Life in Bolivia behind bars

On may 19, 2008, three young Norwegian women, Stina Brendemo Hagan, then 17 years old; Madeleine Rodriguez, then 20; and Christina Oygarden, then 18–along with Madeleine’s then 2-year-old daughter, Alicia–arrived at the Cochabamba airport to fly back to Norway after a three week holiday in Bolivia. None of them made their flight. Airport police found 22.5 kilograms of cocaine in the young women’s luggage. Instead of boarding an air plane for a long flight home, the young women found themselves facing up to 25 years in a Bolivian jail.

Madeleine and Stina live in the San Sebastian women’s prison in Cochabamba, a crumbling adobe structure facing a ramshackle park where young glue-sniffing kids sleep during the day. Inmates’ families line up in front of the prison gate every afternoon at 2, jostling in line, surrounded by plastic bags stuffed full of food and gifts to deliver to their loved ones. Shortly after 2:30pm, the steel door creaks open and the families shuffle into the prison.

It’s easy to find Stina and Madeleine in the prison’s courtyard, where visitors mingle with prisoners amid a constant clamor of activity. It is here that vendors sell lunches, sodas, and beauty products, and inmates line up to use payphones; a woman speaks visitors’ names into a microphone, announcing to prisoners that they have guests; laundry lines and electrical cables hang helter-skelter, crisscrossing under orange and blue tarps that shield the courtyard from fierce sun; raw meat dries next to laundry, in preparation for charquekan, a traditional Bolivian dish. Stina sticks out with her typically Scandinavian features—bright blond hair and pale white skin. She has curlicue bangs, coiffed just so, and the rest of her hair flows down her back and over her shoulders. Every day that we meet, she wears carefully applied makeup that accents her eyebrows and tints her cheeks. Madeleine, who has a Uruguayan father and a Norwegian mother, fits in a little better, although with her colorful clothes she’s much more fashionably dressed than the other women in the prison. She has a defined, thin face, and her curly dark brown hair is pulled back in a feisty ponytail set high on the back of her head. When I first visited them in 2008, shortly after their arrests, Stina haunted the edge of the mass of women in the prison courtyard. She seemed nervous, suspicious of my intentions, and she didn’t easily smile or speak to me. I found myself struggling to talk to her, and silence filled much of our conversations. Now, however, Stina locks eyes with me whenever I visit; she’s calmer and more assertive. It’s as if prison has made her grow up, made her more at ease with herself. And in a way it has: five months ago Stina gave birth to a baby boy. She’s also learned Spanish—and a bit of Quechua—in the past three years, and chats with the other inmates, who constantly approach her and ask to hold and play with her baby.

Madeleine, however, was always at ease. She has a confident demeanor, self-assured, almost cocky, which didn’t help her too much during her trial in 2009, when the prosecutors tried to portray her as the ringleader of an international drug ring. When I first met her, Madeleine was angry. She disobeyed the prison rules and found herself in solitary confinement several times after being caught with mobile phones—contraband in the eyes of the authorities. Now, however, she’s calmed down a bit, and even participates in prison life. She has a prison job—ironing laundry that’s dropped off by locals— and manages six other workers. She’s also quicker to smile when we sit at a plastic table in the courtyard and share a litre of soda while we talk.

Madeleine’s shock at being incarcerated has dulled, and while her separation from Alicia still saddens her, it’s gained a certain familiarity. Alicia stayed with her mother in prison for the first two weeks of imprisonment, after which her grandmother flew to Bolivia and brought her back to Norway. They now live in Lillestrom, a suburb 10 minutes outside of Oslo, where both Stina and Madeleine grew up. But Madeleine still dreams about her daughter all the time. “We used to drive around in my car”—a silver Golf Volkswagen—“and listen to R&B and hip-hop. We used to go fast! She’s still used to my driving, and when she rides with my mother now she always tells her to drive faster!”

Alicia, who’s now 5 years old, is also Stina’s niece. Madeleine and Stina have been good friends for nearly 10 years, and Madeleine had Alicia with Stina’s brother.

Both Madeleine and Stina have private rooms in the prison, which they were able to buy from the previous owners for about US$500 each. Madeleine’s room, which has a Norwegian flag hanging in front of the door, is decorated with dozens of pictures of Alicia. Other inmates, who aren’t from such relatively wealthy backgrounds, bunk six each to a room. When their husbands or boyfriends drop by, they must pay to rent out a room for conjugal visits.

