As a fourteen-year-old girl, my contact with comics was restricted to the hours I spent in comic book stores, waiting for my friends to finish dithering over whether or not to buy the latest issue of X-Men. Comics appeared to be the province of teenage boys, and seemingly beyond the realm of my understanding. The characters on the pages were familiar to me from TV cartoons, but comics themselves were an enigma. However, over the years I have gradually been integrated into the comic tribe, with its occasionally secretive and peculiar quirks and traditions unfamiliar to those outside of it.

The city of La Paz exudes an artistic spirit. Unlike many cities where art appears constrained to galleries and museums, in La Paz it spills out, smothering the streets, walls and buildings. How much of this art is formal or informal is unclear to the traveller’s eye, as graffiti merge into murals. To an extent it doesn’t really matter—here, art can be anywhere. And it was whilst I was admiring the streets of La Paz that I found C+C Centro del Cómic, just up from Plaza Avaroa. My interest was piqued—how strong is the comic book culture here in La Paz? Initially I assumed the Centre was simply a comic book shop, but to my surprise it was in fact a comic book library. I had never encountered a library dedicated to comic books before; the closest back home in the UK are institutional historical archives. This unusual set-up intrigued me— not only the puzzle of a comic book library existing in itself, but also why here in La Paz?
One of the main reasons for its existence is the Fundación Simon I. Patiño, an institution named after the ‘Andean Rockefeller’ who, at the time of his death in 1947, was one of the richest men in
the world. The comic book library is part of the foundation’s cultural programme and occupies the ground floor of Espacio Simon I. Patiño—the foundation’s base in La Paz.
The Centro has been providing a free space where people can come and enjoy comics for the past 11 years. As a library, it helps circulate limited material around the maximum amount of people, instead of selling them for a profit. Readers I spoke to identified the centre as pretty much the only place they could get good comics—shops either had limited stock or the prices were too high. In times of economic uncertainty, it is also an important cultural refuge for those who would otherwise be unable to afford to enjoy comics. Friday afternoons are the centre’s busiest hour as people—young and old, male and female - visit on the way back from school and work. For an annual subscription fee of only Bs. 100 (around $15) you can borrow two comics for two weeks. And there’s a lot to choose from.

C+C has around 4000 comics on offer, with historietas from four main escuelas:
- The more well-known comics of North America
- Black and white Asian Manga series - European titles
- A section dedicated to homegrown South American talent, particularly Argentinean and, of course, Bolivian comics.

As well as the traditional fan bases for superheroes and manga, there is a strong interest in domestic talent with many fans favouring Bolivian comics. One reader said they preferred these comics as they were ‘more to do with them’—ideas of a shared culture, shared geography and shared experience building a shared identity perhaps. Or maybe they just prefer their drawings.
The centre does not only attract readers but also artists – aspiring, published and professional alike. Two schoolgirls had visited the centre to practise their skills using drawing books and magazines at the centre, with aspirations to maybe draw their own comics one day.
I spoke to Francisco Leñero, responsible for the running of C+C, about the success of the centre and what he felt about the comic culture of La Paz. He admits the Bolivian comic market is small, but explains there remains a sufficient, stable community to sustain it. It also provides an interesting situation for artists –the reduced market may mean it is hard for artists to make a living from their work but it also allows a greater level of experimentation. However, a lack of market pressure, he believes, can reduce the pressure to create higher quality work.
The struggle for recognition as ‘true art’ and ‘true literature’ for comic books is global. Francisco believes that there is increasing respect for comics as an art form here in Bolivia—libraries in wider
La Paz are now housing comics within their collections and no longer just in the children’s sections—the likes of Marjane Satrapi and Joe Sacco, for example, have gained recognition as important writers in themselves both for their art and the difficult issues they confront.
Another increasingly popular way people are interacting with comics is through the Internet. A quick Google search reveals fan sites and pages, Facebook groups and Blogspots for Bolivian fans of comics. The rise of the online comic and illegal downloading may be changing the scene, but it is Francisco’s belief that the internet does not pose a threat to the centre with the majority of
people who visit also reading comics online. It appears that printed comics, and a physical space where people can read them, is still important.
There is certainly a thriving comic book culture in La Paz, even if it is only a modest one. Many different groups and places sustain it, from stores to the library; from fanáticos to aficionados and artists. This multi-layered community is interdependent, and the lines between reader, writer and artist can be easily transcended.
The community itself is nicely summedup by Mauricio Salazar Jemio, an aspiring artist, who had this to say about La Paz’s artistic tribal community: ‘There is gonna be always somebody that supports you and can see what you do and help you with the publication of your work or the commercialization of it. The tribes are small and the comic book artist is nowadays everywhere, and they are part of the cultural community of La Paz where you meet and share ideas with
all kinds of artists from musicians to graphic designers, [together] forming part of what is the comic culture in Bolivia.

