Every Thursday and Sunday, countless shoppers flood the Feria 16 de Julio in El Alto. It can appear that every resident of both El Alto and La Paz come to this single neighborhood, where just about anything under the sun is available for the right price. One can easily be overwhelmed by the mass movements of people, the ebb and flow of shoppers washing the streets with the kinetic energy of commerce.
On a recent trip to this market, I was easily taken over by this flood, bumping shoulders with merchants and shoppers alike as we squeezed down the neighborhood’s narrowest streets. The movement seemed chaotic and more than a little claustrophobic, and in short time I sought respite from the clutter among the ridge above the autopista, the ribbon of road that delivers cars, cabs and minibuses from La Paz up to El Alto.
Below me spread central La Paz. To my right the bright sun ascended towards its zenith, casting a blanket of golden warmth across the city. From this distance, the city seemed calm, serene. Despite the many cracks and crags wrinkling and pocking the face of this metropolis, and the traffic jams and roadblocks I knew were occurring below, it all seemed almost organized.
Bolivia is a complex place, with a diverse collection of environments, from the urban clutter of high-altitude La Paz and El Alto to the most remote and wild lowlands of the Amazon Basin. But what does this diversity mean for individual people in Bolivia? What does this place mean for the backpacker in La Paz lugging her heavy rucksack to her hostel after descending from the bus terminal? For a city resident looking for a rural escape from the urban grind? For the new lovers looking to a plaza for a moment of ‘privacy’? For the llama herder on La Cumbre, who collects the last of his flock and looks upward at the blanket of stars shining above him?
In this issue of Bolivian Express, we set out to explore not so much different ‘places’ in Bolivia, but to dig deeper and to view Bolivia through ‘spaces’. That is, to highlight the diversity of place here, we wanted to go deeper than the descriptive. We set out to take a look at the environments in which Bolivians (and foreigners) navigate their work, their play, their day-to-day life, and how they create and interact with those spaces, consciously and subconsciously. Beyond explanatory descriptions of locations and scenarios, we set out to highlight the relationships between people and the places in which they exist.
In our explorations, we discovered spaces here beyond the physical. We realized that the places around us contain spaces for the cultural, the political, the spiritual, the metaphysical – sometimes all at once.
As I stood at the edge of crowded market day in El Alto and stared down at the irregular patchwork of La Paz’s streets, I gained a sense of the complexity of space here. Each one of the millions of people here are tasked with navigating their way through the places around them – to engage with their environment, to respond to it, to make it their own.
These are the stories we set out to tell.
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Will a new, 30-story government palace make room for Bolivia’s citizens?
Inspired by the Tiwanaku, an ancient Andean civilization, Bolivian architects loaded the building’s design with cultural symbolism. A virtual tour of the building, available via La Razón, shows Mount Illimani and coca-leaf-themed rooms. Even the rooftop helicopter pad synthesizes the union of the three Andean worlds, the Alaxpacha, the Akapacha and the Manqhapacha – the world above, the world we live on and the world below, respectively.
In news reports, Morales has said the current palace of government, built between 1845 and 1852, is ‘full of European symbols and feels as small as a mouse hole.’ It was inspired by the palaces of the Roman Renaissance, and, despite having twice fallen victim to arsonists, remains elegant inside and out. With three floors and less than 6,000 square meters, it is about one-fifth the size of the forthcoming palace, which boasts 30 stories and over 30,000 square meters.
The Bolivian government does not just want to build a skyscraper for an episode of Home Makeover: Edición El Estado Multinacional de Bolivia. In simple terms, the Morales administration believes the building will make for more democratic governance, with the authorisation law vaguely stating that it will be ‘open and the property of the Bolivian people.’
In practical terms, Gómez says, ‘The Great House of the People will provide the physical and technical conditions, as well as the equipment required, for the active and ongoing participation of Bolivians in the design of public policies. The new infrastructure possesses rooms for social coordination…[which are] complemented by furnished offices, video conference rooms, internet and all of the conditions for the work of social organisations.’
As for events, Gómez says, ‘[The building] will hold meetings with social organisations, social events of an official nature, official presentations, ancestral and inter-religious ceremonies, cultural presentations, high-level governmental meetings and other recurring official meetings.’
Of course the new palace has its detractors. Some criticise the project for siphoning resources from underfunded programs. La Paz’s Mayor Luis Revilla has cited concerns about added traffic, building code violations and illegal construction practices. In a more profound sense, architect Carlos Villagómez told Pagina Siete, ‘The essence of architecture is not the result of a simple decoration or dressing,’ and has called it a conceptual absurdity to try to reflect the three existential levels of the Andean world in a building.
The government estimates the project will cost over 252 million bolivianos, or more than US$36 million. If, as the Morales administration says, it can give Bolivians better access to government, the investment has priceless potential. However, if the building is rarely open to the public, it will be criticised as a lavish clubhouse for politicians.
The Great House of the People is already faltering on one promise: originally touted for completion in January 2016, that date has been delayed by a year. Although the building site is still just a gaping hole, it aims to provide a democratic meeting place for all Bolivians by early 2017.
