In 2014, the city of La Paz was named one of the Seven New Urban Wonders of the World by the New7Wonders Foundation. This global distinction came after a long and hard-fought campaign spearheaded by the city government and local citizens. It remains a badge of honour for us, as well as a central theme of the city’s efforts to bolster tourism. This award is both a boon to, and result of, La Paz’s emergence onto the world stage.
The attention given to the city is not unwarranted. The teleférico system has revolutionised transport here, for citizens and guests alike. The city’s gastronomic reputation is gaining renown as new restaurants, cafés and bars are focusing on local ingredients to create a distinct modern cuisine. The arts in this city are gaining more and more support as musicians and theatres receive more recognition abroad and more support locally, and the walls of the city come to life with bright murals by local artists. The list of ways in which La Paz is evolving, both culturally and economically, sometimes seems endless.
Such recognition as bestowed on La Paz in the past few years does not come without work. While a city may grow and improve organically in some ways, gaining attention from abroad does take planning and coordination. A lot of thought has gone into how La Paz presents itself, and what this presentation means. In some ways, its identity is carefully crafted, honed (albeit in a decentralised way) to put the city’s best face forward. Much like a person carefully shaping their identity through edited posts and rehearsed smiles on social media, performance is the name of the game, as the city creates a more modern and trendy image and shares it with the world.
We want to look at performance as a way to understand the things happening around us. In La Paz, as anywhere, people are performing every day: in the street, on stages, in work meetings, at social functions. The clothes we wear, the words we use, the actions we take, all put forward representations of who we are, or at least who we want to be. In this issue of Bolivian Express, we take a look at the people, organisations, and places around us, and explore the relationships between who or what they are, how they present themselves, and how we see and interpret them. By looking at Bolivia in this way, we refuse to take things at face value and commit to digging deeper to make sense of why things are shown as they are.
We look at traditional performers, and what they put into their craft, from standup comedians to Bolivian K-pop fanatics. We visit the Conservatorio Plurinacional de Música to review the state of opera and classical music in Bolivia, and spend an afternoon with Juan Carlos Aduviri, a renown Bolivian actor honing his vision for a cinematic style that is purely alteño. And we meet a group of homeless young people living on the street and changing their lives through hip-hop. We also learn about the performance of work, and hear from Bolivian entrepreneurs to understand how they use their experiences to present innovative ideas to local and international marketplaces. And a young bartender talks about his goals for reinventing La Paz’s cocktail scene, using taste, smell (palo santo! tobacco!) and sight to create inspired and stunning drinks.
La Paz’s ascent onto the international stage is undeniable. Plenty of international attention has been paid to this city as a cultural, culinary, and general tourist destination. Hopefully this issue of Bolivian Express helps spread the word on what La Paz and the rest of Bolivia has to offer, and to encourage everyone to stop and watch the show that is life here. It is one not to be missed.
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Photo: William Wroblewski
Juan Carlos Aduviri’s rise as an international actor
He’s holding a metal frame he fabricated with screws and tape to stabilise a tiny GoPro action camera. I seem to be in the middle of nowhere, but actually I am in the far reaches of El Alto, in a young neighbourhood called Urbanización 31 de Noviembre. I don’t quite know what I’m doing here, except that I’ve followed this man to this place and he is currently directing an action scene. We are in a partially built house. Powdered cement rushes to the air as two actors engage in a staged fight.
Juan Carlos Aduviri made his name acting in the acclaimed film Even the Rain, performing alongside Gael García Bernal. He has acted in several roles since, but is chiefly following his goal of becoming a director and cinematographer. Born and raised in El Alto, he says ‘life itself is an adventure’, and hopes to show the world ‘this crazy city’. His coaching classes to young aspiring actors and directors seem to be an expansion of this vision. The fact that he’s working on one movie that ends with the beginning, and another filmed entirely with GoPros, demonstrates his distinct style of filmmaking.
