A first encounter with the work of Marcelo Suaznabar is equally fantastical and unsettling. At first, there is a visual delight in the surreal chaos of the image, as in El Macabro Paso del Tiempo, where angels playing instruments cavort with mermaids and naked women. However, the dark side of the carnival soon emerges from the vibrant scene. The clock, the focal point of the piece, reads: ‘el tiempo se acabo y ya nada podemos hacer’ (time’s up and there’s nothing you can do). An angel and a beast cling to the edge of the Earth, suspended above the unknown. We are, in fact, spectators of the Apocalypse, in which ‘The Lord will be revealed from Heaven with His mighty angels in flaming fire, dealing out retribution’ (Thessalonians 1:7-10)

Marcelo’s work consistently employs the traditional imagery of the apocalypse, drawing on the visual plenitude of both the Northern Renaissance and the barroco Andino which captivated him as a child in the churches of Potosi and Oruro, influences which are rejuvenated by a clear interested in the Surrealist movement of the early 20th century. However, this is not a purely aesthetic choice, or a mystical indulgence. The artist is always concerned to transpose this traditional imagery of damnation to shock people into an acknowledgement of the imminent collapse of a world devastated by industrialization and global warming, a state he describes as ‘condenación moderna’, or modern damnation. ‘We should think of our modern damnation as a mirror, which allows us to realize the general disorder of our endangered planet.’ Suaznabar’s apocalypse is purposive and didactic: ‘If we create a global collective consciousness… we could extend the existence of the world for future generations’

Empowered with this greater understanding of Marcelo’s agenda, the juxtaposition of Apocalypse and modernity appears everywhere in his paintings. Barcodes replace mouths. The centrepiece of Alegoria is hemmed in by vignettes showing factories, melting ice caps, and deforestation.

It is clear then that Marcelo’s work is moral, and allegorical. But the relationship of Surrealism and pragmatic politics has always been fraught and complex. This relationship is the subject of Andre Breton’s ‘What is Surrealism?’, which describes ‘A certain immediate ambiguity contained in the word surrealism... which, on the contrary, expresses a desire to deepen the foundations of the real, to bring about an even clearer and at the same time ever more passionate consciousness of the world perceived by the senses.’ Breton also claimed that the perfect Surrealist act would be to walk into a crowd and start shooting.

Marcelo himself alludes to the paradox of evoking the dream to deepen our understanding of an urgent political reality: ‘Personally, I am sceptical about politics. But what interests me is surrealism’s transmission of images of situations of discord, elevated to the dream-state, can generate a political discourse of protest.’ Marcelo and Breton both synthesize elements of the dream and elements of realism to force us to meditate deeply on our own reality and change the way in which we perceive it. However, while many early 20th century Surrealists jubilantly celebrated the end of civilization, for Suaznabar, in the 21st century, the real prospect of the end of civilization is much more distressing.

From C.S Lewis’s The Chronicles of Narnia through Cortázar’s Ajolotes, supernatural worlds are in abundance in literary works. But what makes a literary wonderland tick? If we take a look at British and Bolivian creations, what do we find underlying them all?

Alice goes down the rabbit hole and through the looking glass into a parallel world where all norms are discarded. Likewise in the Bolivian legend La Laguna Dorada de Corocoro (The Golden Lagoon of Corocoro), the reader is drawn into the depths of a lagoon and out the other side to the Ciudad del Encanto (Enchanted City), a metropolis made of gold and silver not meant for human sight. Like other literary worlds that only make themselves known to the lucky protagonist, be it Alice, the Pevensie family in Narnia, or the first-person narrator in Ajolotes, the Enchanted City rises from the depths once a year during the luna menguante. Those fortunate enough to see it fall in love with its beauty. Inevitably, by dangling marvelous, imaginary lands in front of the reader’s eyes, the story hints at the possibility of escaping the chains of reality and fuels the appeal of the other world.

The inhabitants of these worlds are familiar too. La Laguna Dorada de Corocoro gives us giants, who have built the Enchanted City. Ring any bells? Alice both shrinks and grows, not always of her own accord. She also has to deal with the blurring of human-animal forms. The Caterpillar is a visual paradox, a human encased in caterpillar-like exterior, and babies in the story have a tendency to turn into pigs. In the Bolivian legend El Bufeo (The Dolphin) a couple bathe together against the rules of their religion. They are punished by turning into human-fish hybrids, while in Ajolotes (Salamanders) the human protagonist moves imperceptibly from the outer-side of the fish tank to within an Axolotl fish itself.

Animals with human personalities and special powers roam free. I’m thinking of the Cheshire Cat now: He’s mischievous with a grin that gives him away, and he conjures up a good disappearing act— his head, body-less, hovering above the Queen of Heart’s croquet pitch— hovers in my own mind. The chinguero bird from the Bolivian Cuentos de Pájaros (Bird Stories), shares the Cheshire Cat’s gusto por el chisme, snooping around and antagonizing other characters by spilling their innermost secrets— the stuff of playground nightmares. Meanwhile, the duende juguetón, a playful spirit, has perfected dissolving into thin air over the many years this legend has been whispered.

