In December 2010, Bolivia made headlines worldwide when it passed the Ley de Derechos de la Madre Tierra, or what became globally known as the country’s ‘Mother Earth Law’. The groundbreaking legislation gave legal rights to the environment. That is to say, in Bolivia, nature itself is protected by law, and in fact has its own voice within the government, via the creation of the Defensoría de la Madre Tierra, an office tasked with ensuring that the rights of nature are protected. Those rights largely encompass its relations with human society – within the law, ‘ecosystem’ means more than the natural world; it includes the social, cultural and economic impacts of human behaviour on the environment.
This is not to say that Bolivia’s relations with nature have since been completely harmonious. Litter remains an issue in cities and towns across the country, and pollution from agriculture and mining continue to plague Bolivia’s watersheds. Additionally, new government-funded programs will certainly have adverse effects on the environment. For example, in 2015 the government passed a law that opened up national parks and other protected areas to mining and oil concessions, and most recently Bolivia has broken ground on a nuclear-power research centre in El Alto. While some supporters of these projects insist their implementation can be consistent with the law protecting Mother Earth, many others question the ecological sustainability of such endeavours.
These pressing issues got us here at Bolivian Express thinking about the word ‘sustainability’. This ‘Mother Earth Law’, reinforced (and to some extent re-envisioned) through additional legislation in 2012, is intended to promote a healthy balance between natural systems and human action; the goal is to maintain existing ecologies in the long term, to ensure the sustainability of the natural world. But beyond the common associations with the environment, the term ‘sustainability’ is rooted in the key ideas of time and of endurance. Sustainability isn’t just about nature or ecology, it is about deep relationships; it is about politics and economics.
In this issue of Bolivian Express, we looked into this idea of ‘sustainability’ to explore not only ideas of ecological responsibility, but also ideas of consistency, of endurance, of continuation. We travelled to locales as diverse as the salt flats of Uyuni and the cloud forests of Caranavi in the Nor Yungas region to learn about technology-based solutions for litter cleanup and new strategies to support Bolivia’s coffee industry. We learned about the idea of ‘sustainable mining’, and Bolivia’s important role in the organic quinoa industry. We met people in the tourism industry invested in maintaining Bolivia’s environmental and cultural wonders through responsible tourism.
A common thread we often found in our work for this issue was the idea that for anything to endure, adaptation almost invariably has to happen. And we did not fall short in meeting individuals and groups finding new ways to work with old materials to make something new. We met designers who employ recycled items, from plant material to engine parts, to create clothing and sculptures. Such art gives old material new life, and this theme of sustainability through rebirth carried itself through this issue, through the maintenance of La Paz’s famous, ancient micro buses to the younger generation’s interest in finding their own fashion voice through the purchasing of used clothing.
Bolivia’s relationship with the environment is as complex as it is critical. The ability of the government to carry out its initiatives, from infrastructure development to social programs, is directly tied to its ability to capitalize on the bountiful resources Bolivia has to offer. But this can come with costs. Today we have the opportunity to experience how a society, taking a lead in creating legal frameworks to regulate human engagement with the environment, carries out such an initiative in the real world. We also have a chance to navigate a country where cultures and traditions stretch back for generations, even centuries. Let’s see what it takes to keep these traditions alive in a constantly evolving and changing world.
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Photo: Eduardo Baptista
The Challenges of Creating a Basketball Culture
June 30th 2016 marked a historic date for Bolivian basketball. By beating Ecuador 75-74, Bolivia’s national basketball team broke a winless drought of 27 years against South American teams. This was no fluke. Bolivian basketball has been growing since 2012, with the creation of the Libobasquete, the first organized national league. After this watershed moment, the sport began to take its first steps towards professionalization. For all the progress made, however, there are serious issues that could halt the future growth of the sport.
La Paz may be Bolivia’s political capital, but basketball-wise it is miles behind other cities. According to José Luis Revollo, head coach of La Paz’s premier league team Bolmar, ‘No hay canchas, no hay espacio, no tenemos condiciones.’ (‘There are no courts, there is no space and we don’t have conditions.’) It is obvious why the the state of basketball in la Ciudad Maravillosa is anything but marvellous.
Jaime Méndez, a veteran basketball coach and La Paz native, says the problem is not so much the lack of courts, but their inaccessibility. It is clear he resents the schools that refuse to lend their courts to La Paz’s basketball clubs, describing their attitude as selfish and money-oriented. The only solution would be to build new courts, but as Revollo notes, requests made for new sports pavilions have been ignored by local officials.
Courts are an issue particular to La Paz. Other cities such as Cochabamba, Tárija and Oruro have a good supply of basketball courts, with the unsurprising consequence that their teams, in all age categories, usually dominate those from La Paz. Nevertheless, there are other issues affecting the development of the sport, even in these basketball-friendly cities.
The sustainable growth of a competitive sport requires investment. Marco Arze Mendoza, president of the Bolivian Basketball Federation, says there is a shortage of private and public investment in Bolivian basketball. He believes the same applies to all sports in Bolivia except football, where private investment more than compensates for the lack of state support. In basketball, however, private investment plays no such part.