Juan Carlos grew up in a poor family with eight siblings. His mother and partially disabled father often went to the countryside to work during the planting and harvest seasons, leaving him to look after his younger siblings. He recalls how in high school the teachers thought he had limited potential because, as he says, ‘I suffered from dyslexia, so I was a bad student’. But growing up in an Aymara community in a semi-rural area outside La Paz, he was surrounded by a culture he describes as ‘giving’, in which young people shared this view. Now, he says the world, including the communities near where he grew up, are increasingly individualistic. I hear a recent example of how his wife was thrown off her seat on a bus by a woman who sat in it.
People often glance over the mindset, the ‘inner-game’ of the individual who has achieved success.
Given his difficulties in reading, Juan Carlos spent much of his high school years focusing for hours on the images of his brothers’ comics. Around this time he bought a VHS player and watched whatever film he could. He says the comic books and movies, despite his challenges, were never an escape for him, nor a place to hide. ‘I’ve never seen my past as something sad,’ he points out. ‘Films and TV helped me travel, but not escape reality.’
Today, Juan Carlos watches one movie a day, noting he recently watched Interstellar three times in one week – a clear sign of his obsession with cinematography. I ask him if he sees himself as an adventurer, an explorer. ‘Not only physically, but also in the mind,’ he responds. I tell him I view myself in a similar way, and we high five. It is apparent he has a rigorous determination to keep exploring, to achieve further success.
In May 2009, Juan Carlos received a call. He had the opportunity to audition for an international film shooting in Bolivia. Even the Rain was a telling of the very real events of the early 2000’s in Cochabamba, when communities rose up against the privatisation of Bolivia’s water supply. He got the role, playing the lead Bolivian character, and was nominated for the Goya Award for Best New Actor.
After the film’s success, Juan Carlos was given a chance to leave and go to Canada, but chose to stay in El Alto. He feels he has much more to give. ‘I want to show my Bolivia to the people of the world,’ he says, and points out that he doesn’t have dreams, he has goals – achievable things. He sees El Alto, and all its quirks, as a ‘Wild West’ of sorts, and firmly believes a distinct style of cinematography can come from the city.
Though he acts, Juan Carlos focuses on being a director and cinematographer. He surrounds himself with people who will help achieve this vision and, of course, they are chiefly from El Alto. His companions are not yet famous in the film community, almost underground, but Juan Carlos assures me they relish their craft, their talents are being nurtured, and they soon will be more prominent. He knows this symbiotic relationship will make him a better director.
When I ask him what one thing he would change in the world, he is not pensive, as if he has thought about this before. ‘No borders,’ he answers firmly. To him, the world is increasingly isolationist and the core of this problem is that it is borne out of fear, just as borders are. ‘Borders are proof of human decadency and are breaking the links between people,’ he elaborates.
People often marvel at actions and achievements, but glance over the mindset, the ‘inner-game’ of the individual who has achieved some success. Speaking to Juan Carlos it is evident that his mindset, his ‘worldview’ forms him. He has been forged by his life in the city of El Alto and the people that make up that place.
‘I’ve never seen my past as something sad. Films and TV helped me travel, but not escape reality.’ Juan Carlos Aduviri
When he was young, Juan Carlos told his brother that he was going to be a cinematographer. The response was questioning, as he remembers his brother saying that such a goal was unachievable, and that Juan Carlos ‘would always be an “Indian”’. Juan laughs as he recalls the memory. ‘My brother was right,’ he says, ‘in the movies I do play the Indian!’ But even back then his drive was persistent. Once he said aloud that he would be a cinematographer, he knew he had to do it.
And here we are, in El Alto, filming away with his makeshift equipment. The cement rushes to the air and Juan calls out, ‘¡Buenísimo!’ He is happy with this take.
Illustration: Hugo L. Cuéllar
Regenerating the classical music scene in Bolivia
Even a cursory glance around the Conservatorio Plurinacional de Música will tell you that the classical music scene in Bolivia, in spite of all odds, is alive and kicking. The sound of a distant clarinet wafts through the open courtyards whilst students laden with instruments and scores dash between classes in the airy halls of the school. Notice boards are crowded with flyers for concerts, musicals and recitals. The enthusiasm is there, but where is the audience?
‘It’s more and more difficult to fill concert halls these days,’ laments Weimar Arancibia, conductor of the Orquesta Sinfónica Nacional de Bolivia. ‘Major productions, such as opera and ballet, have such extremely high costs that it is very difficult to cover them.’
