When water was worth fighting for

In the year 2000, the streets of Cochabamba were turned into a battleground, as the city’s residents protested against the privatisation of their water supply, and met with brutal opposition from armed police. This demonstration of people power and the shocking realisation that everything, even the water we drink, is for sale, has inspired a whole host of cultural references to the events in Cochabamba.

After a scene involving a dramatic plane crash and last-minute parachute opening, James Bond scrambles over a few rocks in the Bolivian desert and discovers a dam. And it is then that the spy suddenly realises what is going on, why the villain of Quantum of Solace is supporting a military coup by a character cast as the stereotypical Latin American dictator. ‘[He] isn’t after oil. He wants the water. He’s creating a drought.’

It sounds like your typical far-fetched action film plot. But there is more than a grain of truth in this whole story, and it is not just pure fiction that, as stated in the film, ‘there are people in this country spending half of their paycheck just to get clean water’. It only takes the smallest amount of research into the events of 2000 in Cochabamba to realise that water is and was a commodity like any other, to be bought, sold and traded.

Yet as Daniel, the troublemaking protester in 2010 film También la lluvia declares, ‘Sin agua no hay vida’ (‘without water, there is no life’). And perhaps this is why what happened in Cochabamba has captured the attention of the world, not to mention the dozens of films and documentaries made since that have drawn on this case of corporate greed and overwhelming people power to make statements about the state of our global society.

Jim Shultz, who is a long-term resident of Cochabamba and director of the Democracy Center, an organisation that uses investigative journalism and international campaigns to raise awareness about the impact of public decisions on our lives, has written about the water wars in his book We are Everywhere. He explains that the privatisation of the water was simply the latest in the series of instances of services and utilities being sold off to foreign corporations. Yet this time, there was one key difference: ‘Water was something essential to life… People knew that if they lost control of their water they lost control of their lives’.

The iconic slogan adopted by the protestors was straightforward and to the point: ‘¡El agua es nuestra, carajo!’ (‘The water is ours, damn it!’). For it wasn’t just that Bechtel had bought the right to supply Cochabamba’s water officially: as recounted in the chapter on the water wars in Benjamin Dangl’s The Price of Fire (AK Press, 2007); Water Law 2029, which allowed for the privatisation of water supplies, ‘also prohibited the function of alternative systems of water distribution… People were billed for everything from the water piped into their houses, to water collected in rain gutters, to the water in community wells’.

In a dramatic scene in También la lluvia, Daniel demands the crowd to ask themselves ‘what will they take next? The vapour from our breath? The sweat from our bodies’. An angry crowd of women confronts the workmen and their police escort, who have come to block off their well: ‘You take our lands, you take our wells. Are you even going to take the air from us?’. As Canadian author Maude Barlow, who has served as Senior Advisor on Water to the UN, describes in 2003 documentary The Corporation, ‘There are those that intend that one day everything will be owned by somebody… human rights, human services, essential services for life. Education, public health… water and air’.

This concept of ownership of basic resources was utterly alien to the cochabambinos, many of whom believed that water was a gift from the Pachamama: a precious commodity, certainly, but not one that could be bought and sold. And in the context of this belief, the statements by Bechtel and the World Bank that charging market prices for water discourages waste (a key policy in an area like Cochabamba which is prone to shortages) seems utterly ridiculous. As Elaine Bernard asks in The Corporation, ‘Why does [something] only become wealth when some entity puts a fence around it and declares it private property?’. In Quantum of Solace, we see that water can be as important and as profitable as oil or gold, once it is scarce enough. That might seem far-fetched or excessive, but the Cochabambinos’ willingness to put their lives on their lines for it is surely proof enough of its value.

For a brief period, Cochabamba became the focus of world attention, as this standoff between David and Goliath was played out amidst a growing realisation that the Bolivian government was far more interested in defending its investors than its own citizens. Oscar Olivera, one of the figureheads of the Cochabamba protests, says that ‘the only legitimate authority was the people… they made the decisions… we were able to taste democracy’. It may seem hyperbolic to talk of an affinity between corporations and the ‘regimented structures of fascist regimes’ as The Corporation does, but in a situation where the government declared martial law and sent in troops to fire on teenagers, it is hard to come to any other conclusion. And as Shultz says, many of those who went out onto the streets to protest were facing ‘people knew they were in a standoff with a guy who’d been Bolivia’s Pinochet… people were going out to the streets who’d had their brothers disappeared… people who had been tortured’. This was not just a case of a few people getting annoyed about paying a little more for a service. 

