1 of 8 | A young member of the Afro-Bolivian community dances the "saya," a traditional dance performed with drums and chants, as part of the celebrations to mark the upcoming National Day of Afro-Bolivian people, in La Paz, Bolivia, Friday, Sept. 19, 2025.  The Associated Press
Culture

Afro-Bolivians reclaim history through dance, memory and resilience

In Bolivia’s hidden valleys, Afro-descendants nurture memory and belonging through tradition, storytelling and dance

The Associated Press

In the quiet valleys of Bolivia’s Yungas region, culture and memory intertwine for the Afro-Bolivian community, one of the country’s smallest and least visible groups. For many, finding belonging means reconnecting with ancestry through storytelling, music and tradition.

Cielo Torres was 17 when she left Santa Cruz and moved to Tocaña, a remote town where many Afro-descendants live. In her new surroundings she experienced something novel: people who looked like her. “Back in Santa Cruz, we were the only Afro,” said Torres, now 25. “But when I saw others like me, I told myself: this is where I want to be.”

In Bolivia’s Yungas, identity thrives with drums and stories

Her words echo the sentiment of many Afro-Bolivians, who have long lived with invisibility. Though formally recognised in Bolivia’s constitution since 2009, the group remains on the margins. According to the 2012 census—the first and only time Afro-Bolivians were counted as a distinct category—only 23,000 people identified as Afro in a population of more than 11 million.

Life in the Yungas is rugged but rooted in the land. “Our Afro communities depend on coca harvesting or honey production,” said Torres, who runs a beekeeping business with her husband. “We are people used to walking trails instead of paved roads. People who learn from the land.”

Activists describe how official records of Afro-Bolivian history are sparse. “We have been made invisible by the state,” said activist Mónica Rey. “There weren’t any written registers reflecting our reality. We wrote that history down ourselves.”

Progress came slowly. In 2007, during Evo Morales’ presidency, Afro-Bolivians gained visibility, and by 2009 they were included in the constitution. In 2011, CONAFRO—the Afro-Bolivian National Council—was formed, and September 23 was declared the National Day of the Afro-Bolivian People and Culture. Yet symbolic gestures, activists argue, have not translated into structural change.

“The idea was that this day would reaffirm our identity and that the state would create public policies for the Afro people,” Rey said. “But it turns out we celebrate among ourselves and the government doesn’t do anything.”

The history of the community traces back to the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, when Africans, mostly from Congo and Angola, were enslaved and brought to Bolivia. Many were taken to the mining city of Potosí, but the high altitude and toxic conditions led to illness and death. Over time, Afro-descendants were moved to the Yungas region, where they worked in large estates cultivating coca leaf, sugar cane and coffee. These settlements eventually became cultural strongholds, with towns like Tocaña and Mururata carrying forward traditions.

Julio Pinedo, a symbolic leader regarded as the king of the Afro-Bolivians, and his wife Angelica Larrea, pose for a photo in their home in Mururata, Bolivia, Sunday, Aug. 3, 2025.

Mururata is also home to Julio Pinedo, recognised as king of the Afro-Bolivians. His coronation in 1992 was symbolic, marking continuity of royalty within the community, though his role carries no political power. Now in his eighties, Pinedo lives modestly, supported by his son’s coca harvest.

If there is one cultural element that unites Afro-Bolivians, it is the saya dance, a vibrant tradition of drums, chants and movement. “Our demands were born through this music,” Rey explained. “The saya has become our instrument to gain visibility. We protest with drums and songs.”

For Torres, dancing saya in Tocaña felt different than before. “Here it’s danced from the heart,” she said. “It’s no ordinary music because we tell our history through it.” Each element of the costume carries meaning—the white symbolising peace, the red representing ancestors’ blood, the black hats recalling endless labour under the sun, and women’s braids symbolising roads of escape.

Once embarrassed, Torres now proudly embraces her heritage. She has learnt the language variation spoken within the community, mastered new saya moves, and ensures her young daughter grows up confident in her ancestry. “She already dances saya,” Torres said. “I tell her: you are Black. My Black little girl.”

Through memory, dance and resilience, Afro-Bolivians continue to push back against invisibility, ensuring their story is carried forward, not erased.

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