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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Photos: Nick somers and Sophie Hogan
Humo Mixologist Josué Grajeda Lino has his artform down to a tee
When I tell Josué Grajeda Lino, the bartender at Humo's bar - The Whiskería - that I'm just not sure what I want, he tells me to pick a spirit. Slightly perplexed, I pick cachaça, Brazil's crown jewel of liquor. For a moment, I see him ponder, searching his brain for just the right thing to make. Then, as if a light bulb has gone off in his head, he springs into action, grabbing his cocktail shaker and beginning to craft his newest creation.
The taste could almost be described as out of this world. As he explains what's in it, I begin to understand the flavour that is so intoxicatingly good: cachaça, egg whites, passion fruit juice, a touch of lemon juice, and the syrup of huira huira, a flower from the altiplano. It is clear to see why this place, attached to the restaurant Humo, tucked below the Montículo in La Paz’s Sopocachi neighbourhood, has quickly become one of the most talked about bars in town.
'As a kid, I was desperate to be pilot,' Josué recalls. We are sitting in the restaurant as the cooks prepare for the night's dinner rush. 'Later, I wanted to dedicate myself to gastronomy, to be a cook, but it was during a time when my parents didn't really have the money to pay for the schooling.' To fund his dream, he began working nights as a security guard in nightclubs, while by day he attended Manq'a, a culinary social project in El Alto for low-income youth. As he began to learn his craft at the institute he had a small revelation. 'I realised that I like gastronomy – and I love working nights – so why not work in bartending?'
Josué, an alteño, found his way to La Paz and was eventually able to take a place at the famous Gustu culinary school. 'I was studying there for two years,' he remembers, although much of his learning came from the people surrounding him throughout the years. 'At first I was teaching myself, and I learned many things from those around me,' he says. 'As time passed, people left and changed, so I began to really use what I'd learned from them, and in later years of course the internet was extremely useful.'
After his two years at Gustu, he was taken in for a job at the new restaurant in Sopocachi called Humo, which means ‘smoke’ in English. When The Whiskería opened in February, however, Josué got his first big bartending job as resident mixologist on the restaurant lounge. At the new job, he was able to do much more than at Gustu. 'I would like it to be the best bar in La Paz. At least, to make it a place with artesanal drinks for a fair price,' he says. 'I want to get along with all my clients. I do not spoil them. I do my job and sell them something good.'
In only four months, his vision for the bar is starting to materialise. Humo's resident bar has been hailed as one of the best in La Paz. Every night clients come from all over the city, locals and tourists alike. The classic cocktails, many of Josué's own creation, have been popular with many. Josué’s personal favourite is the Humo 2.0, which includes cold coffee amongst its ingredients. It might seem risky at first, but it is actually a beautiful drink. 'The Negroni is my all-time favourite cocktail, but of my own creation, it has to be the Humo 2.0,' he says, laughing.
Although Josué’s nameless, custom cocktails are not a common occurrence, I will never forget that first sip of the cachaça-based drink he made for me. He has more talent that some of the bartenders of Lima or Rio de Janeiro, and he tells me he would like to go to London some day. 'They have the best bars in the world, without a doubt,’ he says. ‘It would be a dream to visit them.'
Josué's work is simply extraordinary. Something tells me I will be imbibing within the dark wooden walls of Humo's Whiskería more than a few times in the near future.
Humo is located on the ground floor of the Montículo Apart Hotel, Calle Macario Pinilla #580, La Paz.
Photo: Sophie Hogan
Bolivia Joins the Harry Potter Party Around the World
With hundreds of thousands of websites, chat rooms and clubs dedicated to the saga, the famous magical world of Harry Potter is known the world over. Not to be left behind, La Paz has recently seen the grand opening of a new café in the Sopocachi neighbourhood dedicated to this incredibly popular book and film franchise. Avada Kedavra, as the café is known, takes its name from the series’ infamous death curse. At first, that may not sound promising, but we here at Bolivian Express thought we’d try it out and see.