In the words of Noam Chomsky, ‘Privatisation does not mean you take a public institution and give it to some nice person. It means you take a public institution and give it to an unaccohttp://www.bolivianexpress.org/refinery/blog/posts/newuntable tyranny’. When the World Bank pressured the Bolivian government to privatise its water supplies and Bechtel arrived in Cochabamba, this was exactly what happened: a multinational corporation prepared to make profits whilst the poorest residents of the city struggled to decide between paying their bills and buying food or clothes, or sending their children to schools. It is no wonder that the situation inspired such a dramatic reaction, in Bolivia and across the world.

The people of Cochabamba succeeded in throwing out their invaders, and as the Democracy Center found in a recent investigation, they are proud of having saved their water system, even if they do accept that it is still corrupt and fraught with problems. As Olivera says, they proved that ‘the power of the people cannot be underestimated’. And yet this one victory cannot stem the global tide of privatisation, and the exploitation that inevitably comes with it. As También la lluvia demonstrates, the indigenous people of South America were sold for profits and private interests more than 500 years ago. Bolivia is incredibly rich in natural resources, and yet somehow its people have never gained anything from the fabulous wealth that lies in their land: you only need look at Potosí, from whose Cerro Rico it is claimed the Spanish extracted enough silver to build a bridge back to Europe (and have some left to carry over it), a city that is now amongst the poorest in South America, populated by miners who work in abysmal conditions scraping at what little metal is left under the collapsing surface of the hill.

However, if the water wars prove anything, it is that ordinary citizens do have the power to take control of their lives. Shultz describes the events of 2000 in Cochabamba as ‘revolutionary’: people’s concept of politics, how they thought about who ran their lives, was irrevocably changed. No-one is saying that the current system is perfect, and Cochabamba’s water supply is as unreliable as ever. But the difference is one of attitude: the cochabambinos faced down a multinational corporation, an ex-dictator and the military, and proved their power. To themselves and to the world. 

Key Events of the Water War

1967 – Washington-based Inter-American Development Bank grants a $14 million water development loan to Cochabamba. One of the requirements is the creation of SEMAPA (the Servicio Municipal de Agua Potable y Alcantarillado).
February 1996 – The World Bank offers an urgent $14 million loan to expand water service in Cochabamba, on the condition that SEMAPA is privatised.

June 1997 – It is decided that $600 million of foreign debt relief is also dependent on the privatisation of Cochabamba’s water.
September 1999 – Cochabamba’s water system is put up for private auction. One company comes forward: Aguas de Tunari, a subsidiary of San Francisco-based Bechtel. The 214-page contract signed with Bolivian officials hands over control of the city’s water for forty years, with an average guaranteed profit of 16% a year.

October 1999 – The Bolivian Parliament passes Law 2029 (Drinking Water and Sanitation), which allows for the privatisation of drinking water and sewage disposal services.
November 1999 – The Federation of Irrigators stages a one day blockade of the roads leading to and from Cochabamba, in protest against the water privatisation. They meet with Oscar Olivera, president of the Cochabamba Federation of Factory Workers, and together form the Coalition for the Defence of Water and Life (the Coordinadora).

11th January 2000 – In response to average rate increases of more than 50%, the Coordinadora launches a full blockade of the city.
4th February 2000 – A peaceful rally is planned for lunchtime. Regional governor Hugo Galindo declares this illegal, and more than one thousand armed police are sent to occupy the city centre. Violent confrontations rage across the city for two days, with riot police armed with tear gas facing protesters with stones and slingshots. More than 175 people are wounded, including two blinded by tear gas.

22nd March 2000 – An unofficial referendum is organised by the Coordinadora. 96% of 50,000 voters are opposed to Aguas del Tunari and the privatisation of their water.
6th April 2000 – Oscar Olivera and his Coordinadora colleagues agree to meet government officials to discuss the situation. They are arrested and released in the early hours of the morning.

7th April 2000 – 10000 people gather in Cochabamba’s main square. Galindo recommends that the water contract be cancelled, and informs Archbishop Solari, who tells Olivera. The celebrations are cut short when Bechtel’s representatives refuse to confirm their departure. Galindo resigns at midnight, declaring that he does not want to be responsible for a ‘blood bath’.
8th April 2000 – A ‘state of siege’ (a situation similar to martial law) is declared by President Hugo Banzer. It allows for arbitrary arrests and detention, as well as imposing a curfew and travel restrictions. A 17-year-old bystander, Victor Hugo Daza, is shot dead by a captain of the Bolivian Army.

