A Visual Introduction to The Indigenous Craft Art of Bolivia

The smell of freshly baked salteñas drifting through the plazas in the morning, the taste of the impressively spicy llawja drizzled over lunch, the sound of the same few endlessly played reggaeton tunes blaring from nightclubs – arriving in Bolivia is a veritable assault on the senses.

Yet what impressed me most of all were the sights. I’m not referring in particular to the natural beauty of the setting sun reflecting in the still water of Lake Titicaca, or even to the world-famous gleaming-white salt flats. No, it was the man-made sights that made the greatest impression on me. The tejidos sold by women in la Feria de El Alto contained an infinite variety of patterns, the meanings of which were incomprehensible to me. When in Potosí, I attended a street festival, where the vibrant, almost startling máscaras worn by participants were hard to forget. I set out to discover more.

They contained an infinite variety of patterns, the meanings of which were incomprehensible to me.

Back in La Paz, I sought out mask maker Andres Pari. Perched on wooden stools in his small workshop, half-finished masks staring menacingly down at us, Andres told me his story. Orphaned as a child, he earned a living learning his trade, working with different maestros, ‘So that is how I learnt, little by little, like in school,’ he says with a twinkle in his eye. A world away from my own schooling in England, the comparison seems incongruous. Yet I am beginning to discover that mask making is a trade, a skill to be learnt like any other.

Pari works predominantly with tin, using a mould to shape the material before marking it and cutting it down to size. Afterwards comes the colour: ‘First we paint the inside in white and after we use the colours,’ Pari says. ‘That's how we do it. Others don't want it painted. It's up to the client.’

The festive use of masks in Bolivia dates back to pre hispanic times and differs greatly from the quotidian function of pre-colombian textiles. I went to Sucre to visit the Museum of Indigenous Art run by ASUR (Anthropologists of the Southern Andes). There, I spoke to Mercedes Renjel about textiles from the Quechuan communities of Tinguipaya, Jalq´a and Tarabuco.

The birds, stars and suns which dominate the textiles from Tinguipaya, north of Potosí, represent the world above, or janaq pacha. In contrast, the textiles of the Jalq'a community, northwest of Sucre, are populated by unknown, savage animals and demonic deities called supays or saqras. These chaotic designs represent the depths of the interior world, or the ukhu pacha. Those made in Tarabuco, southeast of Sucre, depict the day-to-day life of inhabitants. ‘You can see their daily life as well as their dances, rituals, games, work, farmland and animals,’ explains Renjel.

The work of tejedores and mascareros may be unlike in many respects, but some comparisons can be drawn. Among the masks worn in the dance of the diablada, we encounter the ángel and the diablo, representatives of janaq pacha and ukhu pacha, respectively. These masks evoke figures not largely dissimilar from those seen embroidered on the textiles of the Tinguipaya and Jalq´a communities.

When leaving Pari’s mask workshop, I ask him if there’s anything else he’d like to tell me. He thinks for a moment: ‘Something that I'd like to offer you?’ I nod. ‘¡Trabajo!’ We laugh. The work of these craftspeople is so highly valued by their respective communities, so deeply ingrained in their cultures, that the thought of a novice like me attempting to do it is, well, laughable.

Branding the Plurinational State

There's no doubt about it: we live in a brand-oriented world. Think fizzy drinks, sports shoes or mobile phones and it’s certain a particular brand, logo or catchphrase comes to mind. ‘A Coke please’, ‘I like your Nikes’, ‘I can't find my iPhone’ – we may not always realise it, but often these brands have been so well crafted, so meticulously designed, that they become synonymous with the product itself. They become the product they are trying to sell. As capitalism continues to prove the success of well-designed branding, the market is expanding from simple products to people, to political campaigns, to entire countries.

