There is an old Aymara folktale about two thieves, a Fox and a Monkey. Throughout their adventures, the Fox falls prey to the Monkey’s many ruses, often leading him close to death. One night a very angry Fox, fed up with his partner’s tricks, finds the Monkey on a riverbank, under the moonlight, eating cheese. The Monkey gives the Fox the rest of his cheese, which he quickly eats. When asked where he stole the cheese from, the Monkey points to the moon’s reflection in the water and says, ‘There's the rest of the cheese, brother.’ And the Fox, always taking the Monkey at his word and always hungry for more (SPOILER ALERT!) dives into the river and drowns.
Light is a funny thing. It is often associated with the security and safety of what is known. An illuminated environment is one we can understand, while a lack of light can be menacing – just ask any miner working in the mountains of Oruro and Potosí. But light is also playful, as anyone who has traversed the Salar de Uyuni can attest, particularly when there is a smooth sheen of water covering the white expanse with glitter and glare.
A common use for the word or idea of ‘light’ is to bring forth something. Perhaps the most prevalent use is in the expression ‘to shine a light on’, or to reveal details or the truth.And in a much more intimate way, ‘dar a luz’ is the common way to say ‘to give birth’ in Spanish.
As in the case of the Fox and the Monkey, light can play tricks. It can provide false truth, it can fool the eye. In our folktale, the Fox believed the moon reflected on the riverbed was not what it was, but that it was a desirable piece of cheese. Disastrous as this was for the Fox, these deceptions are what can make light fun. It is a complex force we both use and contend with, and we know the world would not be possible without it.
In this issue of Bolivian Express, we look at ‘light’ in a variety of ways, from the literal to the metaphorical. Our journalists took to the streets, cameras in hand, to capture the ways in which light dances with the landscape to create everyday visual spectacles. After all, photography is light, as many photographers told us. The same goes for cinema, whether delivered in a theatre on film or streamed to a laptop – light is the key component in the creation and dissemination of images. We looked at artists who are playing with light to create intense sensory experiences. And we learned from the miners and fishermen who spend unusual amounts of time doing their work in the cover of darkness.
As a metaphor, light is useful in the formation of phrases and the development of ideas (think: ‘see the light’). We wrote about various methods of enlightenment, both intellectual and spiritual, and also how convicts in Bolivian prisons are preparing for their lives ‘in the light of day’.
In his article In the Arms of the Moon Goddess, writer Nikolaus Cox outlines the importance the moon has on both the residents and visitors to Isla de la Luna, on Lake Titicaca. This is a place where different cultures for millennia have been finding solace, strength and meaning under the canopy of the moonlight. This island holds on its shores a history of light that is as profound as it is ancient.
Too bad for our friend the Fox that he did not see the moon for what it truly is.
But again, that is what makes light so interesting. In its role to clarify and reveal, sometimes it can only confound, confuse and amaze.
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Photo Credit: Nikolaus Hochstein Cox
The Bolivian Navy and the Light of Hope
‘We don't need a sea and we don't need a navy’, my bartender assures me. ‘The bid for access to the Pacific is ancient history.’ I am surprised by his reaction – within Bolivia the perceived right to the Pacific coast and pride in the Fuerza Naval Boliviana appears universally upheld. ‘[The navy] is important now, sure,’ he continues, in reference to the current political climate, ‘but it shouldn't be.’
The relationship between Bolivia and the sea has been at the heart of Bolivian identity for over 100 years. Indeed, Bolivia has never truly admitted its 19th-century territorial defeat to Chile. With the recent ruling of the International Court of Justice decreeing that Chile must open negotiations with Bolivia, the cause is again at the forefront of the national consciousness.
I had been looking for a nightcap around Plaza Avaroa when my view was arrested by the monumental bronze statue of a man. Lying in agony, one hand clutching his rifle and the other pointing heavenwards, his face was contorted in a defiant sneer. The plaque below his visage identified him as Eduardo Avaroa, the nation’s greatest hero of the 1879 War of the Pacific. It was a conflict over a coastal stretch of the Atacama Desert between a Bolivian-Peruvian alliance and Chile, and one that concluded in Bolivia losing access to the Pacific Ocean. But I would discover that the loss of the sea means more to Bolivia than one imposing statue.
Nothing visibly represents the nation's desire for the ocean more than the Bolivian Navy. Confined to the rivers of the Upper Amazon and Lake Titicaca, the Bolivian Navy is the sometimes-recipient of mockery from Chile and confusion from oceangoing navies. But the Bolivian Navy does not exist for these detractors but for the Bolivian people. My interest was first piqued by a bronze statue, and now by the discovery of the navy. I was determined to uncover what this organisation meant to the people, as a symbolic and physical entity. My first port of call was the bar where I would at last imbibe that nightcap.
