtaining instruction over diction and pronunciation. According to an article in La Luciérnaga, José Cahuana, who sells biographies of former Bolivian President Rodríguez Veltzé, not only took oratory classes but practiced for months in front of a mirror before selling his products in public each Sunday. ‘Seducing people is an art’, he believes. Watching a pajpaku, captivated by their charisma and enthusiasm, it seems unlikely that just anyone could master such an art.

Being a pajpaku is a rare gift. Apart from being a trade, it is also a personal survival strategy. They have discovered a way to live based on persuasion and opportunism. They are master entrepreneurs, testament to the country’s inventiveness and need to adapt to unpredictable marketplaces with both innovative products and differentiated sales pitches. Whether up in La Feria de El Alto on Sundays, amongst the stolen electronics and second hand clothes, or on an inter-city fl ota, they will stand and reel off their rehearsed speech once again. ‘Señoras y señores, estimados amigos...’

""Harriet Marsden takes us on a tour of some of the places and players in the pirate industry in Bolivia:
- From a pavement in downtown La Paz alongside Eusebio, a street vendor of
pirate DVDs.
- Through the office of Luis Dorn, a well-respected lawyer with a particular interest in intellectual property,
- To the doorway of an established pirate DVD shop with Roger, its owner
- To Petrus, the lead singer of one of the most popular bands in the city.""

Let’s say you’re in Bolivia for the first time, and you hear a band you like, or fancy renting a DVD for the night. You soon notice the nearcomplete absence of original material in the country - no large record shops to speak of and just one or two video clubs with an impoverished catalogue. And well, the reliably unreliable internet connection - incidentally, one of the slowest in the continent - means that downloading is out of the question. Do not despair though, as the gods of entertainment may be smiling down on you.

Photo: Joel Balsam

Wandering through the streets of La Paz in the cold evening air, you suddenly notice a man on the street with an impressive array of DVDs laid out on the pavement, in proper cases with legitimate-looking covers. He shows you recent Hollywood blockbusters for just a few Bolivianos. You can’t believe your luck - you’re sorted. Before you know it, you’ve become a cog in the underworld of Bolivian piracy.

In 2006, the International Intellectual Property Alliance (IIPA) reported that 90% of fi lms and music in Bolivia came from pirated sources, with 80% for software - the figures are among the highest in Latin America. It would be grossly inaccurate to say that piracy in Bolivia is a contained, or even containable issue. It is a massive, sprawling, amorphous industry.

This so-called industry is an extensive spiderweb of smugglers, lawyers, pirates, musicians, distributors, and many, many consumers – a network to which a vast majority of Bolivians are in some way connected. I wonder, does this spiderweb give people access to universal culture, or does it damage the country’s creative industries? From the legal to the illegal, and creator to distributor – this web sprawls across every echelon of society. One thing that is clear from the start is that it is impossible to stand inflexibly on one side of the argument.

Luis Dorn, a highly educated and specialised lawyer, looks at me across his mahogany desk and stresses that the case is far from simple. He calls piracy ‘an informal, living economy’, towards which the government ‘turns a blind eye’.‘They’re not really interested in fighting against piracy’, he tells me disdainfully.

In theory, video and music piracy of this sort is totally outlawed and a punishable offence. However, Luis explains that the 1322 Law of 1992, designed to protect intellectual property, sets out punishments too lenient to act as a deterrent to pirates. He also mentions the creation of a national intellectual property entity, following the IIPA’S calls for revision of copyright laws – the snappily named SENAPI.

However, this organisation is underfunded, and is lacking in both trained personnel and the means with which to enforce intellectual property rights. Although the Worldwide Organisation of Intellectual Property (OMPI) exists to protect the rights of the author, in reality it allows for countries to self-regulate. In short, any Bolivian attempts to bring piracy under control are hamstrung by failings in their own legal system and its corresponding enforcement.

We must also consider the corruption that is rife in the police force. Standing on the street by Plaza Avaroa, I ask Eusebio, our local DVD street vendor, what he would do if a police car drove past. Would he quickly pack up and hide his wares? ‘A policeman is one of my best customers!’ he grins.

Even if the correct laws and means of enforcement were in place, carrying out the punishment is harder than it sounds. There actually exists legislation that states that all preparatory proceedings, such as inspections, must be carried out with prior notification of the defendant. Of course, in this way the police lose the element of surprise. Even more strangely, the target is entitled to object to the search – and a judge must rule on this objection, wasting more time and money.

Lawsuits can take up to five years of court proceedings just to determine if there even was a copyright infringement. And even if the court finds that the software was indeed pirated, there has to be a damages trial – yet more money, time and bureaucracy. Luis explains wryly (and unsurprisingly) that ‘musicians do not like entering into legal proceedings’.

In other cases, street vendors have attacked the police as anti-piracy actions were taking place. To date, there has never been a final civil judgment for copyright infringement in Bolivia.