Behind the vibrant stories we’ve already been introduced to is the key factor of mistaken identity. Look no further than the conejitos, in Cuentos del Conejo (Rabbit Stories), who disguise themselves to trick their predators, the foxes. Although we might rush to associate the White Rabbit with his infamous obsession with time, his confusing Alice for his maid drops him right in the centre of the identity question. He drives Alice to lose her sense of self: ‘I knew who I was when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then’.

It seems we have a series of transformations then: Real worlds to fictional worlds; growing and shrinking; human-animal conversion; appearances, disappearances; and identity makeovers. These transformations, just like the fictional wonderland that ignores all human limitations, appear to be ignorant of the boundaries between oral and written literature, the ancient and the modern, the Western and the South American. Or perhaps ‘boundaries’ is the wrong word. Maybe these supernatural worlds present us with a united human imagination, making any talk of boundaries just fuzzy stuff. Now who’s the one imagining things?

A short story about a boy from La Paz going to the Amazon for the first time

‘Bienvenido a Riberalta.’ That’s what the pilot had said over the muffled speakers. Now the flight attendant smiled at him in her tight baby-blue skirt, men in orange jackets waved at him as they guided him to the cement-covered awning some meters away, and children screamed it at him as they ran towards their loved ones.

Under the crowded awning, his La Paz jeans and button-up began to feel heavy. He reminded himself that this is what he wanted: To escape the ache in his bones from the cold. He smoothed back his sweaty hair. The ice cream man blew his horn, and Nacho began to walk through the chattering families, looking for the baggage claim in the small covered area. 

Soon, the humidity moistened his torso and arms, making them stick together. As he rolled up his flannel sleeves, he swatted a mosquito on his arm. People had warned him of the malaria and yellow fever in the jungle. A mother and her teenage daughter watched him swat the small insects and smiled at him as though reassuring him of his safety. Bienvenido a Riberalta, the mother and daughter said, with their smile.

Everything felt hot: The sun, the air, the warmth between families. It was as though the heat itself had melted the community together and energized the world into a land of plants bursting through the pavement and people laughing between the welcome hugs. 

Nacho continued to search for his luggage through the heat. Eventually, a policeman pointed him towards a fenced-off area. Confused, he advanced. A lady in heels and a pink silk shirt was the airport’s baggage claim. 

Bienvenido a Riberalta, she said as she chit-chatted and handed each person their luggage in exchange for a purple airport ticket. Nacho thanked the woman and began his search for a taxi outside.

The sun shone over the grassy fields that surrounded the airport. An assembly line of motorcycle taxi drivers called out to the paceño. Without thinking, Nacho handed off his backpack to a middle-aged moto-taxi driver. The man plopped the bag in front of him and attempted to balance the bike as Nacho fumbled his way on. On his left, Nacho noted a grinning Cristiano Ronaldo holding up a cup of Herbal Life on a billboard. He smiled up at his self-proclaimed twin, who welcomed him to the Amazon. Bienvenido a Riberalta.

The motor revved and wind began to cool the sweat in Nacho’s hair. The motorcycle eased forward on the dirt-smoothed roads and past lines of houses. Fruit trees peeked out from backyards and beckoned Nacho to try the fruit. Bienvenido a Riberalta. He breathed the humid air, sat up straight and smiled at the passing girls on motorcycles.

After dropping his backpack off at his hotel, Nacho walked a block towards downtown Riberalta. Four large busts, a toucan-shaped payphone, benches and teenagers in uniforms marked the perimetre of the plaza. Nacho thought back to his time in high school walking around the squares in La Paz with his friends. None of the teenagers here wore sweaters like he always wore over his uniform in La Paz, but they all mirrored the same flirtatious pokes he gave girls and the crowd he formed with friends around benches.

Across the street from the plaza, on every side, stood small restaurants and ice cream shops. Nacho slapped another fly away from his face and eventually made his way to the nearest restaurant: Açai Mania.

While waiting for his açai smoothie, Nacho looked out at the square. From his spot on the corner, he counted the number of times the same trio of teenagers rode their motorcycles around the square. Like in a carousel, the three rode side by side, singing along to music from an iPhone and chatting as they rode in circles. 

No one honked or cut each other off. People of all ages circled the centre of their city over and over. Old couples sat in comfort as they made their rounds. Small children snuggled between their parents and reached out to imaginary beings floating in the Amazonian wind. 

The waitress appeared with the drink and Nacho stirred the unfamiliar beverage as he watched people circle the plaza. He took a sip of the purple smoothie and thought, this is my country. Spend two hours on a plane and the outside world shifts from cement towers and alpaca sweaters to motorcycles circling a square and açai berry–stained teeth. 

He hummed the tune of La Paz… Lindas montañas te vieron nacer… He sipped the Amazonian fruit drink… El Illimani tu cuna meció… He watched the three boys ride next to each other… Y la kantuta su alma te dio… And eased into his warm chair on that hot day by the plaza… Kollita tenias que ser.
Bienvenido a Riberalta, he thought. Tomorrow, he will begin to explore the other side of his country.