It is dispiriting (though perhaps inevitable) that Aymara, once the dominant language of large sections of Bolivia and neighbouring Andean regions, has become relegated to the backstage of everyday life in modern-day society.

Originating several centuries before the Spanish conquest, Aymara developed to become both a language and a culture marked by its bellicose spirit and commercial edge. During the Colonial era, Spanish conquerors attempted to eradicate indigenous languages and unify the continent under one language: Spanish. Because of education policies during this era, even the public use of indigenous languages (including Aymara) was punishable. While the archetypal helm-clad and lance-bearing Spaniards have long been gone, it is plain to see that their main legacy has been their language. However, their attitudes towards indigenous languages such as Aymara also appears to have lived on.

According to Sonia, student of Aymara at the Universidad Mayor de San Andrés (UMSA), part of the stigma that Aymara carries has to do “with racism and social status”. She tells me: “the world moves in English and since education is expensive those people who speak Aymara cannot even think about studying at university. Consequently, Aymara has a relation with the indigenous poor, not cultivated, less educated people so if you learn this language you are relating yourself to it.”

Sonia adds that however, “attitudes have been changing”. Not very long ago, it was unlikely for an Aymaraspeaking cholita to enter a bank and communicate fluently with the person across the counter, rendering inaccessible this and many other public institutions, such as many of the free museums around the city. Although they are allegedly there for everyone to enjoy, language barriers coupled with cultural prejudices can make them appear daunting to an Aymara speaker. But over the last few years, clear strategies have been established to try and promote the plurality of indigenous languages, especially amongst the younger generations. In 2009 the Bolivian government granted official national language status to Aymara, Quechua, Guarani (and 33 other indigenous languages) alongside Spanish. Another interesting move has been to set a requirement that all those seeking jobs within the government must speak an indigenous language to a certain level. Although it could be argued that this move has been symbolically motivated, it gives clear evidence that measures to promote the plurality of languages and the use of Aymara are being put in place.

Central to these changes is the current peoples president Evo Morales. He is the first indigenous president, who initially pursued llama herding before he settled into growing coca and became involved in the coca growers´ trade unions. Evo Morales is of native Aymara decent.

Pascual Gutierrez, professor of Aymara at the UMSA, admits that at university there has not been more interest in studying the course, which revolves not only around the language but also the culture. However, he adds: “in La Paz, when you take into account all the institutions where they teach languages, the number of students who study Aymara has increased. Not only this but most of the institutions which used to only teach Spanish, Portuguese and English, now teach indigenous languages.”

All this means that when civil servants are dealing with people from outside the cities they can actually communicate with the people they are working with. It means that children have the chance to learn the same language they speak at home while in school. It also means that young people recognize the importance of the indigenous languages in their own country. The influence of Aymara in the local vernacular is certainly palpable. Many Spanish expressions in Bolivia such as ‘chiji’ (grass), ‘llokalla’ (young boy) and ‘wawa’ (baby) are used and widely understood by Spanish speakers, many of whom don’t fully realise the indigenous origin of these words. When asked why she decided to learn Aymara, Sonia offered several reasons relating to culture and her sense of identity. ‘I lived in Uruguay for 6 months. During this time I realised that I didn’t know that much about my culture so I decided to learn more about it, about my identity, and therefore about Bolivia. In this area there is a strong Aymara influence on the culture, especially in this part of the country.’ Sonia also plays native musical instruments so she is keen to know more about their context and, as a civil engineer, she’s likely to need to work in the countryside where Aymara is more widely spoken.

As one might imagine, the prospect for Aymara speakers from the rural areas to attend even a public university are slim. A recent extension to the public university in La Paz which provides studies in topics related to land management and agriculture will hopefully reverse this trend.

This widespread increase in the teaching of indigenous languages and culture may not result in a simple shift in attitudes. Out of the several reasons Sonia gave me for studying Aymara one was ideological: “I think that since I have the opportunity to learn Aymara I should. The people who speak Aymara are more removed and may not have the opportunity to learn Spanish so I should try myself.” The minority Aymara speakers may have held themselves back without understanding that this would perpetuate a feeling of being ‘outsiders’. However, I am told that many use it to their advantage in certain commercial settings - using the language as a code used to conduct business with other people with whom they share an origin. Since Aymara is beginning to become more widely embraced, this could enhance the educational opportunities of rural inhabitants, and thus increase their chances of becoming economically prosperous. If this is the case, the entire population stands to benefit in the long run, whether they speak Aymara or not. The same could no doubt be said about any of the other 30 odd languages spoken across the country aside from Spanish.

