
The challenge of painting mountains

When I was a child, my family went to El Alto airport to pick up Pontus, a Swedish friend of my dad. Like any foreigner arriving in these lands, he was amazed to see a city built amidst mountains. Virtually all cities on the planet are flat, so it's very rare to see so many people living in the middle of a hollow.
After several minutes of silence and with a cold Nordic honesty, Pontus shared his first impression of La Paz when he noticed the houses only had bricks: "This city is going to be very beautiful when they finish building it." The comment elicited a general burst of laughter. We explained that the houses were already finished and that the lack of facades was a local cunning to avoid paying taxes.
Over time, I explored other parts of the world, and with each return, it was inevitable to echo that Scandinavian comment. I began to feel secondhand embarrassment for the tax trickery, but also realized that complaining could not change anything.
Upon researching a bit, I discovered that, in the early 2000s, Fernando Mirabal launched a project called "Fachadas para La Paz" (Facades for La Paz). The goal was to enable homeowners to plaster and paint their houses with easy payment facilities. Unfortunately, the lack of municipal audacity played a trick on him. After years of trying, Fernando not only lost interest but also his entire capital. As part of personal therapy, he recounts the story of his failure with great humor.
With that background, it was very refreshing to learn that the neighborhood of Chualluma in La Paz, located on the slopes of a popular area, had replaced the monotonous brick with an infinity of shapes and colors. In July 2019, several international media outlets focused their cameras on the colorful spectacle. The reports featured Tomasa Gutiérrez, the president of the neighborhood council, and Norka Paz, better known as Knorke Leaf, who was the artistic director of the project.
The press releases were somewhat superficial, and I was curious to know all the details of such a tremendous achievement. I contacted Tomasa, who enthusiastically told me that she was the first woman in her position. In general, in her district, there were only two women among 24 neighborhood council presidents.
Bolivia ranks high in female representation in politics, surpassing major powers. However, it is by no means an example of the fight against harassment and violence towards women.
Tomasa sadly shared that she had to endure mockery and mistreatment from both her male peers and some neighbors. She felt a duty to demonstrate that women can perform as well as or better than men.
The major achievement of her tenure was winning the government contest "Mi barrio, mi hogar" (My Neighborhood, My Home). Unlike other neighborhoods proposing the construction of a soccer field or the paving of a couple of streets, Chualluma's proposal aimed to improve the entire neighborhood. The project included repairing stands, installing railings, plastering, and painting all the facades of the houses. Tomasa wanted to bring dignity to her neighborhood.
Since its creation, Chualluma has survived thanks to self-management; the first sewers and drains were built by the residents themselves. The leader recalled that when she carried out paperwork, not even municipal officials knew about the existence of that place.
After winning the contest, the government awarded the work to a construction company. This company, in turn, hired about a hundred workers, including Norka. She was responsible for the design and execution of the macromural, formed by paintings on the houses.
Norka confessed that no one really knew what they were getting into because there was no similar experience in the country. Initially, they were told it was about painting some little houses, but she never imagined the magnitude of the work.
The first time she arrived in the neighborhood, she was breathless because it is one of the highest places in La Paz, almost on the border with the neighboring city of El Alto. Moreover, the only way to move around the area is to climb and descend a thousand steps.
For a moment, fear took hold of her; she was about to sign a contract for the painting of 14,000 square meters. It's challenging to imagine such an area. "I hoped they wouldn't make me paint half the city," she said with a smile.
When deciding on the design, an institution wanted to impose the idea of a fabric and that the houses be painted like threads. But Norka wanted something inclusive, where residents could decide the colors of their houses, and their stories would be reflected on the walls.
Her proposal convinced the neighborhood residents. Many of Chualluma's inhabitants are artisans who express themselves through sewing fabrics and playing with dyes and color gradients. They are people who clearly have great artistic sensitivity.
The artistic proposal divided the area into three chromatic groups, combining the shades of the Wiphala flag. These started with purple hues, transitioned to reds, oranges, and ended in blues and turquoises. Each family could choose the coloring of their home from a palette of their group. Many neighbors joked about avoiding blues and pinks to avoid association with political parties.
During the execution, none of the workers understood that Norka was a contracting boss. It simply didn't register in their minds that a woman could assume that position. Frictions soon arose because they didn't listen to her or treated her condescendingly.
Hope in the project returned when they finished painting the first house. It belonged to Ascencia, a neighbor who supports her son alone by selling llamas on Calacoto Street 8. She chose the color orange because it represented joy. With tears of emotion, she inaugurated her renovated home.
Days passed, and Norka began to pay off a bit of her historical personal debt. She had to learn to communicate in Aymara because many neighborhood residents, especially the elderly, struggled with Spanish. She also began to rethink her feminist activism; she felt that her struggle was only urban and that the codes of women in these areas were different.