Rachel Boynton's 2005 documentary, Our Brand Is Crisis, depicts the 2002 presidential campaign of former Bolivian President Gonzalo Sánchez de Lozada Sánchez de Bustamante (or Goni, as he is more commonly known). His successful campaign was orchestrated by the US-based political consultancy company Greenberg Carville Shrum (GCS), which designed a brand, a slogan and an image for its client, as if Goni were a product to be sold – and the Bolivian people bought it. Yet the documentary begins and ends with the protests and riots that led to Goni's resignation in 2003 and his subsequent exile in the United States. Boynton, then, clearly shows us that the trust a nation was led to invest in this particular product proved to be untenable.

So why is it, then, that a tactic so flawlessly executed with commercial goods can backfire so drastically with a different sort of product? Perhaps it's due to the fact that an inanimate, lifeless object is easy to control, to moderate. Once invested in, its quality is not likely to change. The same cannot be said for a person or – on an even bigger scale – a country. Yet the concept of marca país, of creating a brand for a nation, is one that has been developing for many years. ‘Ecuador ama la vida’, ‘Uniquely Singapore’, ‘Jamaica: once you go, you know’ and the more recent ‘Bolivia te espera’ are but a few examples of brands being pushed to generate tourism and increase wealth within respective countries.

I spoke to Oscar Salazar, creative director of the Factor H publicity agency in La Paz, to learn more about the importance of image design for Bolivia’s tourism aspirations. ‘For me, the nation brand would be the most important client that I could deal with,’ Salazar tells me. ‘Why do I say that? Because in a country like Bolivia, which has so much touristic potential, the nation brand becomes the possibility to change the future of Bolivia.’

Trust—is that not what all great brands are built on, or at least, what they are trying to create?
Most of what Bolivia has to offer is truly unique, it's just a matter of showing it to the world.

I reflect on this. Undoubtedly, Bolivia has plenty to offer tourists. Yet many other countries in South America – neighbouring Peru, for example – generate much more money from tourism. I take to the streets of La Paz to find out why.

I talk to a range of tourists, from backpackers to volunteers to trainee teachers, yet only one had even heard of the phrase Bolivia te espera, and others were sceptical of the effectiveness of such publicity. Laurenia from Switzerland says, 'I think friends or family or mouth-to-mouth publicity is more what I'd listen to,' whereas Cynthia from Canada talks about seeing a friend's pictures of salt flats on Facebook. Each tourist seemed to value word of mouth over all other forms of publicity, especially when the word came from the mouth of someone they know and trust.

Trust – is that not what all great brands are built on? Or at least, what all great brands are trying to create? Salazar explains that in order to reach its potential, a marca país depends on many factors: ‘A nation brand alone is not enough. You need infrastructure, investment, active participation of the population.’ In other words, what Salazar believes is missing is a unified, concerted effort behind the campaign. Like many other country slogans, this one could seem generic and universally applicable. For Salazar, it doesn't fully express what he feels his country represents.

Indeed, when asking what they knew of Bolivia before arriving, the tourists that I spoke to seemed to have little idea. Mountains, poverty, indigenous people – those were the most common answers. Some had heard of the salt flats, another had watched the famous Top Gear special, but none seemed to have had a clear idea of what made the country so special. In fact, many were surprised by what they found. Laura from Spain tells me, 'You certainly don't expect a lot of this country, but it's impressive.’

Unlike in the case of Goni, then, it seems that it’s the brand, rather than the product, which is failing. So, what's the answer? Matt from England suggests the use of real people. Working in TV, he is cynical of highly stylised publicity videos. His friend Ian suggests it's a question of finding a way to make a country stand out. He gives a local example: ‘You can do mountain biking anywhere else in the world, so why bother coming from the UK all the way to Bolivia, just to do a little bit of mountain biking? Well, you know, you brand it as ""The World’s Most Dangerous Road"".’

Yet most of what Bolivia has to offer is truly unique, it's just a matter of showing it to the world. 'Bolivia has an essence, which has to be exhibited,’ Salazar declares passionately. ‘Bolivia has a unique quality. Its culture is alive.'