Although the general crisis of classical music is apparent in Bolivia, it is not only a problem of funding. Another problem for young musicians is the lack of opportunities, particularly for those interested in opera. I spoke to Beatriz Méndez, Director of the conservatory in La Paz, who met me in the reception of the school, clearly straight from teaching and on her way to yet another class. ‘The sad reality is that, as an institution, we can train people, but there aren’t steps towards promotion,’ she says. Attempts to provide opportunities, she adds, are ‘personal, not institutional initiatives’.
This is not to say that there is nothing available for classical music enthusiasts here. For example, The National Symphony Orchestra has just completed a series of performances of Beethoven’s 9 Symphonies over March, April and May. Additionally, for those looking for less formal classical entertainment, there’s Las Flaviadas, a venue that holds small-scale classical music recitals in Sopocachi every Saturday. Outside of La Paz, there is the annual Baroque Festival in Chiquitanía and the International Culture Festival in Sucre. However, back in the nation’s administrative capital, ópera enthusiasts have had to be content with screenings of performances from places as far afield as the MET in New York in the absence of any live, large-scale productions.
That said, Susana Renjel Encinas, a soprano singer from La Paz and a former pupil of Beatriz Méndez’s, is working to promote opera in the country. She has performed as a soloist with the Orquesta del Conservatorio Nacional de Música and the Orquesta Sinfónica Nacional. Susana and her musical colleagues have taken it upon themselves to promote their art to a younger audience, given the lack of any formal government or institutional initiatives. ‘Unfortunately,’ she says, ‘the classical music scene in Bolivia is still quite limited. There hasn't been a complete ópera in the country for many years. As singers, we must do it ourselves, find spaces for presentations, and funding.’
According to Susana, the solution to the funding crisis is publicity. Opera the world over has an unfortunate reputation for being inaccessible and elitist. In an attempt to remedy this, she and her colleagues organised a flashmob in a Pumakatari, with the support of the La Paz bus. ‘We had a great acceptance by the public,’ she smiles. ‘The videos that were filmed of this performance went viral and were shared more than 100,000 times in a couple of days.’ In line with her efforts, two years ago a group of young performers founded the Compañía Lírica Boliviana, precisely to promote the lyrical (opera and chamber music) in the country and in different social groups. ‘We loved this idea,’ she says. ‘If it is beautiful to sing in a theatre, singing close to the people has a magic of its own, the feedback is immediate and it generates some very exciting moments.’
‘As an institution, we can train people, but there aren’t steps towards promotion.’ – Beatriz Méndez, Director of the Conservatorio Plurinacional de Música
It seems their shared vision is exactly what the industry needs to reinvent itself. Weimar Arancibia calls it the ‘regeneration of classical music in Bolivia’, and mentions other initiatives with the same purpose, such as the initiation programme at the Experimental Orchestra of Native Instruments and the School of Music in San Ignacio de Moxos, both of which are dedicated to training composers. ‘These are projects of different visions and objectives, but all with a profound ideological aim,’ Weimar explains. ‘They educate musicians from our culture and our possibilities for expression.’
Back at the conservatory, the halls are still crowded with students and the staff is enthusiastic. They haven’t given up on the future of classical music. It will be a few years before the results of Susana’s initiative are evident and the pieces produced by young composers currently in training open to the public. But for now, looking closer at the notice board, a new flyer has appeared. It is for a brand new production composed by Nicolás Suárez called El Compadre, and it is Bolivia’s first contemporary opera. It seems the aisles are slowly filling and the box-office is back in business.
Photos: Nick Somers
Essence of the Street
It’s a Thursday afternoon on the Prado. A group of young men with microphones linked up to a portable speaker are in full swing, rapping about everything from domestic abuse to Bolivia’s water shortage. And people are listening to them, for perhaps the first time in their lives.
This is Esencia de Lleca (‘Essence of the Street’), a project set up to give homeless young people a voice through hip-hop music. They not only perform live on the Prado every Thursday and Friday afternoon, but have also just released their first album.
