I first came to Bolivia in 2008 to spend seven months volunteering at a rural college. The Unidad Académica Campesina-Carmen Pampa is a small university nestled in a little village about 40 minutes by minibus from Coroico, in the heart of Bolivian coca and coffee country. It is a place where hundreds of students, largely the children of farmers and other rural dwellers from all over Bolivia come to study agronomy, veterinary science, nursing, education or ecotourism. These students mingle with faculty and administrators, who are often from La Paz, and with a small band of foreign volunteers from all over the world. It’s an intriguing mix of cultures and perspectives from all over Bolivia and the world concentrated in one little place.
Integrated into this microcosm of higher education is a rural community of coca, fruit and coffee farmers; chicken breeders and sheep herders; shopkeepers and taxi drivers. Undoubtedly, the campus serves as a force that ties Carmen Pampa together, but an additional, largely agrarian economy continues here as well. And so during a recent visit to the village it was not a surprise to meet Benita Mollisaca, an elderly coca farmer, harvesting in her cocal (see the cover of this issue). She is just one of many people who would be here regardless, with or without the college. She is a true local campesina.
In this issue of Bolivian Express we step outside of our urban confines to learn more about the Bolivian countryside, or the campo. We visit tourist destinations that provide a taste of rural life, from wineries in Tarija to coffee farms in the Yungas to ayahuasca ceremonies outside of La Paz. We meet craftspeople bringing a bit of the country to the city, including talented artisans near Santa Cruz and restaurateurs providing farm-to-table dining experiences in Bolivia’s major cities. We talk with some young women bringing Bolivian craftspeople onto the stage of global high fashion. And aside from the market and tourism opportunities coming from the countryside, we take a critical look at some of the key issues facing rural communities in Bolivia, including dangerous effects of climate change and the challenges in providing adequate healthcare to far-flung communities.
In working on this issue of the magazine, we realized that the campo is not just another place to visit and experience; in fact, country and city are deeply intertwined here. In every story that we chased, we discovered profound connections between the rural and the urban, and witnessed how what happens in the cities in Bolivia has profound impacts on the countryside, and vice versa.
One of the most important forces shaping rural communities in Bolivia, including in communities surrounding Carmen Pampa, is migration. As agriculture continues to be a difficult way of life, and as major industries – particularly mining – change and adapt to global market and environmental forces, more and more rural residents are moving to the city, at least part-time, in search of economic opportunities. In my travels around Bolivia I’ve seen this much too often. Two years ago I visited the village of Yulo, about three hours from Potosí, where nearly half the homes were empty. Knocking on doors was more often than not a lost cause, and I remember neighbors calling to us as we waited on countless doorsteps. ‘No hay nadie,’ they would say. ‘Todos se fueron.’ Entire families had uprooted and moved to Argentina in search of work. In many places in rural Bolivia, all that remain are the elderly and the very young. Working-age adults and students have moved elsewhere.
In many ways, Benita is lucky (which may explain her infectious belly laugh that never ceased throughout our photo shoot). While she wakes early every day to work in her fields, her son remains by her side. Despite graduating from the college in Carmen Pampa a few years ago with a nursing degree, Reynaldo has opted to stay at home to help his parents in the fields. He certainly has the option to come to El Alto or La Paz and look for work in a clinic or health centre, but instead is happy to be in his community, with his family, picking coca and avocados in the morning sun.
The Bolivian countryside has its own attractive forces that keep people rooted there, and makes it something not to be missed by visitors here. We hope this issue of Bolivian Express offers a window into this often-overlooked side to the Bolivian experience.
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The World of Boutique Bolivian Coffee Production
Photo: Anna Grace
A black coffee arrives steaming to the café table I have commandeered as my personal desk this morning. It is a fine, bright Wednesday in La Paz and finally my day can begin. As I take careful sips of the dark burning liquid, I slowly shake off the dregs of the former night's sleep which continue to plague my body. Minibuses crawl past outside and taxis sit impatiently in mid-morning traffic. Pedestrians pass by, clad in business suits, sports kit or casual dress. I pity the caffeine addict who has forgotten his or her coffee this morning, in this ever-moving, hustling and bustling urban centre.
Many people associate coffee with the morning work routine. It is the highly-coveted pickup at the start of a highly-strung day. Others enjoy a more relaxed coffee culture, one in which friends unite over a cappuccino mug or an espresso in boutique cafés. As I sip the remnants of my morning coffee, I look beyond how we consume it and wander to a place of greenery, to the shady tropical forests that are home to Bolivia’s coffee plantations.
