Bolivian Express talks to former President Jaime Paz Zamora to understand what the goalkeeper-turned-deacon-turned-politician got up to after retiring from public life.

Former Bolivian President Jaime Paz Zamora founded the Movimiento de la Izquierda Revolucionaria (MIR, or the Revolutionary Movement of the Left) in April 1971. Its symbol, an orange rooster, lent Paz Zamora the nickname of El Gallo. Once an important revolutionary figure who fought to put an end to dictatorships, there are credible conspiracy theories that his assassination was planned by a military regime in an infamous plane incident in 1980. The crash left him with third-degree burns and marked him forever after with a distinctive visage.

The MIR gained power when, in 1982, it formed part of the UDP (Democratic and Popular Union) coalition which won the presidential election with Hernán Siles Zuazo as President, and Paz Zamora as Vice-President. In 1989, Paz Zamora defeated former dictator Hugo Banzer in a congressional vote to become president himself. His administration is credited for important steps towards gaining a sovereign coastline for Bolivia, but tarnished by drug and corruption scandals. Most intriguing of all are the political alliances he formed with Hugo Banzer during the 80s and 90s; the very person whose brutal regime he opposed and resisted during the first years of the MIR. Politically active for over 30 years, he has been virtually absent from public life since Evo Morales’ election in 2005. BX got in contact to learn more about El Gallo, and what a former president does with his time when he’s not planning a return to power. 

*Interview has been edited for clarity and length.

BX: In historical terms, what can you tell us about your administration and legacy?

JPZ: That is the problem. People think we are history but we are actuality.
When democracy started in 1982 it marked a true change of era. We have since lasted 31 years in a democracy. While this is history it is also relevant to the country’s present. Secondly, it was during this democracy, and specifically during the 1990s when large gas fields were discovered and which are now to thank for the economic bonanza the country is going through.

Democracy and gas are the absolute mainstays of change that Bolivia has experienced as a country. However, the extraction of gas must be monitored and the public frivolity and inability to reinvest must be criticised. We need a solid economy. Sánchez de Lozada, president between 2003 and 2005, aimed to ‘capitalise’ on the gas fields but instead handed them over to the multinationals. After the new Hydrocarbons Law passed in 2005—which President Carlos Mesa did not want to sign but which was passed by Congress—Vaca Díez, a MIR parliamentarian, promulgated the law which nationalised the hydrocarbons. What the current president has done, and has done well, is implementing this law. The MIR also signed the gas deal with Brazil, which is what keeps the country going. Yet at the current rate we will have gas for another 40 years before it runs out.

BX: What was the Bolivia in which you grew up like?
JPZ: The country was ruled by so-called ‘parties’ that achieved power through coup d’états. Military regimes entered and left the Government Palace with gunshots. That was the Bolivia in which I was born. That was the Bolivia of always. Before becoming president, I was helping to get democracy started from clandestinity.

BX: Could you tell us about your brother, Nestor, and his influence on your life?
JPZ: My brother was more creative than me because he was an artist; he was a man that loved life. In the countryside, he called for the need to have a caring feeling around us —a changed society, a new society. Love was at the centre of the change; you cannot have a society if there is no togetherness. In 1970, he died from starvation, but he did not surrender. We need to build a caring society. He had an interesting idea that Pope Francis could use today. He said that love is the urgent need to solve the problem of others. Based on the experience of the sacrifice of my brother, we took the decision to fight for equality. This is where I started my political career.

BX: Tell us about your early career before becoming a politician
JPZ: I was educated in Leuven in Belgium. I financed my studies there by playing football, as a goalkeeper. But what defined me is that I was set to be a priest and studied philosophy and theology for seven or eight years. Today I am a deacon—it is an indelible mark. But my brother and I discovered that we had a political vocation, and that we wanted to make changes that we were not able to make from within the church.

BX: What have you been doing since you left politics in 2005?
JPZ: I did not retire from political life; there are many different ways of being involved in politics. I have been in the countryside working on land art. I have organized, and am about to finish, a large botanical park.

A government minister, Carlos Romero, asked me, half-mockingly, what I was doing these days, so this is what I told him, in the same tone, ‘I was busy making children’. I have one 9-year-old who represents Tarija as a swimmer—he is also a great goalkeeper. I have another one who is 7 years old.

BX: Why is art such an important part of your life?

JPZ: I feel like a frustrated artist who hasn’t been able to dedicate himself to art. I have this artistic vein, it is my passion, and I feel like a man that, in some ways, is tamed by art and beauty. Here I have art from the best artists in Bolivia. I also have some good pieces from artists from countries such as Ecuador. For example, Oswaldo Guayasamín, the Ecuadorian painter, and the best Latin American painter ever, in my opinion, made three portraits of me that I have here, three large oil paintings.