Bolivia offers up a lot culturally, but travellers can find themselves in their own closed circle of friends, rarely venturing from it and remaining apart from the native population.

Striped cotton trousers, a llama-print sweater and messy, unwashed hair. Most likely hungover and/or still drunk from last night. We see a traveller in her natural habitat—a party hostel in central La Paz. Grouped around her are many like herself. They chat about fuzzy memories of Route 36 (an underground cocaine bar in La Paz) and last weekend’s jungle trip. That traveller is me.

The place is created to put us at ease. An English-language menu advertises Western food. Fellow English-speaking travellers tend the bar. Each person gets their own comfy bed with two pillows! Davie Browne, who backpacked round Bolivia in 2005 and now owns the the Dubliner Irish pub in La Paz’s Zona Sur district, remarks that travelling here has become much ‘comfier’ than it was in his day. As the evening draws out into night, the hostel fills with approachable faces. Maria and Juliette are two of them. Both French travellers in their early twenties, they found advice on where to go once the hostel bar closes, and which tour companies to use. An otherwise foreign environment becomes an easy meeting place.

‘It’s so cheap here!’ May, my companion, exclaims. ‘Two cocktails for 18 bolivianos [$2.60]?!’ Prices are one of the best things about Bolivia for tribes of backpackers—you can survive on a tenth of what it takes to live in Europe. Most visitors stay only a couple of days, travelling through as part of a larger South American trip. Nevertheless, creating a tourist tribe is still big business. Bolivia is currently trying to triple its tourist income to $1 billion a year by focusing on high-end cultural and ecological visitors, whilst avoiding becoming a ‘mass tourism’ destination. That trade benefits both sides. Travellers have money to spend, and hostels have found a formula that works. Jamie McManus, the Scottish partner of Loki—a major hostel in La Paz, boasts of a sixth branch opening in Argentina. Their business model has been copied all over the continent, improving the quality of hostels and giving entrepreneurial Bolivians an effective strategy to increase profits.

Real fun. But stepping out into the harsh sunshine of the street I realise I had forgotten I was in Bolivia. Hotel licensing laws mean Jamie’s crew can only serve guests, which excludes any Bolivian customers. Seeing alligators, dolphins and piranhas was incredible, but not once on my jungle tour was I forced to speak any Spanish. Nightclubs with 20 boliviano ($3) cover charges, in a country where many live below the minimum wage of $170 a month, are hardly welcoming to anyone but expats and a small clique of Bolivian elites.

This is not really what I wanted when I came to Bolivia. I’m here to understand more of a new place, but how much insight does the small travelling community here get of Bolivian life? Since being here, I have interacted mostly with travellers who can afford to make the journey halfway across the world—making them well off even in their home countries.

Perhaps our problem is rooted in our position as ‘travellers’. As a newcomer to Bolivia, this ready-made tribe is too accessible, and too attractive, to distance myself from. It is also in many peoples’ interests for travellers not to leave the tourist trail, because our money is trapped there as well. But more than this, being a traveller gives me no context in which to understand Bolivia. Why should local people show a stranger how they live? Explaining my curiosity will not get far in justifying pure voyeurism.