Madeleine’s now engaged, to a 26-year-old Bolivian named Brian, who was introduced to her by a mutual friend on the outside. “He asked my friend if he knew any cute girls,” Madeleine says. Now Brian, who grew up in Virginia, visits her most days, bringing her lunch from the outside. “We’ve both had a lot of shit going on,” Madeleine says. (Brian served a two-year sentence in Cochabamba.) “One day we’ll be together [on the outside] with kids and jobs—we’ll have a life.” Both Stina and Madeleine say they had no idea they had the cocaine in their luggage on that day in 2008 at the airport, claiming they were set up. “I was calm when [the airport police] went through our luggage, because I didn’t know [the cocaine] was there.” Even when the cocaine was found, says Madeleine, she thought she’d be quickly released, “because it wasn’t mine.” Madeleine says the police were polite and professional, although the prosecutor threatened to take Alicia away and place her in an orphanage. Madeleine didn’t yet know that it’s customary for children to live with their mothers in Bolivian prisons. “My biggest concern was Alicia,” she says. Stina, Madeleine, and Christina spent two days in the airport police station, which was “disgusting,” they say; they weren’t allowed any phone calls for three days, although Madeleine was able to sneak off a text message to a friend after she realised they were in serious trouble and wouldn’t be making their flight home.

Finally, Stina was able to call home. “My mom was in shock,” she says. While the young women languished in jail, Stina’s mom grew depressed, couldn’t sleep, and lost weight. Her grandmother cried when Stina phoned her. “It was very hard to talk to her,” Stina says. Then, in February 2010, Christina, while out on bail, managed to obtain a copy of her passport (all three had to surrender their passports when they were arrested) and caught a plane to Norway. A small diplomatic crisis ensued, with the Bolivian government—and some vocal law-and-order types in Norway—demanding her return. The Norwegian government does not, however, have an extradition treaty with Bolivia.

But Stina and Madeleine were relieved that Christina wasn’t around any more. While they were in jail together, Christina started to blame Madeleine for their incarceration, and isolated herself from the others. “Whenever her family came to visit they wouldn’t even talk to us,” Madeleine tells me.

In April 2010, Madeleine and Stina were found guilty of attempted drug trafficking. They were both sentenced to 13 years and four months. Then, in November last year, they appealed their sentences; the court reduced both to 10 years and eight months. “For the first year and a half, everything was really against me,” says Madeleine. “But with the appeal, that was the first time in two years that I had good news.” And Madeleine will probably qualify for another reduction in her sentence, due to her work in the laundry. Ironically, the prosecutors originally wanted Madeleine to serve 10 years longer than Stina; now Madeleine will most likely be released first. I ask them how they cope with being locked up for so long, and what advice they’d give to other young women in their situation. “Go and shoot yourself,” Stina says before laughing. “No, I’m joking. Get visitors— don’t be alone! If you’re alone you’re going to go crazy.” But she also cautions not to trust anyone on the inside. “When you are sad or when you are down, you can’t trust anyone to keep a secret.” Madeleine says that she’s learned to be patient, and that “in every situation there’s something good. I’ve got another point of view in life. I’ve learned how people live in poor countries.” And she takes a philosophical view to get her through the seemingly endless days ahead in the same place: “In the end, everything is OK. And if it’s not OK, it’s not the end.”

For now, though, both Stina and Madeleine while away their days in the San Sebastian prison. Madeleine works from 7am to noon every day, and evenings when there’s extra work. They watch DVDs in Stina’s room at night, and voraciously read books that visitors—including people from the Norwegian consulate in La Paz and the small Norwegian community in Cochabamba—bring them. In the end, though, both Madeleine and Stina struggle to cope with being in jail. Or, as Madeleine puts it, “It’s not about being in jail, it’s about being alone. The more time you have, the more alone you feel.” Sometimes, Stina says, she dreams about being home. “I dream about freedom, in Norway, and about my grandma and Alicia, my niece.” But that happiness is elusive upon waking. “It’s still tough, every day. I’m never really happy. There’s always the fact of being in jail.”

Both Madeleine and Stina would welcome any travelers who might want to visit them.

A portrait of the familia Galan.

“What questions do you usually get asked in interviews?” is the last question I ask David Aruquipa. This is perhaps the best place to begin.

‘I get asked a lot of rubbish. They ask me about discrimination and exclusion, ‘When did you first realise you were like this?’, the usual everyday stuff they think should happen to you. What they expect should happen to “diverse” [he quotes/unquotes with his middle and index fingers] people’. They tire me.’

