As we explore Bolivia, we use words and labels to understand the people and landscapes we encounter. We use them as tools to quickly communicate ideas and experiences with people around us. Similarly, companies and organizations manufacture logos to visually represent what they are about; they use images, colors and symbols to transmit their brand essence in the blink of an eye. Even the food we buy increasingly comes with labels which summarize their contents, sources, nutritional benefits and prices. These representations speak to us, and provide instant information we use to make assumptions about who and what we are engaged with.
Social theorist Stuart Hall has written extensively on the idea of representation, which he defines in the simplest terms as ‘using language to say something meaningful about, or to represent, the world meaningfully, to other people.’ He also points out that when we identify people or things through language, we are exercising power.
In this process, culture is key. Labels do not stand alone. They are loaded with meanings defined as much by the intentions of those who create them, as by those who interpret them. And this is what makes them powerful.
In this issue of Bolivian Express, we take a look at the idea of ‘Labels’, and how they shape our understanding of how we see the world. We wrote about some of the labels we frequently see and hear about in Bolivia, and try to dig under the simplest definitions to gain a broader understanding of what they mean. We share stories behind the labels we see every day: who is identified by what labels? Who creates them, why and how? Our writers, acted on the belief that by not accepting labels at face value, we can gain a deeper and closer understanding of people and the forces that drive everyday life.
We wrote about some of the ways in which we label people to make a quick reference point – by calling someone a an orphan, an elderly person, a mother. We looked at stereotypes of being from the country and the city, and of being a gringo. And we dug below the labels that come at us every day, from corporate logos and food packaging to the destinations displayed on La Paz’s minibuses. These labels are all around us and in Bolivia, we found, they can have some very interesting and important origins and meanings.
The process of understanding our environment beyond labels can be difficult as we challenge prejudices and assumptions within ourselves. But it can also be fun to play with the novelty, to take these labels to extremes and see how absurd they can often be. But most importantly, the process can be enriching, as we offer ourselves an opportunity to see the people and the world around us in more complex, beautiful ways.
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Abandonment and Adoption in Bolivia
Alfredo is nine years old. He enjoys spending time with his friends, playing outside with his toys and wants to teach sport when he’s older. Three years ago, he was abandoned by his aunt and arrived at Fundación Arco Iris, an NGO whose mission is to fight the social exclusion of poor and homeless children in La Paz. But the orphans at the foundation never speak to each other about their pasts. It seems some things are best left alone.
According to UNICEF, nearly 10% of all children in Bolivia are orphans. Thousands of women choose to abort or abandon their children every year out of poverty, shame or fear. With abortions remaining illegal and expensive throughout Bolivia, often the choice to have the baby is a necessary – and much safer – evil. In spite of this cruel reality, most deserted children in Bolivia survive.
Caring for these children is of primary importance for organisations such as Arco Iris. Founded in 1994 by German priest Father Jose Maria Neuenhofer, the organisation is divided into three parts: social projects, which encompass a number of orphanages and rehabilitation schemes; productive units, including a bakery, artisanal and carpentry shops; and a hospital, one of the best-known free healthcare centres for minors in the region.
‘The intention has always been to work with the most vulnerable sectors of the population,’ says Jorge Toledo, a senior psychologist and the foundation’s Executive Director. ‘We work with children from dysfunctional families, victims of abandonment and sexual abuse, as well as those in extreme poverty and illegal labour.’
Infant abandonment in Bolivia can take many forms. Policemen who find an abandoned child rarely attempt to return the baby to its birth family; a trip to the orphanage is less futile. For Mr Toledo, the ever-increasing abandonment rate relates to a worldwide crisis of familial values. ‘Economic problems are one of the main things that jeopardise family unity and lead to desertion, but the sense of family as a whole is broken,’ he explains. ‘Many couples are incapable of having a discussion and arguments now lead to separation, with each parent thinking the child to be the responsibility of their partner.’
Even after settling into their foster homes, children like Alfredo often remain stigmatised for the rest of their lives. As Mr Toledo reveals, the reality for orphans is longstanding. ‘They are branded as people who are not responsible for their actions and who have no one to look after them. Many people mistreat them when they leave Arco Iris, exploiting their vulnerability.’