The bartender, pouring Huari a few blocks away from the plaza, had nothing but disdain for the Fuerza Naval. He objected to the greater Bolivian military for the implementation of compulsory service, but held particular dislike for the navy. With no ocean, he sees no need for Bolivia to maintain a navy. After all, the force is too small to wage war; it’s a force created out of nationalist sentiment rather than practical security concerns. Yet my bartender believes the navy was at its strongest as an emblematic power – the plea for the sea transcends political parties, and operates as a symbol of national pride to form a lynchpin around which Bolivia gathers.
Others I spoke to seemed similarly conflicted on the navy's practical use. A taxi driver stated, ‘It's a little late for a navy, right?’ He supports the claim to the sea, but thinks a navy confined to interior lakes and rivers a tardy response to historical slights. But he believes the navy exists as an assurance that one day Bolivians shall regain the ocean. Such a sentiment was echoed by Wendy, my Spanish teacher, who declared, ‘It is the right of every nation to have a navy, but with Bolivia it's a little different.’ In her eyes, the navy exists not as a military but as a wish to ‘reclaim what we have lost.’ The navy is too small to forcefully take back the sea but warrants its existence upon the promise that the sea shall be recovered. ‘As an army it is not strong, but as a symbol it is más fuerte’, Wendy said.
Of all the people I spoke to, few could justify a military cause for the organisation to exist. Andrés Guzmán, a former diplomat and expert on the Bolivian Case for the Sea, was among the few who could: 5,000 kilometres of navigable rivers intersect the Brazilian border. Combating narcotic smugglers on these waterways gives ground for the practical use of the navy, he said. ‘But it is a very important symbol for us too, because we have never lost hope to recover the sea’, Guzmán added.
Indeed, everyone I interviewed agreed that the navy was as strong, if not stronger, as a symbol. It has to endure as a reminder to Bolivians that the sea has not been lost forever. ‘Bolivians are a pacific people’, Guzmán says, meaning that they will reclaim their land not through force but through diplomacy. The navy does not exist as a threat, but an assurance.
Despite being deprived of a coast for 130 years, it is part of the Bolivian identity that there is a right to border the Pacific Ocean – that Bolivians are a Pacific people. This national will is manifested in the Fuerza Naval Boliviana, a navy more powerful in implication than intimidation. It is a visible promise, a light of hope, for the people of Bolivia that one day they will return to their sea.
The elderly Aymaran woman runs about the circle with almost supernatural vigour, touching each of our bowed heads with the wrapped sacrifice. She whispers a breathless incantation, and all I hear is one word feverishly repeated: Pachamama. She places the bundle upon the central fire – it goes up in flames with a roar. The orange glow flickers upon the ruined temple walls, casting strange and fearsome images with its light. Carlos tugs at my arm. ‘It’s a good sign when it burns so quickly,’ he intones. ‘Pachamama will be pleased with the sacrifice.’
We rise, hand in hand, and begin to dance to a piping flute in a circle around the fire. The flames lick higher and the moon above breaks free from the lightning-streaked storm clouds, bathing the whole spectacle, the entire Isla de la Luna, in white light. The light of Mama Killa descends to the earth below, infusing the ceremony with her divine power. It is a good night to offer a sacrifice to the Earth Mother. Pachamama will be pleased.
La Isla de la Luna (the Island of the Moon), in the heart of Lake Titicaca, has been a place attuned with the spiritual world for millennia. On its eastern shore stands Inak Uyu – the Temple of the Virgins. This was a place of Moon-worship and a convent for Inca women before they were married off to local lords. But the significance of this temple and its relationship with the Moon precedes the Inca, dating back to and beyond the pre-Inca empire of Tiahuanaco. All that remains are three Cyclopean façades punctuated with the trapezoidal doors of iconic Inca design. I had been sceptical of the divine energy that allegedly infused the island when I arrived, and especially skeptical of the power contained in moonlight. But after a night in the temple ruins I question no more.
La Isla de la Luna signifies different things to different people. Many visit the island seeking a spiritual awakening. These people have detected an antediluvian power within the land and have transformed the island into a conduit for New Age ceremonies. One such person is Samai, a Chilean woman living in La Paz who feels an affinity with the island and the light of the Moon upon it. She speaks with me in her Zona Sur apartment about the revelation she had within the temple a decade ago, and how it informs her spiritual movement. She was transported back in time to the era of the Inca. Here she trained with the virgins of the island in their esoteric art – though she believes they were not simply virgins kept for Inca nobility but priestesses who drew their power from the light of the Moon. The empowering connection between women and the Moon has been recorded throughout antiquity, and through ceremony and ritual Samai leads a group of all-female Moon-worshippers, combining the traditions of the local Aymara and Inca with the occult practises of cultures from across the world. It is her goal to promote female empowerment and positive thinking, and to facilitate a spiritual revolution that encourages an end to patriarchal religion and politics and a return to nature. For her the island is a place of magic that assists in these ceremonies.
