If you spend time on Lake Titicaca, you have the opportunity to experience one of Bolivia’s most serene and beautiful sights. As fisherfolk pull their nets out from the depths of the water, totora boats with their majestic sails and bows adorned with proud animal faces skim across the surface, taking their passengers on adventures across the world’s highest navigable lake. Much activity happens on this water, but below is an ecology all its own, with species of fishes and aquatic animals only found there, swimming in and out of legends of lost cities and civilizations believed to be submersed below the waves.
Our writer Julia McGee-Russell travelled to Huatajata, on the road to Copacabana, to work alongside master builder Máximo Catari, to learn the craft of reed boat building. For centuries, residents here have used these techniques to build vessels of all sizes to traverse the lake, providing opportunities for trade and exploration. These living practices continue to be passed on today, and offer a way to dig deep into the culture and history of the area.
In this issue of Bolivian Express, we are exploring the theme of ‘Surfaces’. We are taking a wide look at initial appearances of this diverse country and examining the details that give it the colour and life it has when viewed from the outside. We are also digging deep to see what is below the surface, to understand the inner workings hidden from first glances – the history, the structures, and the motivations of the people that make everything here move and come to life.
We visit Oruro to experience the Diablada, one of the most popular dances of Carnaval, which gives the opportunity for the devil to come out from his subterranean domain to perform for the masses. We explore Bolivia’s historical heritage through unearthed and recovered artefacts and once-hidden cave paintings that provide a window to the ancient past. Bridging the past with the present, we visit Huanuni, a mining centre on the altiplano recently featured in the award-winning Bolivian film Viejo Calavera, to see for ourselves the place portrayed, and to understand the motivations of those involved in the film – the director as well as the stars and residents of the town itself.
There is much history in Bolivia below the surface, but exciting and deep changes are constantly making the country a new place year after year. We examine the new distances covered by new lines of the teleférico, the cable car system in La Paz and El Alto, that will allow residents of far reaches of the metropolis to reach the city centre in record time. And we look to the future through the vision of restaurateurs who are changing spaces, re-envisioning both physical surfaces and Bolivian cuisine to create new experiences for the gourmands in La Paz. We examine the very present struggle for wildlife conservation, particularly the protection of wild quirquinchos, or Andean hairy armadillos, whose hard shells are prized for their usefulness in making musical instruments and ornaments and for generally bringing good luck.
Initial impressions of Bolivia are astounding enough. Anywhere you go in this country you will see nothing but the amazing. From the jungles of the Beni to the high peaks of Illimani and Sajama, there is so much to explore here. And this includes the boats and their builders on the shores of Lake Titicaca. As you take in all Bolivia has to offer, don’t forget to dig, to look under the surface to see the true inner workings of this wonderful place. The stories you will find can only enlighten your senses and offer you the full Bolivian experience.
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Photo: Nick Somers
The Little Fair Where Big Dreams Come True
Walking around the Feria of Alasitas, crowds move together and street vendors shout ‘¡Dólares! ¡Dólares!’ as the smell of palo santo smoke from yatiris hangs in the air. The sensations can be overwhelming, but these are the sights and smells every day during late January through February, when artesanos sell miniaturas during the festival.
There are miniaturas of every description here, small figurines that represent the buyer’s wishes for the following year. Some are literal: a tiny cardboard laptop, a driving license. Others are more obscure: a chicken or cockerel for a romantic partner, or an elephant for luck. The festival is growing every year, and one artesana believes people’s dreams are coming true due to the miniaturas, that they are returning with friends so they too can benefit from it. ‘It's popular because everything is made in miniature, and people have it all within reach,’ says Claudia Blanco, one of the vendors.
‘It’s a tangible heritage,’ Claudia continues, and this tangibility is certainly reflected in the changing miniaturas available at the festival. Milton Eyzaguirre Morales, the Director of Museum Extension and Development in the Museo Nacional de Etnografía y Folklore (MUSEF), believes this development of tradition is important. ‘When you take a rural ritual into an urban space it is transformed,’ he says. This transformation is present in the changes from the original miniaturas of food and cattle, to ones representing every modern desire imaginable. From Milton’s perspective, this evolution is a positive turn of culture. ‘The artesanos represent what is current, what is in fashion,’ he says. ‘The Feria de Alasitas has appropriated modernity; modernity has not taken over Alasitas.’
The artesanos create people's dreams and desires out of clay and ceramic, and the people are in turn responsible for fulfilling the dreams of their artesanos.
In some ways this is true. As the hopes of the public change, the illas that represent those hopes change too. The word illas comes from semillas (‘seeds’), representing the dreams that develop from these small representations. Milton mentions that the miniaturas of today are in fact illas as they are ‘elements [the public] want to grow in the future’, rather than ornaments.