We'll return to this later. First, let’s rewind back to the beginning of the recording, where one would normally begin. Question beggingly, the first thing I ask David Aruquipa, is “What is your name”?

‘Politically it is Danna Galán. It is an acquired name, a name which I have constructed and which carries with it symbolic and political meanings. In emotional terms, it has greater value than my given name, or the name which has been imposed on me. David Aruquipa has other times and spaces. I have learnt to coexist with this name. David Aruquipa has become ‘the professional’, ‘the father’. Legally, he has become a civil servant, continually accumulating titles and diplomas which certify his existence.’ 

David Aruquipa is one of many ‘Galán’. In Spanish, ‘Galán’ means something like ladies’ man or seducer, but for the purposes of this article let's just say it's a surname. I saw the Galán Family years ago during one of their ‘outings’, marching down La Paz’s main avenue on a sunny Sunday afternoon. Their presence was almost theatrical, curiously androgynous, kitsch, demonic, extraterrestrial and verging on the monstrous. A few metres behind them, a group of spectators of all ages, sizes and backgrounds followed like a school of fish, too scared to come any closer but irresistibly drawn in waves towards the light shining off the sequins of their dresses. At almost seven foot tall, five or six drag queens serenely rose above the masses, leading them gently like pied pipers. They halted and offered themselves for closer inspection. The crowds drew sheepishly near and slowly began talking and touching, asking questions and taking photographs. I can imagine a peaceful arrival of aliens to earth looking a bit like this. 

In their manifesto the Familia Galan explain:

""Las Galán is formed by sub-groups of ‘transformistas’, transvestites, drag queens, androgynes, theorist groupies and followers"". To the outsider, they appear to be predominantly a group of gay men who occasionally dress up as seven-foot tall colossi covered in latex, flowers, feathers and whatnot. Their membership includes a white-haired female academic and a straight librarian. There have also been innumerable groupies in their ranks. As Danna Galán/David Aruquipa tells me

""The Galán Family is like a colony of mushrooms which grows everywhere, we don’t know how many of us there are. You can experience diversity within the Familia. I think disobedience and transgression are what connect us. Subversion in any situation, be it gender-related or even aesthetic"". I am curious as to what they gain by associating and what they have set out to achieve. People say that the Familia Galan has strategic plans and objectives. ""What do we want to achieve? We don’t want to achieve anything whatsoever. We just want to be in the places we care to be in. If anyone is lucky enough to meet us then sure, let’s meet"". What makes them a family? Many will protest that their claim to family-hood is vacuous, given that they share neither blood nor a legal bond. I ask David Aruquipa about this:

""We have appropriated the term ‘Familia’ in order to give it a meaning. We are not a consanguineous family, but we are a diverse family where one can find conflicts, fights, love, incest and everything you can imagine. It is a different family, but a family which exists by virtue of a number of people deciding to come together"". The Familia Galán’s political message moves beyond individual claims to sexual freedom and becomes seditious to the basic unit upon which society is traditionally conceived to be based: the family. The cultural revolution they are spearheading stems from their appropriation of this term. ‘We have seized language in order to give it subversive and contradictory meanings.’ 

I am invited over to lunch at Danna Galán’s house so I can talk to some other people in the Familia. Paris Galán, one of the founding members of the group (and perhaps a spiritual mother to many of them), tells me in passing how she paraded at a sexual diversity march with her cousin’s baby in her arms. As if to say, ‘even a baby is part of the tapestry of sexual diversity’. Granted, it is not an association one would usually make but it seems legitimate enough. Over lunch, the group bitch about other drag-queen groups and emphasise how distant they are from the mainstream plight of what are sometimes seen to be ‘sexual minorities’.

David explains:

‘Being gay or lesbian are pre-packaged concepts which no-one believes, but which one takes on because you have to fit in to the ‘being gay’ menu, being a ‘good gay’. The same applies to discrimination and exclusion. As a ‘good gay’ I have to be discriminated and excluded in order to exist. If you’re not like this ‘you’re so weird’, you are not a ‘good gay’.

The mainstream of GLBT (the first three letters standing for Gay, Lesbian and Bisexual, more on the fourth one later...) discourse in Bolivia has tended to focus on the usual topics: discrimination, exclusion, rights and respect. Not that there’s anything wrong with these things, but The Galán Family make them sound so passé. This brings us back to where we started, where David reminded me of the clichéd media coverage of gay issues. This applies as much in Bolivia as it does in the UK. Groups which build their discourse and presence around sexual identity are rarely given spaces in the press or television unless there is a political ‘rights’ component to the story. These groups are seldom featured aesthetically and at face value. David seems to be telling me that The Galán Family won’t gain the spotlight they are after until they cease to be viewed through this lens.