Adventures in scaling La Paz’s natural skyscrapers
It’s a beautiful day in Aranjuez, a valley framed by high-reaching mountains that slope down into a patchwork of winding roads and dusty settlements. As I look around, I see only the slightest hints of the bustling, urban city just a few miles away. Unlike central La Paz, Aranjuez is a natural haven of calm and quiet.
A shout cuts through the air, banishing all sense of rural tranquility: ‘Push! Push with your legs!’ I am three-quarters up one of Aranjuez’s rock-faces, clinging on with a grimace. On the ground below me is Daniel Aramayo (“Dani” to his fellow climbers), who has yet to be impressed by my handling of a route he deems ‘very easy’.
Aranjuez is a popular spot for both local and foreign climbers. Thanks to the work of Dani and others like him, the rock I’m awkwardly hanging off of is studded with pitons – small metal grips which allow for a rope to be threaded through and attached to the climber, protecting them from falling. Using these fixtures in the rocks is known as sport climbing, unlike the rope-free, harness-free bouldering, which I had earlier witnessed when Dani effortlessly propelled himself up the rock-face to attach the rope that is now around my waist.
A few metres from the top of the rock, I will my legs to produce some kind of upward momentum. I glance down at a trembling left ankle and it seems clear that both lower limbs are attempting to declare independence from the rest of my body. They are uncooperative, a lifetime of moving horizontally has clearly made them complacent.
My legs’ rebellion gives me time to reflect wistfully on how, when researching sports accommodated by the mountains around the capital, I might have chosen a slightly softer option. Dani tells me that a little more than an hour away from the city there are ideal hiking routes, as well paragliding spots, such as in the Huajchilla area. He also mentions mountain biking, although apart from the vertiginous Death Road route popular with tourists, it seems that mountain biking is not hugely popular amongst Bolivians either.
Eventually I admit defeat, after failing to reach the top. No one in my party is impressed. They all maintain that a short break was all I would have needed to regain my strength. When I touch down on the ground, even the rock face seems to be regarding me particularly stonily. Despite my failure – and a continued conviction that a break is not a break if it has to be taken twenty feet off the ground – I can doubtless see the appeal of the sport.
Speaking to Dani, I learn more about what Bolivia’s rocks have to offer. Apart from the health benefits and long-lasting friendships of the sport, ‘it gives you the opportunity to be here outside, to be in contact with nature,’ he tells me. ‘I think it’s a privilege greater than the sport or the place, the type of life I have. One that has permitted me to do this – to climb.’
The majority of the climbers we meet in Aranjuez are foreigners. Perhaps, like me, many Bolivians have too strong a love affair with the ground to embrace the sport. Or maybe they are unable to purchase the equipment, which will last for many years but is expensive compared to that of sports like football. I suspect many Bolivians have never even considered climbing or simply wouldn’t know how to get involved.
Dani is one of the creators of BLOQUEando, a yearly climbing event that has been running since 2007. This year, it will take place in late October and early November. The event will bring Bolivian and foreign climbers together for three days of climbing-based activities in the Chalkupunku valley, 220km away from La Paz. Last year, 170 people attended BLOQUEando. A similar number of climbers, from the sport’s small but loyal following, is expected this year.
Looking around at the stunning landscape of Aranjuez, I think of the daily bustle and crowds of life in La Paz, and I’m surprised that more Bolivians don’t come out here; not just for the diversion of climbing, but also for the quiet refuge of the mountains.
Concrete poetry and the power of the visual in verse
Bolivian blogger, journalist and poet Paola Senseve uses space to make her readers question the nature of poetry. Using a form called ‘concrete poetry’, Senseve combines the verbal and the visual on the page, using poetry and contemporary art to achieve what she calls ‘a poetry that has no limits’.
‘The space becomes a resource with which one must interact,’ she explains. ‘It is part of the metaphor, part of the content. I am interested in blurring the boundaries between poetry and other arts, basically because poetry is everywhere and is inherent in all artistic expressions.’ Her poems are as much an exercise in graphic design as they are literary compositions. Senseve has certainly achieved something visually striking and thought provoking in her works.
Concrete poetry has deep South American roots. It was developed in the 1950s by Brazilian poets Augusto and Haroldo de Campos and Eugen Gomringer, from Bolivia, who is often hailed as the father of the movement.
Gomringer was born in Cachuela Esperanza, a tiny village in northern Bolivia, and has spent much of his life as an arts professor in Düsseldorf, Germany. In his work, the layout of the poem is as important as the text itself. One of his pieces illustrates the relationship between sound and silence by embracing the absence of text, where blank spaces between words convey silence more effectively than words that must be read or spoken aloud.
Gomringer has spent little time in Bolivia. Although he is not well known here, he is a prominent influence in Senseve’s work and in the works of other concrete poets around the world. But the forms of this poetry are quickly changing. In a world of JPEGs and Photoshop, the style has become more varied, technical and visually striking than ever before.