Even before one walks through the door, Avada Kedavra proves itself to be an admiring homage to the novels and films. Outside, a large dragon sits atop the small building, mouth open and baring its teeth, with the café’s name written on a swinging cauldron above the door. Visitors are greeted by a towering life-size figure of Hagrid, Hogwarts’s groundskeeper; across stands the slightly disturbing figure of Voldemort.
'My partner Citlali Rioja and I both adore the saga, and we wanted to pay homage to it in a unique way,' says Hugo Catunta, one of the cafés two proprietors, as he leans over a counter displaying numerous themed mugs, badges and keychains for sale. 'The cafés here in Sopocachi are sophisticated, so we wanted to keep up with that as well.' He says that the drinks, for him, have a touch of magic. 'I really love the butterbeer, and the multijugo potion really tastes magical.'
Strewn across the walls is a mountain of paraphernalia – from a dementor bursting out of a wall to wands stacked behind the counter. Candles hang from the ceiling, and the bathroom is the spitting image of infamous villain Professor Umbridge’s office. Quidditch books and other magical lore sit in glass cases. The pièce de résistance, however, must be the small dressing room in the middle of the café, where appropriate garments await the most fanatic customers; there are robes from each Hogwarts house. Visitors can try them on and take photos of themselves, and even don the famous ‘sorting hat’ to top the outfit off.
The pièce de résistance must be the small dressing room in the middle, where appropriate garments await the most fanatic customers.
This place, without a doubt, is a haven for ‘Potterheads’. But for those who aren’t so enamoured with the franchise, there is a limited but growing menu. There are the usual suspects, the coffees and frappuccinos, but as a café dedicated to a magical world, more exciting things are on offer. Our personal recommendation is the Phoenix, a refreshing drink based on Professor Dumbledore’s bird; listed simply as a juice of mango and forest fruits, it seems so much more, as a rich, cloudy mix of red, yellow and orange in the glass gives it a touch of magic. To top it all off, there is a small piece of dry ice on top of every goblet. (Yes, drinks are served in goblets.)
'Each recipe has its own unique little touch, to make it more fun. And of course, the theme makes it all the more unique,' Hugo says. And we agree. Although this café is still in its infancy, it is already a booming business; our first attempt at entering it was thwarted by a line for tables that was almost to the door. Avada Kedavra is magically satisfying the Harry Potter super-fans of Bolivia.
Avada Kedavra Café is located on Calle Guachalla, between Avenida Sánchez Lima and Avenida 20 de Octubre in the Sopocachi neighbourhood of La Paz.
Photos: Nick Somers, William Wroblewski, Adriana Murillo
The Bolivian Cult of K-Pop Revisited
Back in 2014, I wrote about and investigated the curiously popular Korean pop scene in Bolivia for BX41. I spent time with a dance troupe called Diamond Girls and interviewed a radio expert in an attempt to get my head around how this niche, artificial and – crucially – Korean genre had permeated the millennial consciousness in La Paz so successfully. My conclusions were: marketing, sentimentality and idolism. But I never quite reconciled with a cultural import that had no basis in Bolivian language or lifestyle, and that had even led to extreme examples of paceños undergoing cosmetic surgery to appear more like their K-pop idols.
Three years on, I decided to go back. And to go big. In an attempt to understand this genre and its popularity in La Paz, I would have to become a Bolivian K-pop star.
My transition’s enablers came in the form of María Isabel Huanca Azurduy and her team at K-SHIN who, perhaps misguidedly, agreed for me to perform as the halftime act in the 2017 K-pop World Festival Bolivia at the Palacio de Comunicaciones along La Paz’s main avenue, El Prado. More excitingly still, I was to become the fifth member of an all-female dance group – the wonderfully patient 501% Double S, whose name is a twist on SS501, one of the casualties of my 2014 vendetta, and the masterminds behind ‘Love Like This’, the song and routine we would be learning.
My only previous foray into dance training was when a male friend and I, despairing over our fruitless nightclub experiences, decided to shed all self-respect and learn the charleston in my university kitchen. I was not so much a fish out of water as a coy carp trying to rewire a plug socket. Yet, I was determined to dive into K-popping.