When I was in the presidential house in San Jorge I had a llama, a vicuña and some roosters. Realising that my personality was very confused with the image of the rooster, Guayasamín was in the process of painting a portrait and asked me to place a rooster behind me. By chance one of my best roosters was walking by. I still don’t know how, but he constructed the piece so that my face appeared to have a beak of a rooster.

BX: Where do you live?

JPZ: El Picacho is a 200-year-old house which has even witnessed the War of Independence. The property was abandoned by the last member of the Mendez family - Moto Mendez [an independence hero] used to ride his troops out of here on horseback. It was left abandoned until the 1980’s when a group of puppeteers took it over. Young people from the USA and Europe would come and do an internship here and construct puppets.

Living here for me has been a restoration challenge as well as an ecological challenge. I have a memorial here for César Vallejo, others for Pablo Neruda and Walt Whitman. I also have memorials for poets from Tarija such as Octavio Campero Echazú and Oscar Alfaro. I have trees named after them.

People tell me that El Picacho is like a monastery…and they are right in some way. It has a gentle tranquillity, it is a place for contemplation. El Picacho has many aspects, it has even become a political landmark; some presidents have spent the night here. The property was given its name because of a 10 metre-high rock beside the house which is in the shape of a beak [pico, in Spanish].

BX: What are your views of the current government?

JPZ: One must distinguish between an era of changes and a change of an era, such as the establishment of democracy. This is what Evo Morales is trying to do: he is still experiencing a change of era as part of the introduction of democracy. The government spends a great deal of money and invests a huge amount. When I got the presidency, Bolivia was a country living at subsistence level; our national income was $1.2 billion, today it stands at $16 billion. The GDP used to be $4 billion, now it stands at $30 billion. What is at stake today in Bolivia is what is going to happen with democracy. If anything characterises this moment in Bolivia, it is that the country is undergoing transition in which we don’t know where we are going. There has been a regression.

BX: What is the significance of the rooster and why did you choose it as the symbol for MIR?

JPZ: I think that the rooster is one of the great symbols of Bolivian politics. It is no longer just linked with the MIR—it is a symbol of democracy. The rooster announces a new dawn; it crows and maintains life in the hours of darkness. The rooster organizes cohesion and unifies the chicken coop. The rooster dies fighting, the real rooster, that is. The rooster does not give up; it fights. But at the same time it is noble. When its opponent is defeated, it retires. It is difficult to find a symbol that speaks to all Bolivians—from Uyuni to Puerto Suárez. This is why we chose the rooster.

Bolivian Express talks to Nutritionist Veronica Cortez and Veterinarian Dr. Gina Muñoz Reyes to try and dispel some popular myths about chicken production, and find out what really goes into our food…

La Paz’s most loved feathered family.

'They are here on Thursdays and Fridays' was the first thing we were told. Then we got: 'No, they aren’t here today. They only work from the 1st to the 15th of every month'. Yet despite following these instructions, the family of chicken jugglers was nowhere to be found. A group of Argentinian jugglers suggested we might not find them in La Paz as 'sometimes they travel to Cochabamba'.

When we finally tracked them down, we found them juggling away in their chicken costumes in Zona Sur. This small family of three—Mario Mamani, Lucy Flores, and their daughter Iveth, who is 6—makes a living entertaining drivers while they wait for the traffic lights to turn green.

From rural egg to city chick

Mario was born in a rural area on the outskirts of La Paz. He moved to the city with his parents when he was only a few months old. His earliest memories are of him playing with the other kids in the neighbourhood. He smiles as he tells me how his 'best childhood memories are from when I was four or five years old'.

When he was eight, the joy of the city and of playing with his friends on the streets in La Paz came to an end. His parents decided to move back to the rural community where Mario was born. With none of his friends around Mario felt lonely. Communicating was also a challenge as people in that area only spoke Quechua.

At 13, he escaped his birthplace and moved in with his aunt and uncle in La Paz, after which he would only see his parents a couple of times a year. Despite his young age, living away from his parents didn’t bother him. 'My parents never did anything for me', he says. 'Our relationship was never that close.' Not that Mario’s upbringing was bad or strict, he explains, 'I was just always in love with the city'.

Living with his aunt, uncle and his two cousins brought its own complications. The five of them were crowded into a single room and the living conditions were poor. Taking on the role of Cinderella, Mario was constantly cleaning, cooking and waking up early to keep the house on its feet.

People from rural areas who moved to the city usually studied at night. Mario, however, went to school in the morning along with his city peers. It was better for him, he says, as morning classes were often more engaging because city people were typically more educated.

It was hard to get his homework done at his aunt and uncle’s house. Occasionally, Mario would go out and do his work on the streets, using the streetlights as his reading lamp. On other occasions, he had to give up doing his homework because of his chores. After leaving this home he attended military school for two years, where learned how to grow plants and vegetables. That was his last form of education.