‘I don’t believe in exclusion and discrimination as concepts in themselves. By giving meaning to concepts such as these you are bringing them into life and adding strength to their existence. I believe that discrimination and exclusion are preconceived concepts, just as much as identities are.’ Perhaps it is this ideology which has caused The Galán to grow distant from a great part of the GLBTTT (the sophisticated TTT standing for Transsexual, Transvestite and Transgender) community. Over lunch, The Galán tell me (with perverse satisfaction) how they are seen by many of these groups as being frivolous, vain and ridiculous. The Galán Family have subverted the liberal boundaries of the (by now ‘traditional’ and mainstream) GLBTTT community. This has led the media to decreasingly equate The Galán with spokespersons for the gay or tranny community. David remembers: ‘After an incident, when someone threw a Molotov bomb at a gay rights parade -of which we weren’t part-, we were asked ‘what position do you have in relation to the gay community these days?’ They no longer asked us ‘how did you feel’, they asked us to comment on what had happened to them. People have realised that the Galán Family advocate a stronger discourse, from above.’ The Galán seem to tower above it all, both literally and metaphorically. They have come to inhabit more sophisticated spaces by becoming involved in cultural movements and abandoning ethical issues in favour of aesthetic frivolity and subversion. What do the Galán believe in, if anything at all? According to David: ‘We have a basic and simple discourse. We are everywhere and our politics stem from aesthetics and culture. […] It is a movement which has revolutionised and politicised sexuality and aesthetics in Bolivia. It has not done so by assuming a Trans identity within a gay or tranny ghetto.’

such a group would seem improbable in a country like Bolivia, usually associated with llamas, bowler hats, archaeological ruins and cocaine. Indeed, it is one of the poorest countries in the Latin American region and a large proportion of its population is indigenous or of indigenous descent. Understanding Bolivian society, and how it could give rise to the Galán Family requires an explanation which is more complex and subtle. Institutions in Bolivia would seem to be stacked against diversity. The oppressive influence of the Catholic Church in Bolivia has been ubiquitous since the Spanish invasion in the sixteenth century. In the twentieth century, the country was ruled by a series of violent military regimes which ended in the early 80s. On the other hand, Bolivia is all about diversity. The country’s territory extends from the frozen peaks of the Andes to the tropical heat of the Amazon. In evolutionary and demographic terms, this has given rise to a land where people look and sound very different across these regions. The deep historical roots of these differences have in turn given rise to myriad cultures, societies and nations.

Local folklore is flamboyant, rich and varied. Carnivals and festivals are among the few events where the country comes together to celebrate its diversity. These festivities take place both in urban and rural regions. Dressing up, dancing and getting really drunk have become an important part of Bolivian heritage in the twenty first century. Indeed, in a country where wearing flamboyant costumes for social events is part of everyday life, it is unsurprising that the Galán have blended so seamlessly into the urban landscape. It seems almost inevitable for a group such as the Galán to exist in a country which more than anything else can be characterised by its wealth of diversity. Like The Galán, Bolivians don’t share a common denominator and instead associate by virtue of a common history and territory. In their manifesto they declare:
We are not a UNITED group.
We have many DIFFERENCES.
We don’t aspire to THE SAME things.
We don’t seek UNITY.
The Familia Galán became prominent local celebrities a few years ago and were able to saturate the media with their mere presence. Initially they only appeared at sexual rights events and GLBTTT beauty pageants but they quickly grew bored of this circuit. All they had to do was walk out on to the streets of La Paz to attract the attention of most of the newspapers and television channels. They have even been asked to pose next to former Bolivian President Carlos Mesa.

Their activity is expansionary and relentless. They work by occupying urban and rural landscapes and claiming them as their own. Politically, their presence and imagery speak volumes and often consists of a trivialisation of Bolivian and Latin American iconography. As David explains: ‘We have taken claim over ‘politically correct’ spaces, over quotidian spaces. What makes the Galán Family different from other Trans groups around the world is our political presence, which has been subversive […] we have intermixed with ordinary people in order to provoke and subvert from the inside.’