Come the end of October, another film bearing the title Our Brand Is Crisis is scheduled to be released. Based on Boynton's documentary, this George Clooney–produced blockbuster provides a  fictionalised account of the Goni electoral campaign. Wouldn't it be interesting, I think, to have the Bolivian people’s perspective of the question at hand? After all, it was their country that was affected.

Foreign marketing companies are brought in to design nation brands, too. I ask Salazar how he feels about this. ‘So, you can see that Bolivia is a country that has a lot of essence, so do you need help to find the way to sell its essence?’ he asks. ‘Or do you need a group of people who can express it with love and care? You tell me.' The answer is obvious. Bolivia has all that it needs to attract tourists already: in its landscape, its culture, its history and its people. All it needs is a brand that will exhibit that. Or rather, it needs its brand to be exhibited. For our brand already exists; our brand is Bolivia.

Local luthier making recycled instruments

‘I don’t like the felling of trees,’ Adrián Villanueva says, as he shows me a selection of his creations: charangos made from recycled paper. Traditionally fashioned from armadillo shells, charangos are now more commonly sculpted from a single piece of wood, yet even this has an environmental cost.

Just a few streets from the general cemetery, Adrián leads me up the steps to his house and into the living room. The room is unmistakably that of a music enthusiast. A charango-maker for over forty years, Adrián has acquired a huge selection of vinyl records, books and posters which decorate every inch of the wall, displaying his love of musicians from all over the world. Many posters celebrate the musical achievements of Andean artists, but if you look closely you can even spot a small newspaper clipping of The Beatles.

When people think of charangos they tend to imagine a small, ten-stringed instrument made from an armadillo shell. Yet these instruments are incredibly varied in design. They can have any number of strings, they can be made from an enormous range of different materials and vary hugely in size, with the largest ever charango measuring more than six metres in length. On top of this, each luthier adds his or her own personal design to the instrument, be it engraved, burned or painted. Charangos are, therefore, as much works of art as the music they produce.

A trip to the Museum of Musical Instruments in La Paz shows the great diversity of these instruments, featuring a selection of the charangos that can be found throughout Bolivia. A whole room is dedicated exclusively to innovative musical instrument designs, with charango materials including condor chest bones, pumpkins and ox bladders. A particularly aesthetic charango replaces the traditional armadillo shell with a miner’s hat. Several makers have added a modern twist, such as an electric charango, a light-up charango and even a charango fashioned from an old alcohol container.

Adrián tells me how he used to watch his father make musical instruments and – at the age of eight – was curious to learn. Yet it was this in combination with the ecological habits of his mother, who recycled wool to make ponchos, that sparked his unique idea: charangos made from paper. ‘I feel moved,’ he explains, ‘because many people are destroying Mother Earth.’

He tells me that paper charangos are much harder to make than their wooden counterparts, but adds optimistically that nothing is impossible. Starting with a layer of paper on a wooden mould, Adrián adds alternate layers of paper and glue, until he has completed more than twenty layers. The charango is then left to dry in natural sunlight for at least a week. When the instrument is dry, a layer of varnish is applied to give a shiny finish. The resulting charango is as strong as any wooden or armadillo-shell variety.

Adrián’s paper charangos take around two months to make, and each has a unique design on its back. Jaime Torres, a famous charango player; Doria Medina, a businessman; and Matilde Casazola, a Bolivian poet, are amongst those honoured to have their pictures plastered on one of Adrián’s hand-crafted charangos. As well as paying homage to his favourite celebrities, Adrián uses recycled wrapping paper to create instruments with beautiful patterns from paper that would otherwise go to waste.

To broaden his forty years of experience as a luthier, Adrián is now attempting a paper violin and paper harp. But once he fashions these novel instruments, what’s next? Adrián has two ambitious dreams for the future: to play in front of a crowd of 60 thousand at Wimbledon, and to create a documentary about his paper instruments, encouraging people to look after the environment.

‘I want to win an Oscar for Bolivia,’ he tells me, glowing with pride for his country.