Fliss Lloyd goes on a tour with Hormigón Armado to understand what the city looks like to a shoe shiner.

Photo: Carlos Sanchez Navas

It was an afternoon well spent when I decided to do  of La Paz through the eyes of one of the city's 'seen-but-never-heard' Lustrabotas . Yes, admittedly I had my own preconceptions of the tour before taking it. Like many gringos who have spent a month or two traveling in Bolivia, I too asked myself: 'Why bother with another city tour? I've been in Bolivia for nearly four months now—I basically know the whole of this country.

It didn’t take me long to realise how short sighted I had been. Starting at 2pm, I spent a sunny afternoon walking the height of La Paz, seeing the beautiful city through the eyes of someone who is more familiar with the labyrinths of the Gran Cementerio and the back alleys of Mercado Uruguay than with the Witches Market on Calle Sagarnaga and the tourist hotspots of the sprawling Prado. I was able to glimpse sides of the city to which I’d been oblivious since my arrival.

For 80 Bolivianos (£8) I had my own personal tour guide, Roger, a young Lustrabota who has been working with Hormigón Armado for three and a half years, earning him a degree of leadership among other shoe shiners with more limited experience.

Hormigón Armado is a foundation that supports the city’s shoe shiners on several fronts: the organise an environment in which boys and girls who work on the street can co-produce a publication through training initiatives, and also by providing them with the publications themselves, which the shoe-shiners can sell to supplement their income. They have also created a community in which those who are part of the project can attend workshops and have fun days out.

Through his involvement with the organisation, Roger was not only a shoe shiner, but an alternative and highly specialised city tour guide. For those who aren't just passing through La Paz on the travellers trail this tour shows both initiative and many nooks and crannies of the city untouched by the traveller's trampling foot.

According to Roger, the route of the tour is pre-decided between the Lustrabotas and the leader of Hormigón Armado. 100% of the proceeds go to the guide. Until a few years ago, Roger was living out in the countryside with his family where unemployment runs high and earning money is a challenge. In search of a job and a means to help their family, young kids like Roger take it upon themselves to move to La Paz to try their luck as shoe shiners. Of course, children end up working in this occupation through various reasons including homelessness and violence at home.

Our first stop was the Cemetery, where Roger explained in detail the customs and traditions that surround the death in Bolivia. He also named several famous people who had been buried there, such as former Presidents and Military Generals. Next we went to visit nine further points of interest, such as ‘Fish Street’, where the fish from Lake Titicaca is prepared and sold in bulk at economic prices. We hung out at crowded Ice Cream Stalls where mountains of fuschia-pink cinnamon ice cream beckons pedestrians to linger. We walked along ‘Cholita Hat Street’, where hats ranging between 300 and 1500 Bolivianos don the heads of Cholitas of every economic background. We visited the Mercado Uruguay, tucked away in a back alley, where we came face-to-face with live ducks and fluffy guinea pigs which were soon to become someone's dinner.

I began to fawn over the garments on the Cholita Clothes Street, only to learn that the metres and metres of silky, decorated material led to a surprisingly expensive way to dress; refreshment came on the street adorned with endless rows of inexpensive, organic fruit which, along with the fish, would later be brought down to Mercado Rodriguez, to be sold at a higher price.
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To show me where the shoe shiners lunched at a discount, Roger took me to Comedor Popular, a food court near Max Paredes. Last but not least, we arrived at the infamous San Pedro prison, where I was told prisoners often live with their families, including children, in order not to be separated.

It was a thoroughly interesting tour that took me to parts of the city I had never known about, let alone thought to visit. At times I found myself walking off the beaten track on overturned piles of cement and gravel, behind the stalls where vendors sell their wares, or through crowds where I was asked to hold my bag close to me. In other words, I was walking through the real La Paz, as seen through the balaclava'd eyes of the shoeshiner.
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The Silver Man Stands Still

Photo: Ryle Lagonsin

For 27-year-old actor Ronald Millares performing is a way of life. In his continuous pursuit for artistic independence, he has found freedom on the streets—his perfect stage—acting as a chained silver soldier—his perfect role.

Amid the noise and the ruckus of El Prado’s many bustling streets, one peculiar-looking fellow is causing quite a commotion among passersby going to and from the bridge by the Reloj de la Perez. Decked out in old worker's overalls and high-top shoes, hands and feet bound in papier-mâché chains, and painted entirely in grey, the figure looks as if he had jumped out from the concrete wall behind him. A human rock atop an improvised pedestal, he waits in silence, only to break his still form with the clinking of a coin.

There was never really much expectation in Ronald Millares’s artistic capability. Growing up in Tarija, the fifth of ten children, Millares’s early years saw him as a timid boy. He was an introvert, who rarely spoke in class and hated being in front of many people. One unforgettable incident, Millares recalls, was when a teacher asked the entire class to dance. Determined not to participate and desperate to be left alone, he resorted to the one thing he knew would definitely win him his case. He cried.‘When I was a boy’, he says, ‘no one could ever make me dance’.

At nine years old, he began learning his father’s trade as a plumber. With his earnings, he was able to support himself, but when he started university he had to find more stable work. And so he became a hotel mesero and a gasboy, among other occupations—not once showing any interest in singing, dancing, or even being the focus of attention.

For this reason, no one could have predicted the change in Millares’s outlook when, at seventeen, in the middle of his psychology studies, the once-shy young man found himself longing to become a performer—an actor to be precise. ‘I think what really inspired me to make theatre a lifestyle was seeing the work of Teatro De Los Andes’, he now says. ‘That group revolutionized Bolivian theatre during the early ‘90s.’

