Friday night, I found myself at one of those gringo clubs celebrating (bemoaning?) the departure of two of my favorite non-Bolivian acquaintances in La Paz, Alison and Bryn. Because it was Friday night, there was a live dj, who was actually Bolivian. He also had with him a little posse of young affluent Paceños. One, a beautiful young woman wearing a low-cut dress and heels that would have caused me to seriously hurt myself caught my eye because of the frequency and duration of affectionate displays with her boyfriend (which is not to downplay the frequency and duration of certain gringos’ displays). Later in the evening, as I walked by, she and Alison were conversing. Alison grabbed me and said, dripping with sarcasm, that she was learning some “very useful” Spanish phrases. At which point, the young Bolivian woman taught me some things “to say to my boyfriend” (which, incidentally, I will not be saying to my boyfriend).
Eventually, we exchanged names and she told me hers was Huayra. “It’s in Aymara!” she told me with pride. This struck me as strange. Here was a 45 kilo, 19 year old Bolivian woman with wavy light brown hair. Her skin was almost as light as mine. Her features were decidedly not Aymara. And she lives in Zona Sur. I realize I am grossly stereotyping here, but she did not initially strike me as someone likely to have an Aymara name. I would have expected her to be called Jenny more readily than Huayra.
Of course, I thought, maybe this is just a case of my own naiveté, so I asked around yesterday. “Do many parents call their children by Aymara names?” The most interesting answer I got went something like this. “No, I don’t think so. But lots of parents give their children weird names. I have uncles called Pascual and Pastor. That’s like naming your kids Easter Sunday and Sheep-herder.” So, perhaps this is just a fluke, just a random thing I ran into. But I think perhaps, rather, it is an indicatinon of the valorization of a certain representation of “Aymara culture.” And more importantly, a valorization by people of a class that as a whole (though I’ll say nothing of Huayra’s parents, because I have no idea who or what they are) which perpetuates class/ethnic divisions in La Paz.
…now as soon as I get some sort of dvd playing machine in my possession I’ll watch Zona Sur and see how that figures in.
Eventually, we exchanged names and she told me hers was Huayra. “It’s in Aymara!” she told me with pride. This struck me as strange. Here was a 45 kilo, 19 year old Bolivian woman with wavy light brown hair. Her skin was almost as light as mine. Her features were decidedly not Aymara. And she lives in Zona Sur. I realize I am grossly stereotyping here, but she did not initially strike me as someone likely to have an Aymara name. I would have expected her to be called Jenny more readily than Huayra.
Of course, I thought, maybe this is just a case of my own naiveté, so I asked around yesterday. “Do many parents call their children by Aymara names?” The most interesting answer I got went something like this. “No, I don’t think so. But lots of parents give their children weird names. I have uncles called Pascual and Pastor. That’s like naming your kids Easter Sunday and Sheep-herder.” So, perhaps this is just a fluke, just a random thing I ran into. But I think perhaps, rather, it is an indicatinon of the valorization of a certain representation of “Aymara culture.” And more importantly, a valorization by people of a class that as a whole (though I’ll say nothing of Huayra’s parents, because I have no idea who or what they are) which perpetuates class/ethnic divisions in La Paz.
…now as soon as I get some sort of dvd playing machine in my possession I’ll watch Zona Sur and see how that figures in.
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