Learning of some of the cruelest experiences of abandonment quickly revealed the harsh realities of the life of an orphan. Mr Toledo tells me of babies left in rubbish tips and nylon bags. It was his next story, however, that I found most affecting. ‘A nine-year-old boy walked here all the way from Santa Cruz,’ he tells me. ‘His stepmother beat him with a hammer and made him eat rubbish. When his father, a policeman, found out, he said nothing. There is a hardness in the boy’s gaze unlike anything I have ever seen.’
Arco Iris is clearly much more than a foster home. Healing these psychological wounds is at the top of Mr Toledo’s agenda. ‘Many children come to us with a nihilistic view on life, without dreams or anyone whom they can call Mum or Dad,’ he says. ‘We try to give them a new lease of life and renew their sense of family.’
This process seems to be helping even the most damaged orphans. The young boy I learn about is now seventeen, and has gone from a state of feeling nothing to one of emotional discovery. ‘We are teaching him to laugh, cry and – above all – feel.’
In spite of the efforts of orphanages, the sense of family remains almost impossible to replicate outside of the birth home. For the children, it can be difficult to live with more than 100 “siblings”, and foster homes must deal with issues such as teenage pregnancy and underage sex. Infants at Arco Iris’ homes may be physically held on a daily basis, but parental love and belonging are hard to reproduce.
Furthermore, a lack of funding continues to threaten the existence of orphanages in Bolivia. Financial aid from the government has been stagnant and insufficient since the 1950s, but the number of orphans and the rate of inflation – which rose 14% in 2009 – keep growing.
To make matters worse, the Bolivian adoption culture is one of hope and frustration. In other countries, changes in its public perception have made adoption a viable way to start – or make – a family, but here there is still ground to be made. Finding families for orphans is a challenging feat, and many children's hopes at adoption are shattered by a flawed system.
Mr Toledo recognises the need for reform. ‘The adoption process lasts years,’ he explains. ‘We have children who come to us after having stayed at previous foster homes – they have lived a completely institutionalised life.’
International adoption was banned in Bolivia in 2002. Today, U.S. parents wishing to adopt here must first become legal residents, which lengthens the process drastically. Such was the case of the Wieseman family from Colorado, who recently made headlines for waiting over three years to bring their adopted HIV-positive daughter home. Visa issues and other obstacles have resulted in five times fewer US adoptions from Bolivia over the past decade.
For the lucky few who find a home abroad, adopted life is not as blissful as one might hope. Former Bolivian Express interns, Catey and Christof, both wrote personal articles mapping the search for their birth parents, admitting to feeling caught between their Bolivian and adopted identities – ‘a limbo of sorts’, as Catey put it.
For all 320,000 orphans to find homes with Bolivian families, one out of every 13 people aged 15 to 62 (who live above the poverty line) would have to adopt a child. With limited foreign adoptions and too few families in Bolivia to adopt, many orphans will never find a home.
Yet the children I meet at the foundation seem untouched by these issues. Shouts of ‘¡Mano! ¡Mano!’ ring through the playground and into the suburbs. A group football match on a pitch nearby follows my conversation with Alfredo. I realise that he is not an exception. All of the orphans here possess a zest for life unlike others of their age. Years of hardship and abandonment have left them with a unique vivacity. Families come in all forms, and surely these brothers form part of one.
Sowing the seeds of Bolivian fair trade
Amid smells of dust and car engines, the scent of chocolate is unmistakable. Here in the sprawling mess of El Alto stands El Ceibo, a chocolate factory that has been growing, processing and exporting Bolivian cacao beans for over three decades.
As a member of the Fair Trade Platform, El Ceibo forms part of a national initiative that groups eighteen farming associations to meet the needs of small producers in Bolivia. Today, it has more than 1,200 members and generates direct employment for over 100 people. For Hernan Siñani, Production Manager at El Ceibo, the objective of fair trade is clear. ‘We promote the products of farmers who own under three hectares of land,’ he explains. ‘In previous years, if you wanted to produce organically, the costs were too high; consumers were not willing to pay extra.’
After being carefully selected, the beans are fermented and dried on farmers’ plots and at El Ceibo’s facilities in Sapecho, Alto Beni. Regular visits from technical staff ensure that organic farming methods are observed at every stage of production. Despite the saturation of the fair-trade industry in South America, the factory’s processes remain unique. ‘We transport the beans in clean vehicles to avoid contamination, travelling across some of the world’s most dangerous roads,’ explains Mr Siñani. ‘They are then kept in a controlled environment to prolong their lifespan, something that isn’t possible in the humidity and temperature of the region of cultivation.’ Seeing no part of the bean as expendable, the factory dissects each one into shell, liquor, butter, paste, and cacao. All five of these products are certified as organic.