So I went to visit Plan International, an international development agency that helps impoverished children, to get a view of this society from the bottom up, rather than the top down. I was given a stack of literature on the position of children in the country—eight in every 100 children between the ages of 7 and 13 work, despite the fact that it’s against the law, and chronic malnutrition affects nearly 22 percent of children under 5. Half of all indigenous Bolivians live in extreme poverty level. Of course, Bolivia’s poverty is well known, but I nevertheless found found these statistics disheartening after leaving the comfortable bubble in which I had been existing.

Travellers in every country are bound to only scratch the surface of a place. Why should Bolivia be any different? The country’s extreme social inequalities mean that disparate social groups are less likely to mix, and travellers in turn are cushioned from the reality of poverty in Bolivia, and this makes it more difficult for us to comprehend the country. With time and persistence, some can break through social barriers. But according to Edgar Dávila Navarro, Plan International’s communications coordinator, it is also possible, with a privileged lifestyle, to never come into contact with, or completely ignore the poverty that exists here.

So I never got quite what I wanted. It seems my quest to experience Bolivia exposed, above all, my own naïveté. I believed that there was an accessible culture to understand. This issue of Bolivian Express shows the stratification and complexity of the many Bolivian ‘tribes’. I wanted to ‘get’ this country in a month, but that’s not how it works—here or at home. As a middle-class South Londoner attending a private school, I am also far from understanding British society in many of the ways I seek to comprehend Bolivia. I know only what it’s like to live a certain lifestyle—to belong to my own certain tribe.

Thus my status as a member of the traveller tribe is prescribed from the moment I can afford the flight here, and can be identified by my blonde hair and sometimes rather ridiculous choice of dress. It’s fun, but not the way to gain understanding of an alien and fundamentally very complex place. Bolivia is definitely not ‘done’.

Travelling street performers, known locally as malabaristas, have recently become a familiar presence across the continent. Sophia Aitken & Kelly Keough have some myths to debunk about them.