After my arrival at the island I trek over the Inca terraces and track down Don Felix and his brother Porfirio – the men are community leaders for the island’s 25 families, working tirelessly to promote tourism for their sandy sliver of land. For them the entire island is sacred. On the Isla de la Luna the ways of the old gods still hold sway, and the Sun and Moon are deities with considerable power over human lives. The islanders frequently perform sacrifices to ensure healthy crops and prosperity. The light of the Moon is important here for the whole island, her luminous powers extending to men and even agriculture. Felix explains that the site of Inak Uyu is most important for the community as a spiritual place, but they do not mind tourists visiting the sacred site. For the delicate island economy, tourism forms a financial staple.
The strange contract between spirituality and tourism at Inak Uyu was made starkly prescient on my first night on the island. A field trip of students from the Universidad de Aquino Bolivia arrived to take part in a ritual sacrifice. As they were led through the dusk to the temple they understood they were watching a ritual put on for them – but many believed the ceremony itself still contained great power. The Aymaran woman was preparing a mesa for Pachamama. Sheet-lightning lit the hills but we heard no thunder as Mama Killa soared overhead, illuminating the temple as brightly as if it were day. Amidst the coca leaves of the mesa were placed tokens of sacred significance – clay images of llamas, currency, and houses representing good luck, wealth, and future salubrious accommodation – and the students laughed and joked with each other casually. But apprehension hung over the assembly too. Carlos approached me and quietly enquired if I believed in what was happening. I asked him if he did. 'I am a student of tourism’, he said. I am here to watch the ritual as part of that. But of course I believe in the ceremony.'
For many students this was more than a school trip – this sacrifice was spiritually very real. The mesa was an offering to the gods and a blessing for those gathered. I was invited into the circle and ceased to be a spectator, becoming part of the ceremony. I chanted when they did, I followed when they danced, and under the light of the Moon I paid homage to Pachamama. Carlos was my translator. He explained it was very auspicious that the sacrifice was taking place under moonlight. Pachamama may be a goddess but she is still a woman, and as such the rays of Mama Killa made the offering all the more powerful. The flames of the fire leapt high and the dancing circle tired, the melancholy flute dying away. We all gave thanks and chanted 'Pachamama Jallalla!' once more, and the ceremony concluded.
Whether a tool for tourism or an outlet of the occult, there is definitely something infused in the ruins of the Inca temple – something that only becomes manifest when the Moon holds the island in her luminous arms.
Photo Credit: William Wroblewski
The Rise of the Video DJ
Clubs have traditionally been a predominantly auditory experience. With their eyes half-shut, dancers move around dark dance floors with no sensory distractions other than the overpowering beats that fill their ears. Yet, couldn't light, images and other visual stimulation enhance, rather than detract from, a DJ set?
Video DJs (or simply, “VJs”) certainly think so. They use names like Heidacraft and Screensaver to inhabit the magical world of the DJ's lesser-known sidekick. ‘People like to make a visual journey’, Heidacraft tells me, who goes by the name Heidi Valda Lanza in the daylight. I take her word for it and decide to embark on my own journey one muggy night in La Paz, to enlighten my VJ-deprived eyes.
Roots Reggae House, located in the centre of La Paz, was a predictably dimly lit affair. Yet a large white screen behind the DJ decks filled the space with a constant flow of visual delights. Psychedelic patterns, fluorescent colours, moving images depicting tribal figures and sprouting flowers, were perfectly combined with the ebb and flow of the music. This was more than a normal night-out. I had come to see a real spectacle.
VJs draw their images from a variety of sources, but their visual sets are never pre-planned. The exact music that the DJ will play is often unknown and the images are meant to follow the music. Daunting? VJ Screensaver doesn't seem to think so. ‘The fun bit - the most fun bit - is that everything is obviously mixed in real time’, she tells me. The surprise element means that versatility is key: ‘You need to be like a chameleon, at least a little bit.’
For Heidacraft, however, blending in is the last thing on her mind. ‘I always try to take people out of their comfort zone’, she says, which is why she often works with psychedelic and surreal designs. The point is to be spontaneous and to flow with night in order to reach the audience.‘If a person is untouched by the set, then it hasn't worked’, Screensaver tells me.
But the work of a VJ can go beyond the screen behind a DJ set. Heidacraft tells me that she has projected images onto mountains, moving vehicles and trees. She shows me a video of LED-covered dancers on a completely black stage. The dancers disappear and spring back into light, in sync with the music. ‘The function of light is important. It has to be like a moving tide,’ she says, ‘Light and then darkness.’
Light, colours, movement: these are the basic tools that VJs work with. Visual games, visual art, visual music. However you choose to describe their work, the adjective will always remain the same. After all, as Heidacraft posits,‘The visual world is infinite, isn't it?’
With the rise of the digital era, VJs have emerged across the world, which means their visual experience is now reaching a wider audience. Their work is only meant to complement the music, but their talents might soon outshine the main event. DJs may need to watch their backs, because their visionary counterparts are beginning to steal the limelight.
Photo Credit: William Wroblewski