Bolivian coffee production takes place in Los Yungas, a region of high-altitude tropical rainforest in the department of La Paz. From above, the trees resemble vast heads of broccoli clinging to the mountainside. Below, the mixture of sun, shade and humidity provides conditions in which coffee plants can thrive. With an annual production far lower than that of Colombia or neighbouring Brazil, mass coffee production is not exactly thriving in Bolivia, but quality coffee production certainly is.
‘I want to show that here in Bolivia, we can produce the best,’ explains René Brugger, owner of Munaipata, an artisanal coffee production company located four kilometres from the municipality of Coroico, in Nor Yungas. He refers to his terrain as SHANTI, which means ‘peace’ in Hindi. And the naming is apt. Birds sing, the sun shines, flowers blossom and the stunning views keep on coming. Even the incessantly biting bugs cannot diminish the tranquil beauty and familial happiness of this place.
Coffee seedlings are guided through infancy to adulthood by dedicated and caring hands. Then the beans are toasted in a top-of-the-range Bolivian made tostadora. Brígida, whose family has produced coffee since before this machinery existed, underlines the importance of coffee for the people of the region. ‘Coffee helps us to study, to support our families and to make savings,’ she tells me.
The work is less lucrative than other local industries, which is why many producers in Los Yungas have abandoned their cafetales in favour of cocales. But the workers at SHANTI stick to their coffee plantations, as they have pride in the what they do. ‘I love coffee.’ Brígida assures me. ‘René does too, he really loves it!’ And that makes three of us. Everyone here is a coffee lover, it seems.
Following a common Latin American trope, the best Bolivian coffee is exported and locals rarely experience the joys that their land bestows and their own hands cultivate. This, however, is not the case with the coffee produced at SHANTI. Although they only have a modest harvest, 95% of it is consumed in Bolivia. Between delicious mouthfuls of llama lasagna and sips of sultana juice, I learn more about how Munaipata came to be.
Before starting his project eight years ago, René was strongly advised against entering the market of Bolivian coffee. His advisors deemed it unprofitable. Needless to say, he did so anyway. 'I like to swim against the current,' he chuckles. René views Munaipata as still being in its early days, but he mentions a scepticism on the part of many locals. 'They see what we are doing here, and they don't believe it will last,' he says. 'They think this gringuito will leave after a few years.'
Their doubts, perhaps, are understandable. In the 1990s, a spate of cold weather saw coffee production in Brazil drop drastically, which made the international price per quintal rise enormously. Many producers came to Bolivia to profit from the favourable weather conditions and high prices. Once normality was restored in Brazil, however, the producers flocked back, abandoning cafetales all over Los Yungas. Given the long-term aims and the passion and knowledge with which everyone at SHANTI speak of their work, there is no doubt Munaipata is in it for the long run.
Despite the rich taste, strong aroma and eco-friendly nature of Munaipata coffee, Nescafé continues to dominate the market. It seems beans, grinders and cafetières are too much of a hassle for most. If the average consumer, however, would stop and consider the skill that goes into producing artisanal coffee, they would see that the wait is no hassle at all. They may even come to enjoy those few minutes it takes to prepare a good cafetière coffee. I certainly do.
Sampling Some of the Best Alcohol Bolivia Has to Offer
Photo: Anna Grace
South America does alcohol well. Think Chilean Merlot or Argentinean Malbec and you are bound to find your mouth watering and your taste buds tingling. Chileans and Peruvians both claim pisco originated in their respective homelands, and everyone who has enjoyed a caipirinha knows the worth of Brazilian cachaça. Bolivia, seemingly, is nowhere in sight. Yet maybe we should be enjoying a glass of Bolivian red with our steaks, and sipping a cocktail made from singani on nights out.
I pass neat rows of healthy, green vines bathed in the light of a pleasingly strong sun as a golden, heat-baked track winds down towards a factory-style building. Only a short ride from the city of Tarija, in the heart of Bolivia’s prime wine country, this is the site of the new headquarters of Kuhlmann Vineyards.