He says he had to give up his dreams to move on with his life. 'The worst decision of my life was to give up studying' he says, 'I really wanted to be a teacher or an architect.'

Soon after settling back in La Paz, Mario started working with jugglers who dressed as zebras, much like the ones you’ll find on any of the main arteries of the city. It is here he met a man called Jimmy Angelo, who worked in theatre and inspired him to make it in the world of jugglers. Mario remembers him as a very kind man, someone who has remained in his mind as a positive and inspirational figure.

As a zebra, Mario gained more than just a good group of friends. It is here him and Lucy came together. The two of them met at a mutual friend’s party and started dating soon after. They later moved in a shared apartment and have been together ever since. They describe their bond as a very close one since the beginning because they were good at taking care of each other.

Leaving the Roost

Lucy, the hen and mother of the team, grew up in La Paz with her parents and seven siblings. Their house had two bedrooms, the father slept in one and left the rest of the family to cram into the other. 'No one wanted to sleep near my father. He was very violent.'

Lucy remembers how her father used to kick and abuse her mother. When I ask about Lucy’s siblings she starts getting very emotional. 'There used to be seven of us', she says, and pauses. Then her voice starts to break slightly. Her three brothers died from the vicious beatings of her father. 'But my mother was a lovely woman,' she says, and dries a tear from under her chicken mask.

Looking down at Ivett, Lucy wraps her arm around her daughter. Iveth slowly looks up with her big eyes while sipping juice from a carton. She seems capable of making everything alright with a single blink.

When her father died ten years ago, Lucy had to put an end to her studies in accounting. She still dreams of going back to university or working in childcare.

Hatching a Plan

'The happiest day of my life,' Mario says, 'was two years ago when I was juggling around Christmas time and a lot of people showed up with a TV crew'. He remembers receiving a lot of recognition and applause from people passing by. With all eyes on him, he never felt prouder or more appreciative of his work.

The idea of chicken juggling dates back to 2010. Most jugglers, he tells me, go straight from juggling school to the streets. Instead, Mario thought of an original idea and came up with the chicken costumes.

Initially the idea included juggling eggs, but this was quickly put aside as they had a tendency to break. Mario then moved to making his own eggs out of balloons filled with rice to build up the chicken illusion.

Another time, the family tried dinosaur costumes, but they were not as well received as the chicken attire.

The costumes, they tell me, are all homemade. The materials for all three chicken suits cost about Bs. 200 altogether. It doesn’t take an expert eye to realise they have been in constant use for quite some time. 'We made the costumes ourselves. They are a bit worn out, but we are working on new ones', he says, his face covered by a mask with a crooked beak and worn-down yellow feathers.

The costumes are made of brown fleece with yellow feathers sewn on, most of them far apart from one another, suggesting either that the feather supply was low at the time of the making of the costume, or that the wind and wear have done away with most of them.

Mario estimates that the family’s daily income as chicken jugglers is approximately Bs.150 on weekdays and Bs.200 on weekends. On an average day, the family wakes up at 8 am and then travels for a full 1,5 hours from Nueva San Pablo to Zona Sur. Once here, they often juggle until 6 or 7 pm.

Over the past years, Mario has tried to improve his juggling technique, moving from juggling three balls to four. 'I’m practicing with five and want to be able to handle six.'

Juggling Wars

With the influx of travelling jugglers from Argentina and Colombia, the number of them working at traffic lights has increased steadily. While this can be fun for pedestrians, the increased population density of street performers brings with it a very different story for the jugglers themselves. Mario, Lucy and Iveth have had their share of unpleasant encounters with other jugglers who fight over the more lucrative intersections.

A while ago, they got into an argument with a group of Argentinean and Colombian jugglers, who tried to claim the corner where the family was working. The scene quickly escalated into a fight involving the whole family. Even sweet little Iveth got a few hits from the aggressive jugglers.

Outraged, the family called the police who came and broke up the fight. Unfortunately it was not over yet. The Argentinean and Colombian jugglers returned with sticks that were lit on fire. In a bout of rage they set the family’s chicken costumes alight, putting their lives in danger.

The rivalry on the streets also means that the family operates on different spots. Having just about 5 places in the areas of Calacoto, Plaza Abaroa and San Miguel they try to avoid the ugly confrontations.

But despite the difficulties and occasional confrontations, almost four years on, these lovable chickens have earned their spot on the street, getting increasing recognition from pedestrians and drivers alike. They have even learned to juggle with 4 balls, upping their juggling rank among their peers.

But some rivalries never die, and continue to be fought using underhanded methods. Remembering what I was first told by the Argentinean street jugglers when I was trying to find the family, I ask Mario about the reason for their frequent visits to Cochabamba. Mario’s face hardens, as does his tone: ‘we never travel to Cochabamba'.