Luis goes on to name a legal intellectual property issue which he finds particularly comical – and disappointing. When the diablada, a typical Bolivian dance, began to appear in Peru, Bolivia made a formal, legal complaint against the country for infringement of copyright. They did this in the name of folklore protection. So, Peru, in retribution, decided to initiate proceedings in Bolivia, relying on the failings of the legal system and the light potential punishments. Luis calls for stronger punishments for pirates. But this seems logistically unfeasible. Mauricio Ruiz, another lawyer from La Paz, estimates in a press statement in 2012 that without piracy there would be 10,000 people out of a job. Luis Dorn’s estimates are even higher – he believes 30,000 people’s livelihoods are dependent on piracy. ‘It is ridiculous that they would try to fine me,’ declares Eusebio from his roadside vigil. ‘I could never pay that fine – it wouldn’t work. If they put me in prison, I don’t know what my wife and children would do’.

So, in theory, the government is tackling this problem, yet in reality the industry is thriving. Supply and demand – if the only possible way for the average Bolivian to purchase music or videos is through illegal means, then that is what will occur, laws notwithstanding. Piracy is morally and, to a certain extent, legally tolerated, as it makes available resources from around the world that otherwise would be closed off.

Consider the case of Roger, the owner of a legal-ish shop selling DVDs. It looks like any normal DVD rental shop, except you actually buy the films, and they are all copied from originals. He is quick to point out that what he does has a ‘social function’ and therefore, he claims, is not strictly illegal (see the Bolivian Constitution for an understanding on how the illegal can become legal if it’s in the interests of society). He also explains that his films are used by NGOs, cinema clubs, and even seven Bolivian universities.

As a customer of Eusebio tells me, smiling, ‘If it weren’t for these men, my dates would be chapi!’ And when I ask her how often she buys a pirate DVD, she answers plainly: ‘whenever I have a date’.

‘Look at this street’, Eusebio points out. ‘It is full of people like me, and it’s only one street. If they arrest me, they arrest everybody. And all those families would have no money’.

An important factor to consider is the poverty of the average Bolivian, an estimated half of whom are living on less than $2 USD per day. In one of the poorest countries in South America, buying a full price DVD or CD at 20 dollars would seem ludicrous to most – even if they were available. As Roger points out, ‘my customers would not buy original price DVDs. They can’t afford to’.

What we have is an access issue. There simply are not sufficient distribution outlets to get your hands on music or films in their original, legal forms – or, the originals are far too expensive. If piracy did not exist, only a small elite of the country would have access to this media. The estimated trade losses due to musical piracy was around 15$ million at the turn of the millenium, primarily due to lack of action from the Bolivian government, high levels of police corruption, and lack of commitment of SENAPI and Bolivian judiciary – but who is losing?

Not Eusebio, who earns just a few Bolivianos for every DVD sale. Luis explains that the real money in piracy goes to the ones recording or copying, not those who are on the front line selling.

Bolivia has not traditionally been a source of pirated music and film. Until recently, most of the pirated goods sold in Bolivia were imported from Peru and Colombia. Interestingly, Petrus, who records his music in Bolivia, must send it to Peru to be copied onto CDs. These come back to Bolivia and are sold, legally. Some of these are taken back to Peru to be copied, illegally, and these come back across the border to Bolivia as pirate copies, expanding his reach. Although he scorns the Peruvian pirates, he admits that this situation amuses him greatly.

Petrus, incidentally, is not losing out either. He explains that for a Bolivian musician, a pirate copy of their music is a huge compliment. ‘It’s the only way to get our music out there’, he says, ‘and most of the money a musician earns comes from gig ticket sales’. The more people that hear their music, the more people come to their concerts. ‘It’s part of our lives and cultural mindset’.

Roger, too, is sceptical about losses, because he maintains that without the pirate industry ‘nobody would buy these films; nobody would see them’.

So, who is really losing out?

The underlying concern in international discussions of this problem? The US market. While the US (in theory) acknowledges that Bolivia’s government does not prioritize American concerns for intellectual property law enforcement, they continue to press their own stance upon the nation, disregarding the unique situation of piracy in Bolivia. The approach taken by the US Embassy in La Paz is changing the mindset of the Bolivian public. They’re trying to persuade Bolivians to pay much higher prices and acknowledge that piracy is ‘stealing’ and ‘wrong’. However, while there is considerable sympathy among Bolivians for domestic production and local artists, there is very little for wealthy transnational companies. Basically, few people care if the Americans are losing money. People do not see how this affects Bolivians.

While the lawyer Max Orellana declares that ‘piracy impedes innovation’, Roger disagrees entirely. In addition to selling pirated DVDs, his business allows him to spread original Bolivian material, which would otherwise be lost. Indeed, he declares his business a ‘cultural project’, stressing the importance of access to films, literature and music for cultural growth. He also encourages his customers to copy their DVDs amongst themselves, and pass them on. He ironically names his DVDs ‘desprotegidos’.