‘The world is full of wine connoisseurs. They know quality.’ I am speaking to Franz Molina, the manager of Kuhlmann. ‘They try our wines and they are surprised. It’s the same with singani,’ he says. ‘It’s different, exotic, elegant.’ The company has been producing singani – the subtle yet strong grape-based spirit unique to Bolivia – for years. The Tres Estrellas line is targeted towards the east of the country, and Los Parrales to the west, I am told. The company’s youngest and most pioneering venture is Altosama, the world's first high-altitude sparkling wine. Launched in 2011, the wine is still a newcomer, but Franz is confident that it will find its place. ‘Little by little we are introducing the culture of sparkling wine in Bolivia,’ he says. Fruity, bubbly and good fun on special occasions, Altosama is sure to be a hit.
As we speed down the main road connecting the country to the city, I discover the brains behind the naming of their sparkling wine. I already knew that alto means ‘high’, but sama? I didn’t have much of a clue. Franz points out a green cordillera surrounding the valley. ‘That's Sama,’ he informs me. ‘Without Sama, Tarija would be desert, and the land infertile.’
Later in the day, I head towards a very different sort of winery, trundling down narrow streets and past small town squares. Chairs are scattered outside village stores, unoccupied save a single white cloth – a more traditional yet less transparent version of the Sí hay pan signs seen in shop windows across the country. This place is called Valle de Concepción, and now we have left the city much farther behind.
Entering Casa Vieja, an old Jesuit house turned winery, Julián Lazcano ushers me into a low-ceilinged, wine-bottle-lined room. Julián’s family started producing wine here 40 years ago, and I am told to help myself to a glass of red. Whilst I enjoy my late afternoon tipple, a group of Bolivian tourists enter for a wine tasting, and I am to join. We are instructed to form a crescent-moon shape. None of the ‘taste and politely spit out’ nonsense here – as a group we are to finish a glass of each wine amongst ourselves. As fortune has it, I find myself at the farthest tip of the moon. ‘You have to drink everything that is left in the glass. Seco. It’s a Casa Vieja tradition,’ the leader of ceremonies informs me.
Amid introductions of each new trago, jokes and plenty of laughter, we make our way through dry and semi-sweet wines, a few ports and, last but not least, a full-strength singani. ‘We offer wine tasting to everyone who comes here,’ Lazcano tells me. ‘Visitors have the chance to taste some good wine and afterwards to sit down in the restaurant and have some good, typical food.’ The rustic house, paved with its uneven, coffee-coloured stone slabs and backed by rows of picturesque vines, is certainly worth a visit.
‘This is an artisanal vineyard; everything is done al patero, by foot,’ Lazcano explains. ‘There's no machinery here.’ Thinking back to the high-tech machinery seen in the large production room behind Molina's office at Kuhlmann Vineyards, the two manners of turning grapes into alcohol seem worlds away. Yet Kuhlmann has achieved a 96 percent eco-efficiency rate, meaning the company is highly sustainable. The only waste produced is inevitable. It seems that both Molina and Lazcano have, in their own ways, a natural, green-friendly mode of production at heart.
Next on my enjoyably extensive tour of Tarija’s vineyards comes Campos de Solana. Owned by the Granilla family, who also own the singani brand Casa Real, Campos de Solana is one of the newest members on the Bolivian wine scene. If I had become more versed in the commercial side of Bolivian wine and singani at Kuhlmann, and more expert in the tasting of said wine and singani during my time at Casa Vieja, my trip to Campos de Solana taught me more about the process from vine to bottle.
Grapes here are ready to be picked from February through early April. The process is done by hand, early in the morning to avoid excessive heat. It’s good for the grapes but less so for those picking them – a fiddly, tiresome business to be undertaking at such an ungodly hour. The grapes are then sorted – again, by hand – to pick the good from the bad. This stage over with, the machines are allowed to do the work. The uvas are put into the molienda which separates the ground grapes into juice, peel and seeds.
Now comes the technical part. Red wine, the deepest, richest and arguably best of them all, uses all components. The juice, peel and seeds of the purple grapes are fermented at a temperature of between 20 to 25 degrees Celsius. Rosé and white wines use only the juice and are fermented at lesser temperatures.
Afterwards, the wine is filtered of impurities; no one wants poisoned customers. The wine is then left to age in wooden barrels. Ageing can take from a few months up to two and a half years – the longer the ageing process, the better the wine.
I realise that, no matter how ‘industrial’ the company, the rustic is always present, be it in the beautiful grape-filled vineyards outside the office at Kuhlmann or the dependence on manual labour at Campos de Solana.
As for Casa Vieja, I’ve yet to see where the industrial part lies. Producing 80.000 litres per year, this business is ever-growing but has yet to lose its personal feel. I head to the restaurant to share a jug of semi-sweet wine with two local girls. A jug filled to the top and a sole glass between us, it seems that the Casa Vieja traditions extend further than the tasting room. My companions greet various friends as they pass and tell anecdotes of ‘Valley Life’. We laugh at stumbling clients and bumbling tourists. I could get used to it here.