After finishing his studies, Millares soon found himself participating in acting workshops and theatre productions across Bolivia. He even formed his own theatre group, Teatro Tres Cuartos. And although his family did not support his decision at the time, Millares decided to fully devote himself to the acting craft by the time he was twenty three.

Theatre thus became life for Ronald Millares. Beyond the curtains and the applause, he stretched his stage out far beyond the walls of the salas and into the streets. He began honing his passion for acting while making a living by playing the same character over and over again: the chained soldier, the silver estatua viviente .

‘Being an actor is 80 percent public relations, and in the streets, people are never conventional. It is not the same in all areas. It’s not like in theatres where people enter, conditioned to see a play’, Millares says. ‘Sometimes, they poke me, touch me, make fun of me. So I have to be alert and sense what is going on around, even if I am not moving. If they try to do something bad, I firmly put them in their place. But it is because I like interacting with people. Sometimes, they talk to me. They tell me their stories. And I learn a lot. So, even though I learned almost everything in the theatre, the street is where I get the artistic experience.’

‘There is not enough appreciation for street artists in Bolivia. Only for mainstream actors like those in television and films’, says Alvaro Ramos, a colleague of Millares from Teatro del Oprimido and a social worker at the San Pedro Prison. ‘The general view is that street artists are hippies who do drugs, or they feel bad and think, “Oh, we must give them money”. It is tough for unknown artists to get recognition or even small spaces to perform in the street. They always need permission from the government. It is great for artists who can live from what they like, but it is hard.’

La Paz, in particular, is not very hospitable to street performers, according to Millares.
‘I earn more or less 100 to 150 bolivianos in this city on a good day’, he says. ‘But it is only in La Paz where the government charges artists for using public spaces. They charge me Bs 1.50 per square meter, which I have to pay at a bank for every day that I perform. The best way to avoid charges is to have a friend working within the government. Corruption is everywhere.’

At the clink of a coin, the silver man turns slowly—as if instinctively—towards the little girl who dropped it into his box. He opens his eyes and reaches his hand out, gesturing her to come nearer for a handshake. The little girl smiles widely as he whispers his thanks to her before becoming motionless once more.

‘What makes a Latin American artist unique is the creativity, the originality’, says fellow actor Juan Jose Ameller. ‘Bolivian actors don’t have that kind of formation. We don’t have formal classes for people who want to become actors. We work with what we have. We get books, we search for workshops. We create our own stories, our own style. We do it ourselves, because no one else will do it for us.’
Dusk draws near. But though it seems the spectacle is not yet over for a few curious people passing by the bridge, Millares decides it is time to break out of his chains, retrieve the day’s earnings, and head to where home is for the night.

‘If I couldn’t be an actor, I would die. It would be like becoming a cripple, not being able to do this kind of work. But I don't like fame’, he says, without a hint of pretense in his voice. ‘Fame is superficial. Fame or money does not necessarily mean success, because success is being content with yourself. It is being able to go back home and to give thanks to God for giving me the opportunity to do what makes me happy. In that way, I believe I am successful.’

Photo: Ryle Lagonsin

Fresh from a role in the recently ended No Salgas (Don’t Go), a local theatrical production on human trafficking by Bolivian director Freddy Chipana, Ronald Millares will soon be working on a project with the Red de Teatro del Oprimido. He will also be performing in theatre productions in the Ferias Dominicales del Prado, organized by Elvis Antezana of ARLEQUÍN Productions, before heading to the International Festival of Theatre, Arts, and Popular Culture in Chiclayo, Peru.

Photo: Caterina Stahl

Name: Luis Aerrere

Age: 33

Hometown: Buenos Aires Argentina

Job: Artisan traveler

'Sometimes its sells, sometimes it doesn’t', he tells me with an easy smile.

It began as just a hobby for Luis Aerrere. He got into artisan crafts such as wood carving and jewelry when his older friends showed him how, and later discovered he really liked it. He realised that instead of just using his leisure time to create art he could sell his creations and earn a living. At fifteen Luis left his job as a phone receptionist. When he was seventeen he began traveling locally while making his art and by twenty years old he was selling it for a living.

'Freedom,' is what drove Luis to leave his old job. The combination of his artistic talent and his enjoyment for the activity gave him the perfect conclusion to quit. 'I am the owner of myself, my time, and my life. Total independence'.

He used to sell his crafts at the Monte Grande fair in Great Buenos Aires until last year, when he left to travel South America. He initially wanted to go to Venezuela but only made it up to Ecuador due to family problems. On his way back home Luis decided to stop by Bolivia for a while. 'I like the food, the landscape, and the house structures—they look old fashioned. The people are very sociable, kind, and gentle. They are also respectful. I also like how the people pronounce words here.'

Luis spends his days selling and making his art. 'Sometimes its sells, sometimes it doesn’t', he tells me with an easy smile. A perk of the job is getting to talk to people from all over the world. While we were talking a few Brazilians walked up to Luis and his friends and asked if they were also from Brazil.

Luis is friends with a couple, plus their two kids, ages eight and fifteen. They met seven years ago at a hostel in Argentina. Luis calls the couple and their children his family. They have been traveling and selling their artwork for a living for the past two years. 'We can support the family with crafts', he tells me. This very unique family currently lives in a hotel in La Paz. The kids are learning the trade and are currently specialising in making bracelets. As for schooling, Luis says, 'Children can study any place in the world'.

This kind of nomadic life has taught Luis to value the small things that most people usually take for granted. 'For example, if you only have money for one coffee you are thankful for this whereas others might want more than this.' According to Luis, structured jobs don’t leave room for gleaning such insights from life. Now that he sees things differently he values his freedom immensely. 'If someday I don’t feel like working I don’t have to. I love to live my life from making art.'