And what stories they have to tell. With an age range of 18-28, the majority of the performers are long-term street survivors. They suffer doubly in that they are too old to receive the kind of assistance accessible to minors, and are at ages that are frequently mistrusted by the public. They are here for a variety of reasons. Some have been abandoned by their families, other have lost their parents and have been left vulnerable to extreme poverty and drug abuse.
In Bolivia, just as all over the world, homeless people are ignored and isolated. ‘It’s like they are invisible’ explains Anke Snauwaert, the 24-year-old force behind the project. ‘When you see them on the Prado in La Paz, it’s like they don't exist. People don’t notice them, they don’t want to talk with them, they see them as crap, like people without an identity, as rovers and thieves. They see them in a negative way or they simply don’t see them.’
Anke, a psychology student, came to Bolivia last year to study at the Universidad Católica Boliviana. Having previously played in an orchestra for people in vulnerable situations in her native Belgium, she had seen the beneficial effects of music first hand. In September, with the support of her mentor at the university, she decided to set up something similar here in Bolivia. ‘I think in this way the project was really nice and really beautiful,’ she says. ‘They could express themselves through their music and a whole other dynamic was created on the streets of La Paz. People who usually wouldn’t talk, wouldn't see them, wouldn’t listen to them were standing still, talking with me to know more about them. They were listening to their lives.’
After bringing together a number of kids for the project, Anke drew on some friends who had a small recording studio. They gave her a special price and she was able to fund the studio time with the help of sponsors. She fondly recalls the recording experience and how much it meant to the performers.
These young artists had never had access to this kind of professional set-up before. She noticed that some of the girls were nervous about performing, so she took them for their own special recording session, making a girly day out. It is this kind of sensitivity, attention to detail, and warm-heartedness that characterises Anke and has been integral to the success of the programme. She has created an environment in which these young people feel comfortable enough to tell their stories.
One of the most powerful tales is that of 17-year-old América. In her song ‘Madres Solteras’ (‘Single Mothers’) she tells of her pregnancy at 15, and how she dealt with the discrimination as such a young mother, how she was judged and ignored. She goes on to say how this has not held her back, she kept positive, kept moving forward and ‘her mistakes turned into love’.
Esencia de Lleca not only offers its stars a chance to write and perform, but also the opportunity to make friends, earn money through the sale of the CD, and break away from drug use. ‘This was one of the aims we had,’ Anke says. ‘One of the rules is that whilst you are participating in the project, you can’t be high. One of the goals of the project is to give them another perspective on life, outside of drug use and living on the streets.’
Setting up a project of this type was far from plain sailing for Anke and her team. The original plan was to rehearse in different locations around La Paz, including the Teatro al Aire Libre, a large outdoor venue in La Paz. ‘I kept thinking this could be better because not a lot of them were coming to the project and I knew that a lot of them were interested,’ Anke explains. ‘I think it’s an obligation for them to go out of their comfort zone. They didn’t feel comfortable coming to the Teatro, so I changed the whole idea in January, moving the project to the streets. That changed the project a lot because on the one hand we had more trouble with other people and with the police, but we had a lot more young people that were interested, curious’.
Another problem was dealing with the police, who at first could not tell the difference between the participants of Anke’s programme and other homeless people on the street. Although not all of the homeless people on the Prado use drugs, at times some drug users gathered around the performance and the police assumed Anke was responsible for them. As such, she found that she was being criticised by the local authority for condoning drug use. Fortunately, this struggle was only temporary. As Anke explains, ‘It changed during the first month because they got to know us. We were there every week and they saw that we didn’t make trouble.’
Anke and the boys and girls have come a long way since Esencia de Lleca was founded in September. Integral to its success has been the fact that it is completely different to any other project acting for this demographic. A few organisations are keen to give food and shelter to the homeless, but even these projects can ignore the personalities and stories of the people they are helping. They were nameless figures in the shadows of society, now they’re in the spotlight, and their names are Choko, Chuki, Lustra MC, Adrian, Alan, América, Anahi, Ariel, Bengie, Daniel, Diego, Felman, Jorda, Jorge, Karla, Luis, Mayumi, Poncho, Rolando, Tony and Vlady, and they’ve got a message you ought to listen to.