Yet life is not all rosy in the world of Bolivian alcohol production. High taxes on internal products and an increase in imported wines and spirits spells a tricky future for those producing nationally. Back at Kuhlmann, Molina shakes his head, lamenting, ‘Bolivia doesn’t know the treasure it has. Singani should be the pride of the country.’ He explains how Bolivians often choose Argentinean fernet, Russian vodka or Caribbean rum over their own national drink.
The same goes for wine. ‘You go to the supermarket and 90 percent of the wines are imported,’ Molina points out. ‘You don't see that happening in any other wine-producing country in the world. They protect their market.’ Maybe, I think to myself, it’s time Bolivians start to protect theirs.
Indigenous Artisans Create Solidarity
Photo Courtesy of Artecampo and CIDAC
Ask backpackers who have spent any amount of time straddling the spine of the Andes what they remember about Bolivia, and they’ll reply that artisanal crafts, multicoloured textiles and alpaca knitwear are high up on the list. These ‘traditional’ crafts have become an integral part of the tourism sector in this landlocked South American country.
But in the past, it was common for artisans to be ripped off by intermediaries, who would reap large profits without sharing. In some cases, they would pay with a bar of soap for a finished product. Unequal power relationships between artisans and traders – the gatekeepers to the marketplace – meant that the skill and hard work that went into each product went unremunerated. The difficulties and hardship faced by the artisans at this time is highlighted by a hay-hat weaver artisan: ‘We think about how unfair our situation was, for our working day consists of waking up early; cleaning the house; making the beds; making breakfast; going to collect water; feeding the animals; getting children ready for school; doing the laundry; making lunch and taking it to our husbands in the field; making the coffee for the siesta; weaving a hay-hat; making dinner; doing the dishes; cleaning the kitchen and then weaving again the hours we have left.’ Something had to change.
The artisans self-organised and formed a collective, ARTECAMPO, using methods promoted and fostered by CIDAC (the Research and Design Centre for the Arts and Crafts). CIDAC’s objective was to foster the generation and consolidation of self-sustainable socioeconomic initiatives to improve the situation of indigenous women. CIDAC provided ARTECAMPO with training in management and design, in addition to supporting the usos y costumbres (customary practices and technology) of the region. The endeavour is led by Ada Sotomayor de Vaca, director of CIDAC. ‘The work started in Cotoca, Urubichá and the Ichilo communities,’ Sotomayor says, ‘which were difficult to access back then.’ CIDAC persevered by approaching the village elders – mostly women – who were caretakers of the communities knowledge. ‘Little by little we rescued designs, techniques and materials,’ Sotomayor says. ‘At the same time, the groups of women started to feel the need to organise themselves in associations.’
Today, ARTECAMPO is 32 years old, comprising 14 cooperatives spread over 64 communities in the department of Santa Cruz (more recently, it has made inroads to some communities in the Tarija and Chuquisaca departments), and it has helped approximately 6.000 artisan women since its inception. These craftworkers create cultural gems from their indigenous communities, including Guarayo, Chiquitano, Ayoreo and Izoceño. Their products include hammocks from Urubichá; corn husks dolls from Vallegrande; ceramics from Cotoca; woodcarvings from San Miguel; and tapestries from Izozog. Last March, three members of the association were awarded with the “Eduardo Abaroa” national prize for native arts.
Although members of ARTECAMPO have exported their products overseas, the organisation’s focus is the national market. Bolivians’ pride over their cultural heritage and the continued growth of tourism have meant that the internal market for ARTECAMPO’s products is more than sufficient to absorb its members’ current output, and expansion into foreign markets would create market and legal pressures that might not dovetail with indigenous cultural practices that emphasise the building of personal relationships, trust and solidarity over capitalist imperatives.
ARTECAMPO, then, is a good example of how Bolivian society protects its cultural heritage whilst at the same time finding ways for indigenous people to better their lives without capitalist exploitation of their patrimony. The mediation between progress and tradition is key to understanding the dynamics of a country with 36 recognised indigenous groups and a long history of indigenous repression and resistance. ARTECAMPO highlights the way in which these dynamics have entered the 21st century.
For more information, visit www.artecampo.com.
Special thanks to Irene Mairemí Pita for her help in researching this article.