I listened in shock as Revollo tells me that the costs of maintaining Bolmar come out of his own pocket. In spite of the noble sacrifices made by passionate basketball lovers such as Revollo, this is no sustainable way of funding organized basketball.
On a national level, many clubs are crippled by their inability to pay Bolivian players a salary they can live off. This is often due to the high salaries of foreign players, usually from the US, who are needed to elevate the quality of the game. Their athletic and exciting style of play attracts large audiences and increases the revenue made from ticket sales.
Mendoza points out that progress has been made, with four or five national players currently earning US$1000 per month, close to the US$1200 most foreign players earn in Bolivia. But this is the exception rather than the rule. In Revollo’s team, US$300 is the maximum amount a Bolivian player has ever earnt. Most earn US$50 dollars per month, which barely covers travel costs. As Mendoza concludes, a player that is concerned with putting food on the table for his family cannot possibly improve as much as a player that focuses solely on his sport. Without money, results are hard to come by.
However, Jacqueline Dordoyo, the first Bolivian woman to achieve a FIBA Level 3 coaching accreditation, says that money can be as much of a problem as it can be a solution. Her coaching background is centred on the younger categories. In this respect, she has strong words on the side-effects of professionalization. I listen to Dordoyo recount story after story of young, talented players who develop serious attitude problems after getting paid to transfer clubs, even if for a measly fee. One 15- year old player demanded that he receive a pair of shoes in return for participating in Cochabamba’s regional team trainings. It is easy to understand what Dordoyo means when she states that young players nowadays lack ‘amor por la camiseta’ (‘love for one’s club’). Simply pouring in money is not a sustainable solution to the problems facing Bolivian basketball either. The issues are as much cultural and organizational as they are financial.
""La Paz may be Bolivia’s political capital, but basketball-wise it is miles behind other cities.""
One of the most important points made by Dordoyo is that senior teams, particularly those in the Libobasquete, have to be examples to the communities they represent and inspire younger players. In order for children and teenagers to commit hours of training with no material remuneration they need to fall in love with the sport. Dordoyo asks me to imagine the effect that a Libobasquete team could have if it paid a visit to a local court in Cochabamba and played with the kids there.
After watching the Cochabamba classic between La Salle and Universidad Mayor de San Simón later that night, Dordoyo’s point made perfect sense. As soon as the game was over, hundreds of people flocked to the court in hopes of getting a picture with the players. These players are idols, and they should do more than simply eat, sleep and play at the club’s cost. Cultivating el amor por la camiseta demands influential role models, not money.
Inspiration must also be provided by coaches and parents. Revollo, Méndez and Dordoyo all coach the youngest age categories, and are firm believers that at such a stage, basketball has to be first about fun, then about winning. Bolivia’s poor level in relation to other South American countries makes the thirst for results understandable. This often leads coaches, however, to burn through stages in the development of young players, including the player’s love for the sport.
Revollo remembers a father who complained about his training methods after watching his 8-year old son play tag during his first training session and hardly grab a basketball. For Revollo it is essential that the child associates basketball with play, not duty. Too often, parents push their children to play a sport without the child wanting to, a problem found all over the world, not just in Bolivia. As Dordoyo observes, ‘You can’t build a solid house without good foundations.’ A positive first experience with basketball could significantly increase the chances that a child pursues the sport in the future, at an amateur or professional level.
If Bolivia is to make ground with Latin American basketball powerhouses such as Brazil or Argentina, it needs to understand its own basketball reality, not that of the NBA or the Spanish Liga. In the absence of state support and private investment, Bolivia’s basketball organizations have to focus on correcting the problems that can be solved without money. Only then will future financial investments act as a blessing for the sport, rather than a curse in disguise.
How Harry Potter is Saving the Book World Again
‘The average Bolivian doesn’t read,’ says Sebastian Antezana, author of La Toma Manuscrito, which won the “Premio Nacional de Novela” in 2008. There is frustration in his voice, but not a hint of surrender. ‘The decision to write is not easy in a country like Bolivia,’ he adds, referring to the relative lack of bookstores in the country and his claimed underappreciation of books in local markets.
In Bolivia, at times the lines between librerías, papelerías and centros de fotocopias can be blurred. Sometimes the books you are looking for can only be found in pirate book stalls.
Ernesto Martínez, who manages the bookstore Martinez Acchini on Avenida Arce in La Paz, is one of the few trying to survive in the book industry. He is driven not by the small profit he earns from the business, but by the wish to sustain and maintain a culture of reading in the country.
‘If you enter a typical Bolivian living room, you will find a painting, a sculpture, a statue, but you will not see books,’ he says, with a desperate expression on his face, as if he cannot believe the absence of the objects.
According to him, the average Bolivian is not enthusiastic about literature or the preservation of the book, which he considers an ‘expression of the knowledge and cultural advancement of society’. He thinks, ‘The people’s perception has always been that the book is a luxury product – something reserved only for intellectuals and those with money.’
‘You could blame poverty, the lack of education, or the fact that Bolivia was until recently an illiterate country,’ he explains. ‘But these are not the real reasons. The real reason is that in Bolivia books have never been considered cultural wealth.’