However, the move towards selling modern, mass-produced miniaturas makes it easier for vendedores to sell dólares and toy cars by the score, and at only one boliviano each, this undercuts traditional artesanos and their handmade miniaturas. According to artesana Sonía Catacora, ‘We sell them to be able to eat, in order to live.’ And it’s also detrimental to the state, as the vendedores do not pay taxes for their space. ‘We are waiting for the support of the public,’ Sonía says.
Sonía loves being an artesana. As a girl, she made toys, frying pans, pots, and plates out of mud and clay, baking them in the sun even though they’d break. And all the other artesanos I spoke to also love their craft. Like Sonía, they are passionate about their art.
The public has to choose to support the livelihoods of artesanos like Sonía and Claudia, who spend all year painstakingly crafting their miniaturas by hand, not just by programing a machine. As the artesanos create people's dreams and desires out of clay and ceramic, so the people are in turn responsible for fulfilling the dreams of their artesanos.
Photos: Nick Somers
The changing traditions of the Diablada
The bells on the spurs of each man’s left shoe sound in time with the boisterous music of the band. The Urus, a comparatively young Diablada dance troupe founded in 1960, rehearse by marching up and down the street in groups, twirling colourful handkerchiefs. Famed for their exquisite costumes, they dance the Diablada at the Carnival celebrations in Oruro every year. Their dance is a struggle of good versus evil: a fight between legions of devils and angels. It culminates in Saint Michael’s victory over Lucifer and his triumph over each of the seven deadly sins.
At the rehearsal on Oruro’s Avenida Teniente Villa there are dancers of all ages and abilities. There are small children dancing alongside adults old enough to be their grandparents. ‘My dad is the oldest dancer and now he is the president of the Urus. There is a feeling that we practice as a family,’ says Alicia Navier Mier, a dancer who performs as a Ñuapa China in the Diablada. ‘Those who have grown up dancing Diablada feel something special in their hearts. We live with the music, we hear it anywhere and we dance. It’s indescribable,’ She says with a smile.
Although there are other dances performed during Carnival, such as the Morenada, the Diablada is a favourite for many. With its diverse characters, costumes, and the astonishing athleticism of its steps, this is hardly surprising. Martin Riveros, who is a member of the fraternidad, dances alongside others with costumes inspired by lizards, snakes, ants and other creatures. ‘Our block is called the Four Plagues because those are the plagues that have invaded our city,’ he explains. ‘Our costumes try to show that. We have been innovating without distorting anything.’
On 18 May 2001, the ‘Carnaval de Oruro’ was recognised as one of the Masterpieces of the Oral and Intangible Heritage of Humanity by UNESCO. Alicia and many others believe the Diablada is the principal contributor to this success. ‘Without the Diablada there would be no Carnival,’ she says. The Urus, however, believe that without faith there would be no Diablada. Their uniforms represent the blue and white colours of the sky and their most important values are faith, passion, and devotion to the Virgin of Socavón, the patron of the mines and miners. ‘I dance out of devotion for the Virgin,’ Martin says, ‘not for people to see me, because we all wear masks.’
Although the origin of the Diablada is disputed, some believe it originated as a celebration for the Virgin after miracles such as the legend of Chiru-Chiru, who is said to have been a notorious bandit that stole from the rich and gave to the poor. It is said that Chiru-Chiru became mortally wounded during an attempted robbery and retreated to the mine, where the Virgin appeared to him as he lay dying and repenting his sins. According to the legend, after his death the image of the Virgin was found on the wall above his body.
This is one of many legends that shroud the origins of the Diablada. Another tale is that of a miner who fell asleep in the mine after a ch’alla, or blessing, and woke up to the devil dancing in front of him. He followed the devil’s dance out of the mine and gave life to the Diablada.
Despite the various legends, the Diablada has evolved beyond its origin and has become hugely popular throughout Bolivia. With the passage of time, there have been significant changes to the characters in the dance. Some have disappeared and others have been added. In the past, for example, women were not allowed to dance the Diablada. Instead, men would perform the female roles such as the China Supay. Over time, women began performing as the Chinas Supay in addition to other characters like the Ñuapa Chinas, Ñuapa Diablos, and female Angels. The development of new characters ‘has opened spaces for social actors to form a part of the Diablada,’ Morales explains. ‘In some cases, there are young women who have to dance, or older women (the Ñuapa Chinas) who can’t dance at the same rhythm as the rest of the group, but are important to denote their seniority.’
