Bolivian poetry is recognised in a new collection – and finds its voice in the streets, bars and cafés.

Mónica Velásquez is the general researcher and coordinator of La crítica y el poeta, a collection which has carved a space for the poets of Bolivia by providing readers with a series of critical essays on the work of 11 Bolivian writers of the 20th century. Velásquez outlines the aims of the project: to ‘establish a canon of Bolivian poets’ and ‘train young researchers specialising in Bolivian or Latin American poetry’. It reflects a growing interest in Bolivian writing and provides a platform for these writers. The project also marks a regeneration of poetry in Bolivia.

Drawing together a roster of poets deemed ‘indisputable’ to Bolivian poetic tradition, the collection devotes its first six volumes primarily to writers from La Paz, including Ricardo Jaimes Freyre, Franz Tamayo, Jaime Sáenz, Óscar Cerruto, Edmundo Camargo and Blanca Wietüchter. Then, moving to Cochabamba, Santa Cruz and Tarija, the collection analyses and provides critical commentaries on the works of Adela Zamudio, Raúl Otero Reiche and Octavio Campero Echazú, before focusing on ‘living poets who are currently producing writing’ – Eduardo Mitre and Pedro Shimose – for the final two editions.

Produced by the Plural Editores publishing house and distributed at cultural venues such as the Centro Cultural de España in La Paz, this collection is not widely available outside the country. Whilst helping grow awareness of Bolivian poetry in Bolivia, how many people are reading Bolivian poetry across the globe? According to Velásquez: ‘Very little…I like to travel and carry Bolivian poetry wherever I go – to Spain, Mexico and the United States. It astonishes people that it is such great poetry.’  Velásquez says that it is difficult to publish inside of Bolivia, and that, in turn, stunts the growth of homegrown writers both within and outside of the country.

And, according to Velásquez, it’s the young, aspiring writers of Bolivia who bear this burden. Velásquez sees many up-and-coming writers whose work is ‘very active, very well done and very good’, but their writing isn’t visible because of the financial pressures of publication. ‘You do not see young people write, and that is not because they are not there but because they have to pay for their editions to come out,’ she says. Thus the process of publication is inherently elitist, and young writers must find alternative routes to get their writing published.

Yet has the growth of the Internet not provided an alternative platform for writers to publish their own work, outside the confines of competitive publishing houses? Velásquez recognises that the Internet has helped spread poetry throughout Bolivia, but she says it’s often not high-quality poetry that’s being produced. ‘It is very easy to publish work online, and this is a problem,’ she adds.

But as the traditional outlets in which poetry has been published are closing, Bolivian writers and poets have taken to the streets, bars and cafés of their cities, carving a niche for their literary works. ‘Lately, many festivals have arisen,’ Velásquez says, pointing to the 2005–09 ‘Poetry in the Streets’ programme, in which poets read in the squares of La Paz. In 2010, poet Benjamín Chávez, founded the International Poetry Festival of La Paz and Oruro. In Santa Cruz, many cafés and bars hold poetry readings, and in La Paz, Café Magick features regular readings.

With a rich although unrecognised literary legacy, Bolivian poetry may soon reach out into undiscovered domains.

A transformation in the way that poetry lives and breathes is underway in the country. Although public schools may insist that poetry is only to be learnt by rote and recited – not studied, analysed, felt and understood – projects such as La crítica y el poeta provide the opportunity for individuals to immerse themselves in the critical study of the Bolivian poetry canon. Though the project was born in the academy, by way of the Literary Research Institute of the Universidad Mayor de San Andrés, its readership extends to the laypeople. As Velásquez notes, ‘At first I thought the publication was going to be only for students of literature, communication or philosophy, but the readership seems to be much wider.’

The ways in which people relate to poetry in Bolivia are changing, and this is a change we should embrace. The future of  La crítica y el poeta is equally as exciting. Velásquez is enthusiastic at the mention of translating the works of Bolivian writers into English, which will disseminate this writing globally. She mentions plans to provide critical studies of works dating as far back as the 17th century, popularising heretofore unknown handwritten manuscripts. With a rich although unrecognised literary legacy, Bolivian poetry – and the critical study of it – may soon reach out into further undiscovered domains.

Photos: Esteban Terrazas

Here at Bolivian Express we’re giving you a ‘Dos and Don’ts’ guide of the best second-hand clothes on offer at El Alto market. Forget the alpaca jumpers and ‘gringo’ trousers and take a look at the vintage highs and lows of our favourite market in Bolivia.

Get glam with the glitziest item on offer. In this vibrant number, stay gold and shield yourself from the cold.

Jumper: 3 bolivianos

A pricier number by El Alto terms, turn this gaudy jumper into the pinnacle of vintage chic aesthetic. You’ll be fighting through the piles of clothes to find a jumper like this.  

Jumper: 8 bolivianos

Only in El Alto; a genuine leather jacket for the price of a taxi ride in La Paz. Can be worn with almost anything and everything and you will still look good.

Jacket: 20 bolivianos

El Alto meets the Champs Élysées. French chic and fabulous— a perfect item for a romantic date or a staged photoshoot at the Montículo.

Dress: 3 bolivianos

Scarf: 2 bolivianos

DON’TS

Pair your tacky pink waterproofs with a bright green Christmas scarf. This is a look that will have you turning heads for all the wrong reasons.

