The coca leaf is perhaps the most indelible symbol of Bolivia: iconic, recognizable, simple. But within its image lies millennia of history and unknown depths of energy and power. Cultivated in the Andes since at least the period of the Tiwanaku – predating the Inca Empire – the coca plant has been employed for a variety of uses, including as a stimulant, an appetite suppressant and as an anesthetic. It is prepared as a tea, applied to wounds and most famously chewed in the mouths of workers of all walks of life here.
Playing such a key role in many societies over centuries, coca is venerated as a sacred plant, and has purpose beyond its biological and medical uses. Yatiris, or shamen, incorporate coca leaves into their practices in many ways. They are spread around in sacred ceremonies and ch’allas, or blessings. Yatiris ‘read’ coca leaves to tell the fortunes of believers. And the leaf is reduced to its essence to make extracts.
It is no wonder that the coca leaf plays a special role in Bolivia’s spiritual, social and economic spheres. It has driven civilizations to greatness, and has enlivened the spirits of their countless inhabitants, as it does today. At the core of this importance is the leaf’s ability to store and give life to those who engage with it. In Bolivia, the coca leaf is more than a symbol, it is the single most potent giver of enduring vitality.
The spirit of the coca leaf resides in many corners of Bolivian society. Similar energising forces which enliven the spirit and bring people together, can be found in other facets of day-to-day Bolivian life. In this issue of Bolivian Express, we explore vitality through the stories of people filled with power and life, from Aymara cholitas scaling the heights of Bolivia’s highest mountains to dancers taking their improvisational movements to the street. La Paz’s famous zebras show us ways to imbue city streets with positive energy, and Korean immigrants and volunteers tell us how they are becoming part of Bolivian society to do good works. We celebrate big advances made for Bolivia’s transgendered community, we also learn about objects and foods filled with the powers to enliven, including Bolivian spirits and the variety of items, old and new, sold at La Paz’s famous Witches Market. Bolivia is known for a number of ‘superfoods’, and we explore their local origins and uses to provide healthy sustenance to people here and abroad. And we dive into the collective national promotion of Vivir Bien, or ‘Living Well’, an abstract idea turning into a tangible, measurable metric for creating and maintaining balance and wellbeing for all of Bolivia’s citizens.
Bolivia is a place with its own kind of energy, its own vibrance. As is the case with every issue of this magazine, here we offer stories that show this beauty in many different ways. We want to show you, the reader, that the same enduring spirit that inhabits the coca leaf also resides in the people, places and things that call this country home. And we hope that you see Bolivia as a place that can be described as, above all, vital.
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Photo: Lucia Brasa
From street performers contorting their bodies before halted cars in the glow of traffic lights, to shuffling feet as the beat of yet another parade drum tremours through the streets, dance is one of the energies that pulses through the charismatic city of La Paz. Performance bursts into parks and plazas, rendering the art of dance not only a privilege for theatre goers but a spirited social presence, a presence that I explore through the eyes of contemporary dancer Omar Ruiz.
I met Omar at his mural-covered studio in the Obrajes neighbourhood of La Paz. When I asked him to discuss his work as a dancer in the city, he began with a disclaimer: what is important is dance as a social, political and artistic force, not ‘Omar the dancer’. ‘There is definitely an ego aspect to performance,’ he admits. ‘However, its importance gets distorted. Dance itself is a force. It’s not about individuals. As a dancer I am merely a facilitator, the communicator of an artistic idea... a middleman.’
This concept of dance as communication, the transmission of a ‘universal language,’ is part of Omar’s definition of the artform. ‘Dance is a global celebration of life,’ he says. ‘Whether that’s celebrating Bolivian folklore in a college parade, or letting your body move ecstatically in a sweaty club at the end of the week. Dance is movement and movement is an expression of vitality. Take sharks for example: if they don’t move, they die.’
Omar specialises in contemporary dance, a style he describes as a transposition of art into the physical. ‘The body is just another artistic tool like graphite or charcoal,’ he explains. ‘Your body becomes your paintbrush and dance allows you to explore its possibilities.’
As I observed a contact improvisation session between Omar and one of his collaborators, this idea of traversing bodily boundaries came to life. The pair moved as though underwater, fluid yet controlled, maintaining contact at all times and reading each other’s bodies to sense the next step. An energy was present between them, one which they had to navigate carefully as the session and their physical exploration progressed.