Our group’s first rehearsal was in a mirrored studio at Academia Artistik on Avenida Arce, where Alexis Anahi Castillo Rodríguez was tasked with the herculean objective of leading my training. Her purple hoodie reading ‘Wild Card’ seemed painfully apt. Progress, inevitably, was slow. The delay on my moves compared to the rest of the group was reminiscent of the lag on a transatlantic FaceTime courtesy of GPRS internet.
I was not so much a fish out of water as a coy carp trying to rewire a plug socket.
In our initial meeting, Isabel had, incredibly, agreed to afford me a solo vocal performance as well. My rendition of Kim Hyung-jun’s ‘Sorry I’m Sorry’ was set to be something of an apologetic homage to the man himself who, three years ago, had borne the brunt of my sardonic criticism, and had been the focal point of an excruciating cultural faux-pas when, arriving for a photoshoot with notorious ‘Junus’ fans Diamond Girls, it transpired that the images on my homemade placard featured Kim Hyun-joong; the star’s arch-nemesis, no less. I blame Google. As it turned out, my attempt at learning the Korean lyrics to Kim’s song looked certain to lead to an international incident. Best, we decided, that I stuck to dancing.
Our next – and final – two rehearsals, held in the all-too-public Plaza Bolivia, threw up no shortage of embarrassment, a variety of unwanted photographs, yet a surprising amount of improvement. One moment of panic came when I asked the group how long they had been dancing K-pop. Their answer – five years – made my four days look a tad on the under-invested side.
And so, all too soon, K-Day arrived. I had taken great solace from the words of Neil Jacobsen, an executive of the powerful Interscope Records, who ranks the qualities of a K-pop idol thus: ‘First, beauty. Second, graciousness and humility. Third, dancing. Fourth, vocal.’ Having very publicly failed at requirements three and four, it was time to invest in the first two.
After guru Alexis deemed that linen and paisley weren’t sartorially Korean enough, on her instructions I was dressed somewhat akin to a once-popular children’s party magician now bumped down the pecking order after an ‘incident’ with one of the mothers. The aforementioned Kim Hyung-jun, who incidentally has just signed up to the South Korean police force, clearly has a strong sense of justice, but an even stronger hairstyle.
So, borrowing his defining characteristic, and with the aid of an industrial quantity of VO5, I headed to the venue with an electrified mop protruding from my scalp. Beauty? Check. In terms of graciousness and humility, it was very clear that I had absolutely no right not to display either. So, out of unconscious obligation, I was resplendent in both.
Half an hour before kick-off, my nerves were done no favour by a line of expectant spectators stretching and weaving, literally, around the block. Paceño K-poppers, I discovered, had multiplied in the past three years as prolifically as myxomatosis in the rabbit community of South East England.
The first half of this wonderfully slick competition went all too quickly and, before I either knew it or was ready, it was time to perform.
The experience was a blur – partly thanks to my adrenaline, and partly due to the dizzying decibel levels in the auditorium. One particular jacket-flick I attempted brought about screaming until now only heard at a Justin Bieber concert. There was also a very hairy moment post-dance when, in an impromptu on-stage interview, I was asked to name my favourite K-pop artists. Racking my brains to remember more than one, I was forced into an integrity-compromising spiel about the merits of Kim Hyung-jun. Mercifully, the crowd agreed.
My performance, unexpectedly to say the least, came with a literal five minutes of fame: fan photos were not on my K-pop bucket list, yet somehow I was swamped – relatively – in the moments after I came off stage. At the time of writing, I’ve had to retreat to a quiet café to escape my fans.
At the time of writing, I’ve had to retreat to a quiet café to escape my fan.
Three years ago, I concluded that K-pop seemed still to represent a taboo interest in Bolivia, but that Hallyu – the term used to describe the tsunami of South Korean culture that permeated the global pop scene in the early noughties – could prove to be a defining shaper of Bolivia’s horizons. Never, though, did I consider that it might shape mine. Three years ago, I was a reluctant K-popper – like a shy voter unwilling to admit his pro-Brexit tendencies. Three years on, I have been converted. For this, for the generosity and good spirit of K-SHIN, and for the unyielding patience and humour of 501% Double SS, and to Alexis in particular, I say ‘Gracias’, and ‘Sorry I’m Sorry’.