10th April 2000 – The Bolivian government signs an agreement with Oscar Olivera handing control of Cochabamba’s water over to the Coordinadora. Bechtel officials had fled the country.
November 2001 – Aguas del Tunari makes an application to the International Centre for Settlement of Investment Disputes (an arbitration body created by the World Bank), claiming that the revocation of its contract in Cochabamba was a violation of a bilateral trade agreement.

25th February 2000 – Aguas del Tunari and Bechtel seek $25 million in damages for breach of its contract.
24th April 2002 – Oscar Olivera accepts the Goldman Environmental Prize Award.
August 2003 – More than 300 organisations from 43 countries send an International Citizens Petition demanding that the Bechtel v. Bolivia case be transparent and open to citizen participation. It is rejected.
19th January 2006 – Bechtel and Abengoa, the main shareholders in Aguas del Tunari, agree to drop their ICSID case against Bolivia for a token payment of 2 Bs.

If you walk around Plaza Murillo in the centre of La Paz, you will probably be struck by two things: the number of pigeons that inhabit the plaza and the presence of army officers clad in scarlet uniforms at the corner of the square, guarding the Presidential Palace. These are Los Colorados de Bolivia and they are one of the most prestigious and iconic units of the Bolivian military. In their distinctive red uniforms, they immediately stand out from any other army officer you might come across in La Paz.

Since they are guarding the Presidential Palace, Los Colorados might strike you as a Bolivian version of the English Beefeater, an image reinforced by the ceremonial nature of their daily lowering of the flags, complete with barked orders, marching and a trumpet sound in the background.

But Los Colorados de Bolivia have a rich history of their own that is hardly expressed in these ritualistic performances. The Museum of Los Colorados appears to receive only a handful of visitors every day, but it colours their story as one rich in historical significance. According to Lieutenant. Luis Fernando Ester Zabala (one of Los Colorados to show us around their museum) the red ceremonial uniforms worn represent: “the blood of the enemy and the blood we’ve spilt”.

Los Colorados de Bolivia take their origins from before the birth of Bolivia itself. They played a role as a guerrilla group in the Wars for Independence under the leadership of Bolivian hero José Miguel García Lanza. But the most important episode in their history occurs following the Wars for Independence, once they had been formally incorporated as a constituent unit of the Bolivian Army.

Following their heroic display of both military achievement and self-sacrifice at La Batalla del Alto de la Alianza (known as the Battle of Tacna in English), a military effort which forced three separate Chilean retreats and saw only 293 Colorados out of 1,000 left alive, their name and image have become synonymous with the Bolivian sense of yearning towards the sea. Despite their effort and sacrifice, La Batalla del Alto de la Alianza was a decisive defeat for Bolivia, forcing them to militarily withdraw from the conflict. Henceforth Bolivia became a landlocked nation, with this defeat causing the loss of the Litoral Province and culminating in the Chilean occupation of Lima.

The story that has solidified their place in Bolivian history is set against the backdrop of the War of the Pacific and the Bolivian claim to the Litoral Province and the sea. Their notoriety is borne out of this historical context which has elevated them to the status of heroes in Bolivian history, granting them the prestigious honour becoming the acting Presidential Guard.

Given that Bolivia lost this battle and ultimately the War of the Pacific, this may not seem like an episode worthy of commemoration, yet this is precisely the reason the figure of the Colorados is so romantic to this day—they evoke patriotism but also the specter of loss.

till, Los Colorados continue to exemplify bravery and military prowess: outnumbered by the Chileans forces in number and artillery, they fearlessly fought and defeated three battalions despite suffering heavy losses. As well as marking the military highpoint of the war, the Colorados became immortalised by their self sacrifice.

In 2004 President Carlos Mesa declared all those who had taken part in the Battle of Tacna as National Heroes of Bolivia. And it was this moment in history which President Mesa chose to commemorate, rather than Los Colorados’ clear and decisive military success at the Battle of Cañada Strongest in the Chaco War—roughly 50 years later.

The regimental motto of Los Colorados stands as “Subordinación y Constancia, ¡Viva Bolivia, hacia el Mar!”—which in English translates to: “Subordination and Steadfastness. Long Live Bolivia, towards the Sea!”. And thus, what underpins the Bolivian pride towards Los Colorados becomes apparent: they serve as a constant reminder of Bolivia’s lost coastline and of the ongoing efforts the country has since undertaken to regain access to the sea.

Los Colorados have not just won their place in history on the battlefield; many of them have also carried out their public duty within the higher echelons of Bolivian politics, with several of their leaders going on to occupy high office, including presidents José Ballivián, Hilarión Daza, and Mariano Melgarejo.