This improvisational technique prompted a new venture for Omar and two of his friends, a piece of urban dance entitled ‘Improvisación en la Paz’. In this project, the trio set off without a planned sequence or choreography, just two months of improvisational workshops behind them and the sprawling streets of La Paz ahead. In a video of one performance, the dancers crawl, climb, pivot and spring along the pavement, through squares and down steps. The atmospheric film evokes the opening section of the Beat poem ‘Howl’, with Allen Ginsberg’s ‘best minds’ ‘dragging themselves’ through the ‘streets at dawn looking for an angry fix’.
The video exemplifies the architectural inspiration that La Paz offers the bailarines as they essentially ‘dance with the city’. The dancers sculpt their movements to their surroundings, sensing the different dynamic triggered by an expansive park or narrow stairway, allowing their bodies to respond rhythmically to the buildings. Most of the dancing took place in Sopocachi, which, according to Omar, is a neighbourhood that is receptive to art. Omar prefers urban spaces to studios or theatres for his performances, arguing that theatre goers are often predisposed to react a certain way, whereas the reception of spontaneous urban dance is far more raw.
When I probed the possibility of dancing professionally in the city, Omar sadly reflected, ‘It won’t pay the bills unless you start teaching classes, but it's more than just a “hobby” for me. It’s a lens through which I live my life – dance gives me this constant consciousness of my body. When I get up in the morning, I’m thinking about how my body is waking up, how my feet are getting up.’
Although art is perceived as a privilege in parts of the Global South, where people have to meet basic economic priorities before they can indulge in it, Omar sees art as a necessity. ‘Art doesn’t have to be consumed or bought,’ he says. ‘It is a social presence that isn’t elite. You can dance in a plaza, sing in the street... you don’t need a studio space.’
Dance in Bolivia has even reached the political. No Nos Madrugan is an organisation that danced alongside the disabled in recent protests in La Paz, enriching the campaign with performances on a stage in Plaza San Francisco. ‘Art isn’t a privilege,’ Omar insists. ‘It is integrated into social struggles.’
Omar has taken his philosophies to the streets by working with the Hormigón Armado, a group of La Paz’s famous lustrabotas, or shoeshiners, who publish a newspaper and participate in a variety of job-training and public health workshops. During an improvisational dance workshop with these young kids, Omar was struck by the physical language of many of the participants. ‘They sleep on each other and live together in small spaces on the street, so they have a totally different concept of personal space, an intense tactility,’ Omar points out. ‘This translates into the way they dance. During the contact improvisation I expected them to be reserved, but they threw themselves into it quite literally, falling backwards during trust tests without a second thought.’
‘There was this incredible reaction,’ Omar recalls, as he meditates about the power of dance as a uniting force. ‘Even the difference in dresscode between myself and the kids meant we could physically feel each other as socially disparate. I’m from a different part of town, a part that usually discriminates against them. As we worked closely on a physical level, we broke down these social boundaries. They felt accepted.’
Dance in La Paz functions as more than just a leisure activity. It works as a glue that melds together different parts of society – a ‘universal language’. ‘When you dance you’re in touch with a sensitive side of humanity, you’re perceptive to the difference between humans,’ Omar points out. ‘You notice how his or her body moves differently, leading to a celebration of this diversity.’ Dance can be a celebration of the body in general, allowing it to break out of its socially-constructed confines. As Omar says, ‘Wherever you are, dance is a part of human liberation and acceptance.’
Photo: Madeleine Pollard
Photo: Ellen Weaver
An Exhaustively Happy Philosophy
‘¡Actitud, Cebra! ¡Acción, Cebra! ¡Espíritu,Cebra!’, shouted a herd of students, dressed to the neck in zebra suits, holding long snouted hats in the crooks of their arms. The shouts intermingle with gales of laughter and voice-stopping grins. They had just spent the day as volunteer traffic monitors and the culture and vision of their host organization was evident on their smiling faces.
‘When you take off the suit you still wish to help.'–Soledad
Only a half-an-hour before, these young volunteers were assisting the elderly to cross dangerous street corners, chiding cars that ventured too deep into the walkways and dancing under the semáforos of La Paz, bringing order, if ever so briefly, to busy intersections near Plaza Murillo. Under the trained eye of their equine-dressed paceño peers, first-time and temporary participants followed fulltime zebras, who were aggressively happy and helpful. They led the newcomers by example. Waving at pedestrians as they passed, stopping to hug timid toddlers, and high fiving intrepid teens, their positivity was endless.
Beyond their eccentric uniform, all employees strive to embody the core philosophy of the organization: the spirit of the zebra. It begins with disposition. 'We teach them to always be positive with their words and with their actions,' says Soledad, a community organizer for Club Zebra. The traffic monitors are encouraged to speak without negative connotations, greet everyone they come across, and throw away any trash they find. But the spirit of the zebra transcends these friendly gestures.