Women have been given space through the character of the Diablesa, which was created 18 to 20 years ago as the female counterpart to the Diablos, or ‘devils’. According to Mildred San Martín Argandoña, a Diablesa performer, ‘it is very different from the China Supay because they are more flirtatious, but we represent the feminine part of the Diablos better.’ The costumes of the Diablos and the Diablesas are very similar, with Diablesas wearing skirts instead of trousers. ‘The dress has changed and evolved, but always in order to improve’ Mildred says.
Originally, the Ñuapa China was the leading female devil figure, wearing a long skirt. As the Chinas Supay developed, the Diablada began to feature female costumes with short skirts. ‘Chinas Supay are the sexiest’ Alicia says, giggling. But this was not always the case. During the 1910s and 1920s their masks ‘had to be terrifying to frighten people. In some cases they had a broken nose, which is a symbol of their relationship with the devil. . . as well as a split tongue. It wasn’t such a feminine form, but now that has totally changed,’ Morales says. Alicia believes that the Chinas Supay appeared ‘because everything is evolving. There are new blocks of characters that give space to the girls who want to dance as Chinas and therefore the Ñaupa Chinas are now older people.’
The Urus themselves have also evolved with time. ‘When I joined the URUS we were 70 and now we have around 600 members,’ Martin says. The dance troupe has instituted a number of new technologies in their Diablada, including a small flamethrower attached to the top of some Diablos masks. They also use electric lights on head pieces, and large sparklers. These pyrotechnic elements are one of the reasons the public enjoys the Diablada. It is a spectacle to behold. Despite the influence of these new technologies, Martin tells me that ‘the Urus want to preserve the traditions and the culture of the Diablada.’ The culture of the Diablada is truly important to the Urus, many of them tell me that it represents Oruro, that it represents Bolivia.
According to the dancers, due to its cultural significance the Diablada as it is today will never disappear. ‘Orureños are born with a spirit of dancing,’ Alicia says. ‘Listening to the music of Diablada is part of our being.’
Photo: Julia McGee-Russell
A Workshop with Lake Titicaca’s Master Reed-Weaver
Bringing with me the skills of finger-knitting, hair-braiding, and a solitary workshop in willow-weaving, it is clear I was grossly unprepared for the difficulty of creating anything out of reeds. Upon my arrival to Huatajata, a small town of 300 people on the southeast shore of Lake Titicaca, I was welcomed by Máximo Catari and his family, basking in the early evening sunshine and chatting in Aymara. Huatajata has been known around the world for its expert boat-builders since 1969, and the Catari family, led by Máximo, has certainly contributed to this.
Máximo was meticulously cutting the bundle of totora in his hands, and miniature boats lay littered around him. While watching him precisely slice the reeds of his creation, I had the over confident thought of, ‘I could do that.’ I would soon be proven wrong.
It quickly became clear to me that no amount of hair-braiding could have prepared me for this: literally smashing reeds with a rather large rock. One could use the term ‘reed weaving’ in only the loosest sense, because when ‘weaving’ together a boat the reeds themselves are scarcely bent, only curved upwards to form the shape of the hull. Nevertheless much work goes into making even the smallest of structures, and I can only imagine the effort that goes into the full-scale boats Máximo has made.
The basics of boat-building without nails, wood or bolts involves binding three bundles of reeds together. The outer bundles each consist of a cuerpo – a handful of reeds tied together with each end cut to a point – surrounded by more reeds cut to tapering points which match that of the cuerpo. The smaller centre bundle, the chuyma, is wound spirally to the other bundles.
""I over confidently thought: ‘I could do that.’ I would soon be proven wrong.""
I watched Máximo in horror as he cut the reeds, angling the handleless scalpel blade towards himself, the words of my mother to ‘never cut towards yourself’ flashing like neon lights in my brain. The plasters on his fingers and the large blood blister under his thumbnail served to remind me to be especially cautious. Yet the hardest part was still to come.
After I finished slicing the totora (and Máximo corrected it), it was time to tighten the thread that bound the reed bundles together. Using a small metal hook with a wooden handle (a specialized tool called a huakjala) to pull the string tight one loop at a time, it had to be even and straight. This proved to be difficult, and Máximo even admitted that it could be a tiring task, though easier with practice.
During my short experience it never did become easier. My mind numbed to the rhythm of hold, hook and pull, and I never found peace in the activity as Máximo seemed to. Nonetheless, pounding reeds with a foot-sized rock - making them strong when tightened and bending the hull into a recognisable boat shape - was satisfying.
As I finished my slightly uneven, imperfect reed boat - as stark a contrast to Máximo’s grand creations as a sardine is to a shark - I was satisfied nonetheless. There is something profound in holding in your hands the result of your work, lopsided though it may be. This is the joy I found in my experience of a traditional art: looking at my asymmetrical boat and thinking, ‘I made that!’