Martínez and Antezana agree that Bolivia’s current education system does not encourage or raise literature lovers. ‘The majority of us have grown up with the idea that it is a punishment to read, that it is boring,’ Martínez says. ‘In school, when students misbehave, they are sent to the library as punishment.’
Perhaps a better education will result in a greater appreciation for books, which could enrich artistic and cultural movements. ‘An educational revolution is necessary,’ Antezana claims. ‘It will bring about better citizens.’
The answer to the problem seems to lie in future generations. Matínez’s bookstore has sustained itself in part by taking advantage of the recent boom in children’s literature. ‘This is what gives me most hope,’ Martínez says.
Although he may not agree with their choice in literature, he accepts and encourages the youth’s frequent trends and hypes about series such as Harry Potter and The Hunger Games. He aims to foster a culture of reading in younger generations to sustain the cultural and intellectual growth of Bolivian society. ‘For me as a bookstore owner, children’s trilogies are great because the customers always come back for the next book. For me as someone worried about literature, it is also great because young boys and girls are reading – not just 100 pages, but 500, 600 pages in one go!’
Martinez’s hope is that once adolescents start to read they will become adults who appreciate and sustain literature in Bolivia. In this sense, he says, ‘Harry Potter has defeated the demons that do not read.’
Indeed, Harry Potter’s magical abilities seem to go beyond “Expelliarmus”. It may well be the best chance to get young Bolivians into the habit of picking up a book once in awhile. Who knows? They might even read it.
Photo: Maria Mayböck
Looking Abroad to Preserve a Tradition
As soon as Simon Huanca sits down at a knitting machine, it is clear just how familiar he is with what has been his livelihood for decades. His hands move with intimate certainty over the machine. They investigate and count the rows of a pattern sheet. They pick up the pieces of a sweater and show how they can be united to form a finished garment. His clothes, though plain; his body language, though subtle; and his inconspicuous car indicate he is the manager, the man in charge. When it comes to knitting garments, however, it is apparent he was once a craftsman like the forty artisans who work for him today.
Art Sol is a company of genuine alpaca clothing that primarily targets lucrative European markets. Huanca started the business after working for one of La Paz’s big alpaca clothing companies and learning from a German designer. ‘They trained us in design and how to relate to the clients,’ he explains. ‘We then started producing and exporting.’
Stepping off the buzzing street of Linares, Huanca’s store is a refuge from the exuberance on Calle Sagarnaga. Garments are elegantly laid out, the colours are more natural, and the designs and patterns are visibly harmonized to the international fashion market.
No llamas adorn the sweaters here. Instead, simple, timeless designs and patterns prevail. European customers prefer ‘simple designs, whatever is in fashion at the moment,’ Huanca says. He laughs at the thought of selling sweaters with little alpacas and llamas on them. ‘No, that? Abroad? No,’ he says with a grin on his face.
His Bolivian and international customers look for quality and design, something that is lacking in the selection of synthetic sweaters and other garments advertised and sold as ‘authentic alpaca’ all over Bolivia. Sol Art’s designs are inspired by the latest styles crossing the runways of world fashion capitals. ‘I live for this,’ exclaims Huanca. ‘I see, I think.’
""Art Sol combines the old with the new, while maintaining an ancient knitting tradition.""
‘There will always be alpaca,’ he says, and its price will fluctuate with the demand of alpaca products. His is an environmentally friendly and sustainable business, as it works with live, domesticated animals that are shorn without being killed. Breeding alpacas for their wool is an ancient tradition in Andean countries like Bolivia and Peru, where the high altitude gives the wool its characteristic softness.
Huanca’s business not only supports local alpaca cultivation, but it also provides opportunities for small artisans. ‘We only have enough workers to meet the demand,’ he says, but he goes out of his way to provide them with skills that can earn them a living. All of his craftsmen have small workshops in their homes. Art Sol provides the necessary equipment to those who do not own a proper knitting machine, which the workers pay back in interest-free instalments.
Ediberto Acero, who is a long-time employee and dear friend of Huanca’s, owns a workshop facing the runway fields of the airport in El Alto. It is a simple room adjacent to his house with three knitting machines; balls of colourful yarn; boxes of sleeves, collars and chest parts; and a pile of finished sweaters ready to be showcased in stores or in European catalogues.
With trained and confident movements, Ediberto slides the carriage across the machine with one hand and feeds the yarn with the other. The carriage clicks rhythmically as a myriad of fast-moving needles knit a new row and the yarn winds off the reel, turning into a garment. Within five minutes, Ediberto holds an incomplete part of a sweater. A simple and beautiful pattern, one of Huanca’s latest creations, adorns the collar.
‘He is one of our fastest workers,’ Huanca says, while Ediberto looks up proudly with a shy smile on his face. As the finished product lies on a table, one could easily imagine it in a Zara collection.
Huanca’s company combines the old with the new in his modern designs, while maintaining the ancient tradition of alpaca knitting. With his products, he makes Bolivia known beyond its borders, while supporting the masters of this traditional craft.