After a frightening number of cases of discrimination against afrobolivians were disregarded by the Bolivian government, Jorge Medina eventually made a breakthrough in his struggle for the recognition of afro-bolivian people. On 8th October 2010 Medina’s “law against racism and all forms of discrimination” was passed through parliament. What had so long been a dream for the political activist and then director of centro afro-boliviano para el desarollo integral y comunitario (cadic) had now become a reality. But while Medina’s achievement is certainly a cause for celebration among the community, it was short lived: african- bolivians are still faced with many injustices in day-to-day living.

African-Bolivians have been inhabitants of the country from as far back as the sixteenth century. In 1544, the Spanish explorers arrived in Bolivia after learning of the wealth of silver reserves in Potosi, which to that date had not been exploited. As conquerors of the land, the Spanish enslaved the native people and made them work on the mines. However when the native Bolivian workers in Potosí began to perish due to the harsh climate and inhumane working conditions, the Spanish were forced to look elsewhere to replace them. It was then, from the year 1545 onwards, that they forced the African people into slavery. This horrific period for the Afro-Bolivians only began to end towards the dawn of the colonial era in 1825. Throughout the decades of the twentieth century, Bolivia experienced a number of revolutions. However, the most significant of these for Afro-Bolivian rights was that of 1952. By this stage, the Afro- Bolivians were working as slaves in the Yungas, farming coca, cotton and coffee, after the decline in the mining sector. Angel Pinedo, director of the Commission of Indigenous People, explained that during this period a strong relationship formed between the two Indigenous groups in the area, and professed that “Nowadays we live in harmony with the Aymara people”. The left-wing overthrow of the Government by the Nationalist Revolutionary Movement (MNR) in April of 1952 paved the way for the Agrarian Reform in Bolivia allowing Afro-Bolivians some form of ownership of land which had previously been outside their control. However, as the land had to be divided among many thousands of people, there was little to go around, forcing many to migrate away from the Yungas. Despite the fact that this gave many an opportunity to start a life elsewhere, it also signified the loss of much of their traditional culture and customs as they began to separate from one another. While the Agrarian Reform technically ended the enslavement of the Afro-Bolivians, those left in the Yungas were forced into poverty due to the low market price of the agricultural products they were farming.

The publication of Bolivia’s new constitution on 25th January 2009 did little to improve the Afro-Bolivian situation. It did however recognise them as one of the thirty six Indigenous groups in Bolivia for the first time. Despite the fact that they comprised 2.2% of the population and had lived in Bolivia since the sixteenth century, in the census of 2001 they were still not recognised as a distinct ethnic group. While the new Constitution professes a “multi-ethnic” and “multicultural” democracy, Afro-Bolivians form such a small percentage of the country’s population that their existence remains ignored and generally disregarded (compounded by the fact that communities are concentrated in specific areas of the country). Jorge Medina believes that while the changes in the constitution are an improvement from those in the past, the Constitution itself “will never take away the hunger [of the Afro-Bolivians] – it is only a piece of paper”. Despite the continuous mistreatment of the Afro-Bolivians, there are a number of individuals like Jorge Medina who continue to strive for equality for all Bolivians. Medina’s commitment to eliminate the discrimination faced by Afro- Bolivians is made manifest in the number of positions he has taken on over the years. In 2000 he was the President of the “Movimiento Saya Afro-Boliviana”, an organisation aimed at promoting Afro-Bolivian values and strengthening their cultural identity.

Medina was re-elected president and served as the leader of the Saya Movement until 2005 when he began CADIC. Medina then served as director of CADIC until 2010, his intention being for the organisation to be more of a political movement. Medina sighs when questioned about the difficulties individual activists (such as himself) encounter when striving for equal rights for Afro-Bolivians, explaining “If you have the power, you can do it, if not, well –“ he shrugs his shoulders.

Currently, Medina is working as the leader of the National Unity Front, and stands as a representative for six indigenous groups including the Afro-Bolivians, Kallawayas, Tacanas, Lecos, Mostenes, Araonas. Another individual who champions this model of equality among Bolivian Diversity is Evo Morales, Bolivia’s first (and current) Indigenous President. Morales’ work for the Afro-Bolivian population is evident in the changes to the Constitution he was responsible for. Still, we are told that in spite of his focus on the welfare of Afro-Bolivians, much of Morales’ work has been overshadowed by political conflict in other areas of his administration, including tensions within Parliament.

On many levels, there are a number of individuals working towards improving the lives and day-to-day needs of the Afro-Bolivians: Jorge Medina remains dedicated to the cause, as is evident in his success with seeing the law against racism and discrimination become a reality, while Evo Morales’ efforts as President to give Afro-Bolivians a voice in Parliament demonstrate the power of having government support. It is the work of these people, as well as that of many other Bolivians throughout the country, that have seen slight improvements since the days of Afro-Bolivian enslavement in the sixteenth century.

Unfortunately, though, the problem remains. As Afro-Bolivians form a small minority in Bolivia, and consequently have few representatives in powerful positions, many continue to struggle to receive a proper education, healthcare and other necessities that many other groups in society take for granted.