The Bolivian Day of the Sea is commemorated on the 23rd of March. On this day, the Colorados take centre stage, parading and clamouring the Bolivian claim to the sea. During such events their significance is no longer just military, but cultural and symbolic, serving to remind Bolivians of a painful and heroic historical episode. Whether standing in front of the Government Palace or marching to solemn sounds produced by a military band, their displays of courage and sacrifice in the War of the Pacific, and their continued role in safeguarding the Head of State, have guaranteed them a place in Bolivian history. For centuries to come they are sure to remain the pride of the Bolivian military and people. 

Zattaro is an organisation that works with small rural communities to create sustainable development opportunities through fashion products. Bolivian Express visits the women behind an initiative which aims to export shoes from the Bolivian highlands for the rest of the world.

It doesn’t really look like a workshop. We clamber out of the minibus onto a deserted street (well, deserted except for the flock of sheep being driven down the road) and Amelia, our guide and vice-president of the association we have come to visit, points out Huayna Potosí, its snow-capped peak glistening in the distance. We pass a few women sat knitting and eating stew and potatoes on the street corner, squeeze through a gate and are ushered into what looks, from the outside at least, rather like a garden shed.

Yet it is here, in this and other equally unlikely-looking locations on the outskirts of El Alto, that some remarkable things are being made. Lovely flower-shaped hair slides, outlandish hats and quirky jester-style slippers (complete with curly toes and bells): the shelves are piled high with these and even more interesting creations, whilst the walls are covered in what might be simple drawings, but could equally be designs for new products. What unites all of these objects? They are all crafted out of felt, and all are entirely handmade, from local wool that the compañeras, as they call one another, dye and then mould themselves.

The most recent addition to their repertoire makes its presence felt in the form of rows of wooden moulds lined up on a workbench: pairs of disembodied feet in a whole range of sizes. These are the result, Amelia explains, of almost two years of trial and error and revising of designs. Working with Zattaro, a La Paz-based organisation, the women have been developing a design for a shoe that they are hoping will win a market amongst the fashionistas of the USA, and even further afield.

If there is one remarkable thing about the women that make the Zattaro shoes, it is this: their ordinariness. They don’t consider themselves to be master craftswomen or even particularly talented, and when I ask Amelia how they learnt to make felt in the first place, she explains that it was thanks to the time and patience of a couple of visiting German missionaries. ‘It was so hard’, she says, ‘I couldn’t get the hang of it for ages, and I nearly gave up a few times, but eventually I got it, after three months’. She then went on to teach her friends, who helped one another: there are currently ten women in their village association, but they and Zattaro hope that by continuing to teach and share their skills, they can reach as many as two or three hundred.

The contrast between the conditions in which these women work and the quality of what they produce is also astounding. They explain that in a workshop like this one, two women can work at the same time: it would be nice to have more company and to make the whole process more sociable, but they simply don’t have the space. Doña Julia, another of the compañeras, says that she has no real space at all: ‘I just do mine on the street’. And of course, time spent on crafts has to be fitted around the tasks of their daily life: looking after their children, cleaning, cooking. It’s no wonder that the question of how long it takes to make a shoe is met with the simple response, ‘It depends’.
And yet despite the many obstacles facing these women, they are resolutely cheerful and optimistic about the future. Part of this is no doubt down to their partnership with Zattaro: the promise of a steady stream of orders and the opportunity to reach a wider market is obviously extremely important, since until now they have been selling what they can where they can, in the odd craft fair or a Fairtrade shop in La Paz, as well as to the occasional visitor. Marcelo Pereira, co-founder of Zattaro, describes his plan to develop the women’s system of working, training some of them to be supervisors and thus creating a career path and means of progression. He is also keen to support the education of the women’s children, and they all agree on the importance of this: they want brighter futures and more opportunities for their children than they themselves had.

However, although there are obvious financial benefits for these women in their involvement with the felt-making and the Zattaro shoe project, it is important not to forget the social aspect to their work. They explain that they work on all of the designs together, trying out new things and sharing ideas, and it has been Amelia who has focussed on the development of the shoes. Once an order comes in, they work together to complete it, using their different talents and strengths. Amelia describes their relationship as being ‘like a married couple. We sometimes argue, but then we make up and we’re all friends again’. And as they joke around, giggle at one another’s comments and take photographs of us wearing their hats, I realise that their ‘marriage’ has clearly been a very happy one so far: just as well, because if things work out with Zattaro, they’re going to have an awful lot of felt to mould and shoes to make.