I am a musician. I have a passion for an Andean instrument called the charango, the traditions that surround it, and the campesinos and lower class of Bolivia’s cities that claim it as their own. This madness of mine is hard to explain. After all, my own journey -— which has led me to the pages of this blog -— is probably as curious and wandering as the routes traveled by the charango’s ancestors to Potosi, Bolivia more than 400 years ago.

I first came across this little instrument in 1998 while living in Chile, the birthplace of my father. But it wasn’t until the very end of my stay in Chile that I ventured beyond her borders. Like the tempting tune of the sirens, the sweet cry of the little charango had me transfixed. I had to go to the source. From San Pedro de Atacama in the north of Chile, I booked an overnight train to the salt flats of Uyuni, Bolivia, and from there, a long bus ride to Potosí —- the highest city in the world, the site of the world’s largest silver deposit, and the supposed birthplace of the charango. This initial journey marked the beginning of my love affair with instrument.

Five years later, in December of 2004, I returned to Bolivia to make the film “El Charango” with friend and longtime photojournalist, Jim Virga. I had been inspired by reading Thomas Turino’s The Charango and the “Sirena”: Music, Magic, and the Power of Love, and Ernesto Cavour’s extensive text, El Charango. I had experimented with composing and performing new music for the charango for some time. And after concerts, people would always ask me to tell them more about the instrument. In some way, the film was my answer to their questions -— a documentation of the charango that was accessible to the average person.

Again, this was December of 2004. President Gonzalo Sánchez de Lozada had recently resigned. Successor Carlos Mesa had inherited Bolivia’s prevailing troubles with natural resource exploitation. So it only seemed appropriate to frame the emergence of this little folk instrument through the story of Cerro Rico and Potosí —- the Americas' first boomtown.

We arrived at La Paz on the heels of the bloody Gas Wars. With protest on everyone’s mind and a transit strike looming, Jim suggested we hire a jeep for the long drive to Potosí. As we climbed out of the city, our guide Sonia gave us her version of the most recent chapter of Bolivia’s longtime struggle with natural resource privatization and marginalization of the poor. Along the road, she pointed out the badly charred house of a former town official. He had been accused of stealing and locals had taken justice into their own hands. It was this kind of scene —- a rural area heavy with tension between the mainly indigenous communities and the ruling class of mainly Spanish/European descent —- that seemed typical in Bolivia. Obviously at the time we had no idea, but one year later Evo Morales would be elected as Bolivia’s first indigenous president with a mandate for constitutional and natural resource reform.

Upon arriving in Potosi, the first person I contacted was Daniel Villavicencio, a young, talented charango player and self-proclaimed ethnomusicologist. I had met Daniel on my first trip to Potosi. In 1999, he had become my mentor, teaching me huayños and rasgueo-strumming patterns. He dubbed second and third generation cassettes of what he labeled as “future material to digest.” I recall him explaining that although much of Andean music was tied to the agricultural calendar, the popular style called huayño could be played year round. Dealing with themes of love and loss, I had immediately related it to something within “my” culture —- the Blues.

However, my most vivid memory of that first trip revolves around a potato festival in a little town called Betanzos. Late one night, Daniel and I scurried down the steep dirt roads to the town square, where just a few hours earlier thousands of tubers of all shapes, sizes and colors had been stacked and sold. In their place, a handful of Andean youth were carousing, strumming on their charangos. Breath smelled thick with Singani, the local firewater, and I sensed an air of hostility permeating the plaza. In seeking to establish dominance as the alpha male, these young charango players were dueling on their instruments.

According to Daniel, one had to “outdo” the other in song and dance in order to gain the respect of the group. This socially significant art form stood in stark contrast to my previous understanding of music as simple entertainment or pure art. Such an outward display of machismo was, perhaps in this case, simply a preemptive way to diffuse future aggressive behavior. During the long and precarious bus ride back to Potosí, Daniel expressed to me his dream of coming to the United States to perform. At that moment, I had no idea that we would later work together on field recordings from rural north Potosí and that he would eventually become a subject in the documentary film “El Charango.”

Although five years had passed since I had last seen Daniel, there’s something about the charango that forever bonds together those who share its magical sound. Daniel immediately jumped onboard the project, putting much of his personal life on hold for us. He proved to be invaluable in connecting us to people like Marco Escobar and Rene Bonifaz Acebey.

Marco was a miner-turned-guide who gave tours of the 400-year-old silver mines of Cerro Rico. Within Cerro Rico there are dozens, if not hundreds, of shrines dedicated to El Tío —- deity and benefactor to the miners. While the miners commonly accepted monotheism aboveground, below the surface they shed their thin shell of Catholicism to make offerings to El Tío in exchange for money and health.

On one occasion, I traveled with Marco to a mining community on the southern slopes of Cerro Rico, where we became privy to a post-soccer-match llama sacrifice and barbecue. Afterward, a party blossomed in the sunset of a dirt courtyard. With a grinning gap-toothed accordionist squeezing out rousing versions of “Qolquechakamanta,” I clumsily danced with colorfully-dressed cholas and feasted on hearty llama soup. After nightfall, I shared coca leaves and Singani at the table of the village elders. I was amazed at both the humble living conditions of these people and the acceptance they showed to me —- a blonde. blue-eyed American with a video camera.

Of everyone I met, I must say that Rene Bonifaz Acebey was one of the most interesting. He was an original member of the well-known band Grupo Norte Potosí and former radio announcer for pirate radio station La Voz del Minero (Voice of the Miner). Many years ago he had been forced to leave La Voz del Minero and fled to La Paz for political reasons. While there, he turned to building instruments so that he could survive.

Like Daniel and Marco, Rene went out of his way to help us tell the story of the charango. He invited us into his home and adjoining woodshop on a number of occasions and he brought local musicians over to his house to share their music with us. At the end of our stay in Potosi, I bought a few instruments from him. Today, whenever I play those charangos or when I even simply think of Rene, I see a man bursting with pride and emotion over his own love for community and the music they express.

While Rene’s story is touched on in the documentary film, I felt that there was more to say about him. In many ways, he holds the key to something quite sacred and rare. His role as an instrument builder, a performer, a radio announcer, and a fierce supporter of local indigenous and campesino musicians makes him a vital cornerstone of traditional music. For this reason, I felt it was important to dust off the “El Charango” video archives, extract the audio from the tapes, and tell just a little more of Rene’s story.

I hope you enjoy it!

Click to listen to Rene playing the charango.