There’s no time for mistakes. Emanuel has only 45 seconds to wow his audience with his juggling until the light turns green and the cars speed away. A generous patron rolls down her window and quickly hands him one peso. He smiles broadly, thanks her as he skips to the safety of the sidewalk. He has noticed us watching his routine and approaches us with a warm 'Buenas tardes!' He is eager to speak with us about his occupation, especially after we explain that we are doing a piece on artistas callejeros - street artists.
Street performers are a controversial topic here in La Paz: some will tell you that they are degenerates looking for a quick buck to support illicit habits, others consider them lazy pests infiltrating the city. After speaking with a number of these callejeros, malabraristas or street performers of many kinds, we came to the conclusion that there are several myths about them that need debunking.
Myth #1 Bolivia’s drug mecca attracts young travelers
Malabaristas are not using their money earned on the streets to buy drugs like they have been stereotyped to be doing. Malabarista Emanuel from Argentina said, 'I am not against drug consumption but I am against drug abuse because any type of abuse is an excess which is a bad thing.' This attitude is common among malabaristas.
Bolivia is not their destination. Malabarista Vanessa from Argentina said, 'Bolivia is on the way to wherever we want to go, we have to cross here not matter what.' Malabaristas are travelers. They do not stay in one city for more than three weeks. After they have explored and earned enough money to leave, they are back on the road. Bolivia suits them well because it offers cheap living and transportation. In other countries they have to hitchhike because bus travel is too expensive.
Myth #2 Street performers are aimless
'En el futuro, no me veo,' said Emanuel after we asked him where he saw himself in the future. Similarly, malabaristas Vanessa, Gabriela and Virna balked at our future-oriented question. For them it seemed we were asking the wrong question. Virna from Colombia said, 'We don’t think about the future, maybe we say that in a couple years we want to be doing this or that but right now it is only about the present'. This is not to say that they have given up on having any life ambitions or dreams. The men and women we spoke to all seemed to be resolved to a certain extent about their destinations and goals. For now, the girls are headed to Paraguay for a circus festival in September, an event that will attract many callejeros from all over South America.
Their notions of goal setting seem to be very particular, yet they are coherent. Emanuel explained that he is not 'future-oriented' rather, he prefers to think in terms of 'projections', more general goals focused on a certain day to day quality of life than specific financial or material ends. 'I do what I do for a long-term objective and a short-term objective. In the short-term, to make money to pass the day. In the long-term to arrive in Venezuela', he said.
These traveling young people and their extemporaneous existence seem to embody the old aphorism, carpe diem. 'The truth is that we’re all here doing the same thing: trying to travel and live for the present', said Vanessa.
Gabriela from Argentina does have the eventual goal of settling down and making herself a 'home in the south, to live off the land with my animals and live calmly'. But for now, the present is enough. Emanuel and these women all seem very content living in the day to day of travel, talent, and whim.
Myth #3 Street performers don’t make enough to support themselves
'Depending on the day and how many hours I work I can earn from Bs. 80 to Bs. 150', explains Emanuel. 'There is always that kind person who throws you 10 Bs.' Normally he will work four to six hours. This is enough to cover his hostel, food and travel expenses.
Virna explained that the amount you earn depends on how long you work for. 'I want to buy un bombo y un platillo and until I earn the money for that I don’t leave, but if you just want to pay for food and hostel stay, then you won’t work for more than three hours a day.'
Myth #4 Street performers live on the streets
The hostels in the centre of La Paz house the malabaristas. They live there like a small community, gathering in the San Francisco plaza after a day’s work to practice their juggling and other circus tricks.
The malabaristas come from all over South America. 'Wherever you go there will be jugglers. We make friends along our travels and say goodbye to them but find ourselves with them again in a new place' Vanessa tells us.
Because they have this community, Gabriela calls their lives 'normal'. 'Just like you, we wake up to eat breakfast, go to work and then go meet up with our friends. We do the same.'
Myth #5 The life of a street performer is unrewarding
'The day I run out of curiosity I will die’, Emanuel affirms. He has played guitar and bongos in bars and restaurants across a number of cities, toured art museums, taken art classes and learned to juggle, all in the last six months. He is constantly investigating, trying and learning new things, but he is especially pleased to have been able to do all this on his own time.
Virna also cites this independence as one of the most rewarding aspects of being a malabarista. 'We don’t have a boss. We don’t have schedules. We can work at whatever time we want for as long as it is convenient for us’ she explains. Vanessa agrees, 'There is nobody to tell us when to stop or start working. Life is about enjoying the morning, afternoon and night. I worked for a while before I realized that closing myself in would not benefit me in the future. This is all about living in the present'.
These self-employed travelers live well and seem to love what they do. When asked why he started performing, as opposed to selling crafts or playing in bars, Emanuel laughs and responds that it was out of 'pride, definitely pride, the satisfaction of having a direct response from people in the moment in which you’re performing. That’s why I do it. It’s also a matter of experiencing a distinct form of working, one that isn’t dependent. It’s working for yourself, for your own goal. It’s not being confined by so many strict hours'.
Listening to them talk about their lives, we wondered, could it be possible that street performers have a better quality of life than the rest of us? At night they go out together to bars in the city with new friends they have made within the community of malabaristas and travelers staying in hostels in the city. They sleep late, eat well, and have fun working street corners with friends during the day.
But for Emanuel it is more than that. For him, performing has changed a number of his perspectives. 'You know it’s amazing how much I appreciate every coin I get, 50 cents, 20 cents, it helps me, it helps me accomplish what I want every day and it gives me satisfaction too.' It has made him more thankful, more appreciative of his freedom. The lifestyle has made him less prejudiced and very open to people.
He believes his lifestyle got him out of a rut and has helped him figure out who he really is. 'In the moment when we ourselves change in earnest, looking at our realities and errors, we will be able to change and respect the world and appreciate every day.'