Even Luis - although he declares himself morally against piracy - recognises the important role it plays in conserving traditional Bolivian music and independent films. However, he also warns of a state of ‘intellectual drain’, and explains that, with the legal failings concerned with intellectual property, local intellectuals prefer to publish their work abroad. He estimates that 80% of musicians have their music registered in Europe, particularly Germany and France, while photographers are publishing photos of Bolivia in Italy. So, Bolivian cultural output begins to belong to other countries. This, he emphasises, is a ‘sad paradox’.

So, it is clear that there is a strange dichotomy when it comes to piracy in Bolivia. People need it, people love it, and although the government consistently makes shows of tackling it, in reality they are forced to let it lie. Some believe it destroys industries and damages the idea of intellectual property, and yet our musician declares otherwise. Our lawyer calls for stronger punishments – and yet acknowledges the intrinsic difficulties in the prospect. Our street seller claims that without this livelihood, he, alongside countless other families, would starve. Our shop owner names his pirated DVD business a ‘cultural undertaking’.

It is also clear that evicting video and DVD piracy in Bolivia remains a farflung possibility. While the poverty levels and access issues remain the way they are, this industry cannot be eradicated- notwithstanding the 30,000 people who depend upon it. Eusebio sums it up: ‘I don’t know about the laws or the punishments. I can’t tell you where my movies come from. But I get them and I sell them and this is my life. And there will always be people like me’.

Pimp my Ride, Bolivia

Neon lights more evocative of the Christmas season than high-performance motoring; oversized exhausts with noises so strange they suggest engine malfunction rather than power; unsightly spoilers so hyperbolic it’s only possible to think they make cars less aerodynamic, not more. These are some of the sights I encountered when I first arrived in La Paz, usually on inner-city taxis driven by heavily hair-gelled young drivers. I wanted to find where these cars were, erm, pimped out. My investigations led me to talleres scattered across various parts of town: from Cota Cota to San Pedro.

Photo: Michael Dunn

One day, while walking up the calle Landaeta I spotted a yellow Subaru which actually looked good. The car’s owner, Romer Fernandez Martinez, was a man on a mission with a serious passion for driving. He was happy to explain to me how he went about tuning his car, its sound system and, of course, the costs associated with turning an average car into one that wins competitions. Just like the movie series The Fast and the Furious, Martinez and around 20 of his friends compete against other drivers from around Bolivia on empty roads. They call themselves STR, Street Team Racing. In contrast to the chapi looking taxis found all over La Paz, these guys certainly sounded (and looked) like the real deal. So, I arranged to meet them and learn more about the Bolivian high-performance car scene.

Photo: Gustavo Verduguez

The Fact File:

The Team
Just four years after The Fast and the Furious told the world - just like in ‘30’s advertisements - that cool cars can get you fame and girls, in 2005 La Paz’s oldest and most famous street racing team was born. R-Evolution started it all in only two years later that more teams joined the fold, among them were Street Team Racing, Japan Tuning, 1/4 Mile Club, Stallions, and Hot Wheels. The competition grew and grew across Bolivia, on street corners and in special tracks where four major country-wide events take place annually. These drag races can draw massive crowds.

The Game
There are three kinds of racers: those in it for the audio, those in it for the tuning, and those in it purely for the race. Street Team Racing’s red Mitsubishi Evo is a pure racing car with the ability to go 0-100 km/h in less than six seconds. Meanwhile, Martinez’s yellow Subaru, albeit extremely fast, is more dedicated to audio and tuning with an earth-thumping and trunk-filling subwoofer. Some teams like Japan Tuning are, as their name suggests, more in it for the tuning than the racing. Racecar or not, part of the game is looking good. Decals, stickers and neon lights all add to the effect and make these cars stand out even among the shoddily tuned up taxis.

Photo: Joel Balsam

The Race
In Pucarani and the Avenida 6 de Marzo (in El Alto), cars line up for a quarter mile race, revving their engines and giving it their all for a chance to win the big prize. The winner gets money for tuning or a brand new sound system. The drivers must be careful about where they ride because their low cars are not necessarily built for the rough Andean terrain and steep slopes of La Paz.

The Life
Street racing is a hobby and not a full time job. Speeding up and down Bolivia’s mountains may be enjoyable, but it costs quite a lot to maintain. However, despite occasionally being pestered by the pacos, the team don’t seem too worried about police trouble. In fact, the driver of the white Honda is a police officer (though he doesn’t work in the city).

Photo: Niall Flynn

The Price
Car prices are not much better in Bolivia than they are abroad as they have to be imported, which involves high shipping and customs costs. Riders spend several thousand dollars souping up their cars for the race or simply to show off on the narrow La Paz streets. Bolivian drivers do save on gas, which costs over five times more in the UK.