She imagined, for example, that it would be very challenging to invite these women to a feminist concert or march. She realized that silence can be a weapon of struggle because it is not necessarily permissive. She understood that these women were weaving other paths and that eventually, everyone would reach the same destination.
After the first month of work, the project became a part of the neighborhood's daily life. Some women took advantage of selling food to the workers. Additionally, a few tourists visited the area, surprising passersby. There were also young people who would laugh at their presence, say "hello," and then run away.
For Norka, painting the murals was also a great physical exercise. She had to carry heavy buckets of paint and move up and down to coordinate with the facade and painting teams. That's why she emphasizes the importance of the new railings.
She was also responsible for finding consensus among the neighbors. Part of her job was to listen to the stories of the residents, understand their reality, and later depict those experiences in the murals.
One lady asked to be portrayed in the dance costume used in the Muñecas province of La Paz. The older people preferred illustrations of sicuris, a way to remember the local group "Wiñay khana" that entertained festivities, declarations of love, and weddings.
You can also see a kusillo, a dark-skinned man in a sewing workshop, or several butterflies flying from a woman's skirt as she undresses. These visual elements are closely tied to the roots, joy, and freedom that make Chualluma a living museum of its history.
In the large mural, huge words written in Aymara using lettering techniques stand out. For example, on Tomasa's house, you can read "Qhalincha," which means "mischievous"; in another place, it says "Jan armasiñani sarnaqawinakasa," which can be translated as "we will not forget our history, path, and culture." The original name of the neighborhood is also painted: "Ch’uwa Uma," meaning "water source."
The initially projected three months were extended because the budget allowed for more, and it was worth seizing the opportunity. However, around the fifth month, the construction company decided it was time to conclude the project. In the end, 26 murals were painted, and the working surface increased by an additional 4,000 square meters.
The company and the neighbors decided, on a Friday, that the project would be inaugurated that weekend. The last two days were intense work to ensure everything was ready. Masons, painters, welders, and gardeners gave their best to make the project impeccable.
On that Sunday, activities began at six in the morning. The leaders rang the bells as a signal for the neighbors to come out and clean the streets. Some put up banners, others prepared dolls and stuffed animals to hang in the aguayos. Several women made torrejas and cooked corn and potatoes for the apthapi.
Many residents were excited about the President's visit, which ultimately did not happen. In his place, the Vice President took a nearly three-hour tour, listening to stories and enjoying the artwork. There was a sense of a rebirth of the neighborhood in the air. The emotional day ended with hugs and speeches of satisfaction.
Weeks later, tourism increased more intensively. It was an opportunity for families to have an additional income. Shops stocked new products, and some neighbors painted the interiors of their homes and set up impromptu restaurants. As Tomasa's house has balconies with a spectacular view of the city, she planned to turn them into a lookout café.
Other neighbors decided to become tour guides, remembering that their parents or grandparents used to do this job at Lake Titicaca. Norka was part of supporting these activities, and despite the project being completed, she continued meeting with her colleagues to find the best ways to take advantage of tourism.
Everything fell apart with the social conflicts in October and November 2019, after the national elections. No more tourists came, and after the President's resignation, there was a fear of looting in the area. The neighbors imagined there could be reprisals since the project was carried out with the support of the outgoing government.
In the midst of this social tension, the "Women's Parliament" was born, an activity organized by the feminist collective Mujeres Creando in various cities across the country. The dynamic was for several female leaders to express themselves before the audience with a five-minute limit.
In this space, Tomasa's voice could not be missing. She was probably the most representative speaker from the hills of La Paz. Although nervous on stage, it was a very enriching experience for her. She realized that she was not alone in her feminist struggle. She was surprised by the eloquence and ease with which other women expressed themselves.
With anger, she commented on the widespread sexism in her environment. While women cook, wash, clean, and take care of the children, men party and act violently. "Surely it's the same reality experienced in all areas of our homeland." She broke down a bit, saying that if she can't defend herself, it will be difficult for her to defend her neighbors.
I feel that Tomasa is a great example of resilience. With her charisma and courage, she will achieve any goal she sets for herself. Before saying goodbye, she gave me a metaphorical phrase: "Our facades are beautiful, but inside the door, there are many things left to do."
Those words transport me to my memories. I think I was foolish to think that people build facades just to avoid taxes. I realize that my privileged position has blinded me to the fact that there are much greater needs than architectural aesthetics. The color of the bricks on our mountains no longer bothers me at all.
I also think of Pontus. It's been so many years since I lost contact with the Swede. I'm dying to see him again, to make him climb those thousand steps and say, "you were right, this place looked very beautiful after it was finished being built."