The acts of posing next to pictures of Che Guevara; a Potosina beggar woman; ancient ruins; the Houses of Parliament; a Cathedral. These are all outdated icons of a country which can no longer be seen in terms of a socialist revolution, facile conceptions of poverty, an archaeological place of interest, a de jure government or a religious institution. The presence of the Familia Galán is enough to desecrate and defile any iconic platitude. In England, what they do would pass as conceptual art. This is not an accusation or a condemnation. For many, like me, this is a necessary and welcome process. Aesthetics trends in Bolivia need to move beyond the worn images in which they are rooted in order to discover new identities for the twenty first century. Many people (mainly earnest lefties, do-gooder tourists and local entrepreneurs) would disagree. There is money to be had from selling traditional Bolivian iconography to the world but people don’t realise that a great part of this Bolivian ‘reality’ is artificially being preserved in the name of commerce and tourism.

In short, the Galán Family are attempting to high-jack Bolivian heritage. La Paz would not be La Paz if it didn’t have the Galán Family. The Galán Family have become part of the urban landscape. We have started a project titled ‘We Are Heritage’. And they have indeed become heritage, or at least a familiar part of the local scenery. Understanding their cult status and historical significance, I feel privileged to be talking to these individuals.

Over lunch with the Galán, I start to wonder whether I could also be part of La Familia. Dressed in a white shirt, black pinstripe trousers and patent leather shoes, I feel I might stand a chance. After all, I could claim the formality of my attire is part of this world’s diversity, and that I am subverting by working from the ‘inside’. During the interview, David Aruquipa mentions

‘Do you want to be part of the Galán family? You can be, if you want to, any time you want.’

I am told by K-os Galán that I would need another name if I wanted to be part of The Family. I am informed ‘ISIS Galán’ has been taken, a testament to their reproductive success. Amidst an ocean of confused gendered pronouns, I begin to feel self-conscious about writing an article on sexual diversity when I consider myself to be pretty boringly mainstream. Maybe there’s no room for me here. Maybe everyone is just passing by. It’s spelt out clearly in their manifesto:

We’re not a home, we’re a brothel.

What makes a cholita a cholita.

There’s no need to go looking for cholitas around La Paz. It would be unusual and even noteworthy not to bump into one while walking around town or glancing down a busy street. With their distinctive pleated layer skirts, vibrant mantas, and eye-catching bowler hats, cholitas colour the city of La Paz with their unique style. But is it the just the outfit or is it something more that defines what it means to be a cholita? That was the question I set out to answer as I greeted Luisa, a local cholita who agreed to meet with me and talk about what it means to live life as a cholita in modern day Bolivia.

After a warm greeting, Luisa returns to the reserved, and sometimes timid nature that is sometimes associated with cholitas. We began to talk as the fruit shakes and empanadas arrived. While shy, Luisa quickly begins to open up as she speaks animatedly about her upbringing. For her, it was not so much a decision as a slow and steady process. From childhood, she was raised to be a cholita like all the women in her family. She even adds that if she has a daughter someday, she plans to dress her in cholita attire from a young age so the tradition can live on

Wanting to do so is becoming a rarity. Nowadays, most cholitas are opting to dress their daughters in more modern clothes to give them greater opportunities later in life. Luisa recalls not so long ago when men would yell “Chola!” at her as she walked down the street. Cholitas were kept out of universities, which left them with the stigma of no education. With the election of President Evo Morales, things began to get better and the ‘Law Against Racism And All Forms Of Discrimination’ (see article on Afro- Bolivians, page 9) passed in 2010 was another major step. Changes in the law and in social attitudes makes Luisa feel confident that in the future she will no longer suffer from discrimination. These changes notwithstanding, cholitas are not only known for their occasional timidity, but also for their stoicism. It could be argued, however, that their strength is more a product of the history of discrimination they have lived through, rather than one of their intrinsic qualities.

From an outsider’s point of view, what defines a cholita is her outfit: it distinguishes them and gives them their iconic identity around the city. Luisa informs me that it’s become so prominent these days that even some pseudo- cholitas try and pull off the style. To her, the clothing is very important, and she believes that without following the fashions, a cholita cannot be fully recognised as one. But is this the central characteristic of cholita life? Apparently not. With the question still not answered, I feel it’s time to be blunt and get my answer . What makes her and her fellow bowler-hatted, timidyet- thick-skinned women cholitas? Family, she tells me. One can dress up and get all of the customs right, but essentially, a family makes a woman a cholita. Just as Luisa’s mother dressed her in pollera, shawls and jewellery, so will she to her daughter one day because it is not just a cultural tradition, it is a family one.