Trousers: 3 bolivianos

Scarf: 2 bolivianos

Probably one of the most revolting and expensive jumpers on offer in El Alto. We purchased it so that you don’t have to come across it yourself when rummaging through the market.

Jumper: 10 bolivianos

Politicise your wardrobe with a Mitt Romney 12’ hoody. Nothing needs to be said other than don’t. 20 bolivianos for this uncomfortable piece of outerwear.

Jumper: 20 bolivianos

No matter how painful to the eyes this outfit may be, this is a don’t that our model makes it look like a do.

Shirt: 2 bolivianos

Trousers: 3 bolivianos

Photos: Nick Ferris

A journey to Sorata, to experience life in colonial times

Walking around central La Paz, amidst the exhaust fumes and market stalls, it’s hard to know what things were like at the time of Tupac Katari or Simón Bolívar. The city’s colonial buildings, the only obvious remnants from that age, are often a sorry sight. Hidden behind masses of tangled black wires, colourful old town-houses lie forgotten. Squeezed between messy red-brick new-builds and towering skyscrapers, the ornamentations and patterning is gradually eroded by the dust and fumes of passing cars.

Seeking a sense of what towns and villages were like 200 years ago, I decided to travel to the small town of Sorata, in the Yungas region on the eastern edge of the Andes. I took a three-and-a-half-hour minibus journey across the altiplano from La Paz to find a town that permeates old-world charm and a powerful sense of history.

Sorata was used by the Spaniards as a link to the gold mines and rubber plantations of Alto Beni, and a gateway to the Amazon basin. It is famed for holding a sensational 1781 siege, when indigenous leader Andrés Tupac Amaru and his 16,000 soldiers constructed dykes above the town to collect snowmelt from Mount Illampu. These were then opened, promptly washing the entire town away. More recent conflict was experienced during the 2003 Bolivian Guerra del Gas, when a hotel was burnt to the ground and a number of tourists were trapped in town amidst clashes between soldiers and villagers – all to the detriment of the town’s tourism industry.

The peaceful town I discover is a world away from all this. A series of winding cobbled streets lead onto a broad, verdant main square with a distinctly colonial feel, lined with restaurants and complete with a bandstand and towering, white-barked palm trees that offer shade to children playing and elderly sorateños alike. Yet the star attraction of the town is its architecture. Like the colonial architecture still evident in La Paz, these buildings are beautifully coloured and rich in intricate ornamentation. Unlike La Paz, though, the buildings still exist in considerable numbers and in close concentration. Built by the Spaniards  using riches procured from the gold in the area, many houses still possess original balconies and doorways, and courtyards centred around fountains that run using their original pump and water source.

However, there is a problem. Just as in La Paz, where citizens are currently witnessing the questionable construction of the towering Casa del Pueblo by the historic Plaza Murillo, there are little to no regulations or protective measures governing these buildings. This means that, for the most part, buildings are at best dilapidated, at worst falling down. ‘There is no cultural conscience,’ says Goyo Charly Lazo Colque, in charge of culture and tourism in the Sorata municipality. ‘Nobody is interested in conservation in Sorata, they just want to organise parties and make the people happy.’ Lazo wants to introduce building regulations, but a lack of cultural education means there is little appetite for that in the government bureaucracy. ‘There is an official working at city hall,’ Lazo says, ‘who has built a house of bricks, five stories tall, and you can see it right next to all this beautiful architecture.’

Lazo cites the division of wealth following family deaths, causing houses to be literally split between heirs, as a major factor contributing to the decline and varying standards of disrepair evident among the buildings. He also blames outsiders, often wealthy miners who are simply ‘not interested in the heritage of the town’, who build new red-brick property over the colonial houses. According to Lazo, ‘the government would rather spend their annual budget of 100,000 bolivianos on parties and celebrations’ rather than on efforts to protect local heritage. In fact, the opposite is occurring: the plazuela, which had until recently been a colonial square complete with original European railings, is being converted into a modern children’s playground. A vital civic amenity, yes, but one that is contributing to chip away at the town’s cultural heritage.

I ask Lazo if perhaps, given how they represent an exploitative and racist past, the decline and destruction of colonial buildings might not be such a terrible thing. He is quick to rebut me: ‘The majority of sorateños are direct descendents of Spaniards mixed with the Tiwanaku heritage; they are proud to be who they are and of their culture, both indigenous and Spanish.’ He says that many older sorateños who left the town in their youth come back in their retirement, such is their love for the town’s atmosphere. ‘You can always find them in the main square wearing their traditional outfits, with their old hats. They will always be there. They love it here; they call the town their paraiso terrenal [earthly heaven].’

Lazo sees tourism and foreign investment as possible ways of answering Sorata’s problems. The grandest house in all Sorata, Casa Günther, was restored in 2009 to feature in the German film Write Me – Postcards to Copacabana. Now tourists are returning to Sorata in large numbers following the Guerra Del Gas, for the most part to take part in trekking or other adventure tourism, but bringing in money all the same. The momentum generated by increased foreign interest and officials like Lazo, who are eager to capitalise upon it, could prove a winning combination for the revival of cultural heritage not just in Sorata but, by its example, in La Paz and the rest of the country. There is hope, then, for crumbling cultural heritage, that both government officials and locals can learn to see the worth of the historic cultural beauty around them, and that it can be protected and restored for the future.