Finding life amidst death in Bolivia

by Ellen Riopelle (Canada)

I didn't expect to find Bolivia

"Alive" is not the typical description for a cemetery, but Bolivia's Cemetario General has an undeniable pulse to it. It is Bolivia’s largest cemetery, situated in the heart of the city and spreading over three kilometres. My muffled “lo siento” goes unheard, as I bump against people’s shoulders, squeezing down the narrow street towards the cemetery. There are several large red tarps hanging haphazardly overhead, and with the sunlight shining through, they cast a warm red glow on everything underneath. I pass a woman sleeping with her head rested on one of the many potato sacks that surround her. Next to the woman there is a small radio that blares staticky reggaeton music. I continue to be impressed by how the people here have let the heavy, consistent pulse of reggaeton become background noise. The music, the people and the red glow of the market saturate the already thin alpine air. Situated approximately 12,000 meters above sea level, La Paz is an assault on all your senses. It’s noisy, confusing, raw, and at times, rude. In the middle of this maze, is the Cemetario General. It is a city within a city, lined with rows of concrete compartments, with tombs stacked one over the other. Bolivian women push past me with colourful blankets slung gracefully from their shoulders. I’ve seen women sling these homemade satchels onto their shoulders cradling everything from clothing to propane tanks to children. The Indigenous women of Bolivia are a striking intersection between strength and grace, a trait passed down from mother to daughter tracing back to their Aymara and Quechua origins. This strength is made visible by the deep lines etched onto their faces from years of hard work and the harsh alpine climate. With babies or propane tanks hanging from their backs and bowler hats embroidered with rhinestones, they walk with power and determination, and I would often find myself in awe of their presence. As the constant heartbeat of reggaeton pulses in my ear and I weave my way through crowds of people, I forget I am just steps away from a cemetery. All the cemeteries I'd visited before this were eerie and quiet - but here, surrounded by life and music, there is a feeling of celebration. Replacing ground burials and tombstones are high walls of graves, each marked by a glass-plated shrine. These shrines are thoughtfully decorated with flowers, photos and other small objects. Each object in the glass case tells you a little about the deceased, from their age and hobbies to what kind of liquor they drank. Serving as a bookend to each long blocks of graves, are brightly painted murals portraying motifs of death and the afterlife. Above the cemetery, the newly constructed cable car that connects La Paz with the neighbouring community of El Alto climbs up and down the mountainside in a constant circular motion. It is a subtle reminder that life outside the cemetery walls continues to move forward despite the devastation of people’s personal losses below. I notice a woman carrying flowers and a small collapsible stool stop in front of a shrine. She opens up the glass case to replace the small vase of flowers inside, throwing the old ones into a large garbage bin that’s already overflowing with other lifeless, discarded flowers. While some shrines have freshly cut flowers, others sit wilted and neglected, drowning themselves in murky brown water. She carefully arranges a small stuffed bear next to the vase. When she finishes, she closes the glass case and returns to her stool. She sits motionless in front of the shrine, as the cable cars continue to circle above her. (I also have photos to go along with the piece)