Cooperatives such as the Fair Trade Platform seek to secure more equitable revenues and better living conditions for their members in an attempt to revolutionise the grey market, or informal economy. More than 60% of the working population in Bolivia is involved in this sector; indigenous producers are paid little for their work, and remain excluded from any public initiative. Indeed, a lack of access to markets has kept 82% of rural Bolivians below the poverty line, according to a recent report by the United Nations.
El Ceibo remains, however, a modest piece in a larger puzzle. The rise of fair-trade coffee, clothing, charcoal and even gold in Bolivia marks a determined attempt to use eco-labelling as an indicator of the environmental and social responsibility of companies in an age of conscious consumption.
Yet the effectiveness of eco-labels is increasingly being called into question. On a corporate level, the risk of ‘greenwashing’ (deceptively using marketing to present an environmentally responsible image) is becoming dangerously high. Indeed, the Rainforest Alliance was recently criticised for certifying products that contained only 30% fair-trade ingredients, damaging the credibility of the eco-label. As a result, a number of companies have begun to establish their own certification schemes. Educating producers about the objective of fair trade has been an ongoing challenge for its promoters; El Ceibo’s long-term emphasis on community sustainability goes against many farmers’ cash-in-hand reflexes. On a consumer level, the sheer quantity of labels has diminished their role as an accessible information tool.
For manufacturers such as El Ceibo, cost-efficiency poses the greatest threat. ‘The price of fair-trade cocoa is no more than $4000 per metric ton,’ reveals Mr Siñani, ‘but we pay $4800 with transport costs. It’s not worth it at the moment.’ With strict criteria and fair trade certifications each costing over $9000, it’s easy to see why.
The foreign market has further complicated the situation. ‘85-90% of our products used to be exported, but now the emphasis on the domestic market and internal investment means that only 15% of our products are sold abroad,’ Mr Siñani points out. Increasingly accessible contraband means that working with high-quality raw materials is no longer a requisite for a company’s success. ‘There are synthetic chocolates out there that can be sold very cheaply, and our clients cannot see the difference; for them, it’s just a chocolate.’
The future of fair trade is not as bleak as it may seem, however. The Platform is still young, and has yet to transform its general objectives for fair trade into clear-cut proposals with which to address the government. By learning from the work carried out in neighbouring countries with government agencies dedicated to fair trade, including Brazil and Ecuador, Bolivia’s domestic lobby is gathering pace. Change at the top is needed, and Mr Siñani is confident that this will come. ‘The factory is named after the folkloric Ceibo tree, known for its regenerating qualities. In spite of adversity, we will always come back to life.’
The vegan restaurant Red Monkey, in La Paz’s San Miguel neighbourhood, has started offering mothers a free cup of tea as they breastfeed in the restaurant. The offer is meant to celebrate International Breastfeeding Week (from the 1st - 7th August) and has been praised in various newspapers in Bolivia as well as on social media.
Katherine Ascarrunz, who is the leader of Liga de la Leche Materna, an international NGO dedicated to supporting new mothers, is in full support of the restaurant’s move, explaining, ‘When a mother goes out with her child, she feels that there is not a comfortable space to breastfeed. [This offer] is a great support,’ she says.
In the UK, women are made to feel uncomfortable when breastfeeding in public due to unnecessary comments or stares from people around them. Some private venues explicitly prohibit breastfeeding altogether.
Although in rural Bolivia, breastfeeding in public is the unquestioned norm, mothers in urban environments here experience similar pressures to those felt by mothers in the UK. Some women from Liga de la Leche say it’s rare for anyone to make a comment while a Bolivian woman is breastfeeding in the city, but mothers are often made uncomfortable by harsh stares and whispering.
The social stigma surrounding public breastfeeding is apparently becoming more common. As is the case in most countries, a woman’s breasts are widely accepted as sexual objects of consumption in advertising, but publicly unacceptable when they are used for their natural purpose. As Katherine points out, ‘People are shocked when they see a mother breastfeeding but not when a woman has lots of cleavage.’
Unfortunately, the subject is part of a larger issue, that of a woman’s ability to decide what to do with her body without being judged, isolated or controlled.