Expats and their offspring

After 5 months of living and working in La Paz, I became increasingly intrigued with the idea of expats who, by moving abroad, end up raising their children in a different culture to their own. I often asked myself what it was like for them. Did they feel Bolivian? How did they feel when assumed to be ‘gringos’?

Considering Bolivia’s first expats were the European colonisers who arrived in the 15th Century, it is safe to say that intermixing has been part and parcel of this country’s history. Comparatively speaking, the presence of white descendants is perhaps less prevalent in Bolivia than in many of its South American neighbours such as Argentina or Uruguay. Nevertheless, by some accounts Caucasians make up as much as 15% of the population*, predominantly constituted by the descendants of families who arrived here decades (and even centuries) ago, as well as expats who’ve only recently moved to the country.

Within my first few weeks in La Paz, I started noticing the numerous European cafes, restaurants and libraries around town - especially in La Paz’s wealthier barrios such as Sopocachi and Zona Sur (Le Bistrot, La Comédie and Kuchen Stube to name but three within walking distance from where I live).

To understand what it means to be blonde in Bolivia I set out to meet the children of these families. Three schools located in Zona Sur appeared to be the indicated places to look for those answers: the German Colegio Alemán “Mariscal Braun”, the French Lycée Franco Bolivien, and the American Cooperative “Calvert”, all of which offer bilingual education programmes, covering all levels from pre-school to graduation. At first sight it seemed there were two entirely different worlds within La Paz. Here in the Zona Sur, a different species of parent drop off their children at the school entrance: it’s not just their conspicuous wealth (evident in their 4x4s and dress sense), there’s a noticeable ethnic difference too. My language skills were tested when I stepped into the Lycée Franco Bolivien and had to switch from Spanish to French - I hadn’t prepared myself for this but after a few minutes of staggered, rusty French, I got into the swing of things. For a moment, I envied those children who had the ability to switch from one language to the other without even thinking, but after looking into it further, I started wondering what it must be like for these blonde-haired, blue-eyed children to grow up in Bolivia with a dual-nationality. Did they have difficulties fitting in? Did they feel Bolivian or did they identify themselves more with their parents’ culture?

During my visit to the Lycée Franco Bolivien, I met Iris, 12, daughter of a Bolivian mother and a Belgian father. Born in Cochabamba, she spent the first nine years of her life in Belgium. “I feel more Belgian than Bolivian because I still speak much more French than Spanish,” she said timidly. “I like it here but it’s very different from home.” Although she admitted that she was happy here in the country where she was born, and she told me she would be sad to leave her friends when her father’s contract ends, it was clear Iris still considers Belgium to be her “home”.

On entering the smart German Mariscal Braun school, encircled by the towering cliffs of the Zona Sur’s Achumani district, I was greeted by a real mixture of blonde and dark-haired Bolivian and German children in the playground.

“I will go to university in Europe because higher education is better there, but I want to return to Bolivia afterwards because of the the higher quality of life that we can have here” 16 year-old Klaus explained. “I want my children to have the same exciting, bilingual upbringing as the one I’ve had.”

Chatting with these children made me realise how important the language issue was when growing up in a country like Bolivia: if you don’t manage to speak the local tongue or if you struggle to express yourself in it, as young Iris does, it affects how easily you settle in and feel part of the Bolivian community. On the other hand, it also highlighted many advantages in growing up in Bolivia with a dual-nationality - the most valuable perhaps being “you have an exit,” as Klaus told me. Having a German, French or any other European passport gives you more opportunities. Besides, “a Bolivian passport is checked over and over again”, Klaus explained.

Later on, as I spoke to 18 year-old Gustavo about his experiences here, I realised how, sometimes, one could be made to feel like an outsider in their own country . His father’s family moved here after the Second World War and, although Gustavo feels very much Bolivian, he told me that he and his family still had many German traditions. When I asked whether he had ever felt like he didn’t fit in here, he replied, “I do sometimes feel like a foreigner in my own country.” He then added that sometimes, as he walked around town, he could tell that people were looking at him thinking he was a gringo; “I hate that”, he said. ‘’I think it’s a form of racism.”

As I was leaving the school, I paused to speak to a blonde-haired, green-eyed mother who was waiting for her daughter outside the school gates. She concluded my visit to these schools by summing up what the children had been trying to convey all day... “Just because I’m blonde doesn’t mean I can’t be Bolivian. I’m proud to be Bolivian” she said.

*This is arguably an overestimation, as it’s entirely possible that well over two thirds of the population have a mixed ethnic heritage (yes, that includes those apparently indigenous as well as those seemingly white). Part of the complication is that many of these figures depend on how people define their own identity in the national census. As an interesting aside, the number of people who self-identify as indigenous has been on the increase. Culture and identity are clearly shifting faster than genes.