'The spirit of the zebra is the desire to help,’ continues Soledad. ‘When you take off the suit you still wish to help.' The philosophy runs deep for the zebras, and has been imprinted on those who have left the programme. 'There are thousands of youths who no longer wear the suits, but go on to demonstrate themselves as zebras,’ Soledad says. ‘They are always greeting, always helping, always being leaders.'
The joy and mirth provided by the city’s 265 zebras is known for educating paceños about street safety. Their mission, however, expands beyond the chaotic streets. ‘We work with different themes like street safety, bullying and littering,' Soledad explains, claiming that ‘bullying is down, conductors are driving safer, cars are stopping at stop signs and people are making safer decisions in the streets.'
Though the presence of the zebras is profound, in their absence the chaotic pace of the city seems to resume, calling to question the true extent of their impact. They certainly bring moments of safety to daily life on the city streets, but the reason for their celebrity is their exuberant positivity. Their smiles and demeanor have made the zebras a welcome government outreach program. 'People always thank the zebras,’ concludes Soledad. ‘They are grateful for the work they are doing to change the city.’
""The philosophy runs deep in the Club and has been imprinted on those who have left the program.""
Photo: Alfredo Zeballos
Running in Bolivia’s Skyrace
It’s not the finish line that decides the winner of this race – it’s the mountains. Every year, a pack of leading runners climbs into the sky and every year they are dragged apart by the green slopes of the Bolivian wilderness. It is less a competition and more a conquest, a battle against exhaustion, altitude and pain. ‘Your legs just can’t do it anymore,’ says Marco Chura. ‘Then you have to run with your head and your heart, because there is no strength left anymore.’ This is the Skyrace, on Bolivia’s infamous ‘Death Road’.
Marco, 22, has won the Skyrace three times, setting a new men’s record this past August. Slight and quiet, Marco’s appearance belies his accomplishments. He ran in the very first Skyrace, back in 2012, when i3 Impacto Social, a social enterprise for low-income communities, chose a uniquely challenging venue for a new race: the ‘Death Road’ in Nor Yungas. A largely single lane track, it has few guard rails as it winds around cliffs of up to 600 metres high. Over the years it has claimed thousands of lives, although the danger lies more in late-night bus journeys than in a gradual two-footed ascent. Instead, the excruciating difficulty of the Skyrace comes from the sheer height and distance demanded by this event: 28 kilometers of dirt and jungle over a climb of 1,800 meters.
The race starts in the tropical humidity of Yolosa; at 1,230m, the route ascends for 15 kilometers up the Yungas to La Etapa. Many of the runners choose to quit here, but for Marco this is the halfway point. The hardest part lies ahead, with a steep climb into the forested heights of Chuspipata. When runners collapse over the finish line, they stand a whole 3,030m above sea level.
‘You have to run with your head and your heart, because there is no strength left anymore.’
—Marco Chura
When Marco first competed in the Skyrace, he wasn’t even an adult. Remarkably, he won, and had cemented a deep love for one of the most punishing races in Bolivia. The race attracts competitors from all over the country, from La Paz to Santa Cruz. La Paz resident and active runner Fabiola Ibarnegaray said, ‘I love the trail, love the scenery, love the challenge. The Skyrace has a special place in my heart.’
Like many emerging sports, the Skyrace is caught between increasing athletic professionalism and frustrating limitations in funding. Sponsorships remain few and far between – and not just for the runners. Beatriz García, the founder and managing director of i3 Impacto Social, admits that finding committed sponsors is a challenge, although organisations like Gatorade and the Red Cross are now involved.
Ultimately though, the Skyrace exists not just for its runners but for the causes it supports. Unlike many long-distance races around La Paz, it comes with a entrance fee (420 bolivianos), in part to pay for the numerous transport and safety costs (the winners receive no remuneration). This year’s race raised funds for Metro Parada Juvenil, which provides youth centres in El Alto, and the Senda Verde Animal Refuge, which protects illegally trafficked animals.
‘The Skyrace has a special place in my heart.’
—Fabiola Ibarnegaray
However, neither money nor social enterprise truly explain why, year after year, runners return to face down the ‘Death Road’. For Marco, it’s the struggle. The Skyrace is so difficult in his eyes that ‘everyone who reaches the finish line is a winner and a champion.’ In those awful and lonely final kilometres, he says that ‘everything comes to mind – your training, your friends and family. Even though you may be alone, you feel like someone is accompanying you and pushing you to keep going.’
