When it comes to contemporary sociological study of the middle and upper class in Peru post-1960, the list of scholars contributing extensively can arguably be whittled down to four.8 Gonzalo Portocarrero (1998) focused on the Peruvian middle classes, while Norma Fuller (1993, 1997) and Maruja Barrig (1979, 1981) dealt with gender in the middle and upper classes. Only Liuba Kogan (2009) has produced recent sociological research on the sectores altos [upper classes], in which she paid special attention to the old elites, or the traditional oligarchy, approaching her research from a gender identity perspective.9 This paucity of academic scrutiny reflects a generalised avoidance of contemporary academic debate about the ‘traditional white upper classes’. In his prologue to Kogan’s Regias y conservadores (2009), the Peruvian journalist and writer Rafo León observes that Peru’s traditional upper classes have:
never [been] studied or analysed as anything but agents of evil, beings without personality, soul or feelings; mere machines engaged in racist money making; epigones of a feudal system, which Velasco10 did away with, though only with its trappings, because the rich are like cockroaches, withstanding even the worst catastrophes, outliving the human species.
(my translation)
Kogan’s research is important as a pioneering contemporary sociological study of the traditional upper classes. However, her research also depicts the traditional upper-class elites as white pitucos [posh], superficial, naïve, conservative, arrogant and deeply religious. This is crystallised even in Kogan’s book title Regias y conservadores: mujeres y hombres de clase alta en la Lima de los noventa [Fabulous and conservative: upper-class women and men in 1990s Lima]. Elsewhere in Latin America, research on local white elite cultural consumption is also rare, but two studies are of special note: Edwin Chuquimia, Ronal Jemio and Alex López’s work (2006) on the cultural identity of the jailones – the elites of the city of La Paz, Bolivia, and Eugenia Iturriaga Acevedo’s analysis (2011) of white elite racism and ethnic discrimination in Mérida (Yucatán, Mexico).
8 In Peru there are studies and portrayals of the upper classes that take different approaches including focusing on their role in history and the economy (Durand, 1982, 1994, 2003, 2004a, 2004b), journalistic approaches (Malpica, 1990), market-oriented research (Arellano and Burgos 2004; Arellano 2010), humorous fictional social commentaries (León, 2000, 2004, 2006) and political caricature (Acevedo, 2009). However, the upper classes have not been extensively studied from a sociological/anthropological perspective.
9 I would also like to acknowledge Rolando Arellano’s contributions to the understanding of class from the perspective of market research and business management (Arellano and Burgos 2004; Arellano 2010).
10 Former President of Peru (1968–75). Juan Velasco Alvarado, a left-wing army general, was responsible for a number of nationalist reforms such as the nationalisation of various industries, implementation of bilingual education, prohibition of the term ‘Indian’ and the promotion of traditional music in the media.
Most Peruvians’ perceptions of the ‘traditional white upper-classes’ in Lima are negative ones. This is rooted in history: colonial, racial and economic tensions, hegemonic power, symbolic violence, racism and discrimination towards Andeans, and systematic appropriations of Andean culture. Lima as a city has also been historically described by influential thinkers as a white cluster (Eakin, 2007, p. 187), hija de la Conquista sin raíces en el pasado autóctono [daughter of the Conquest without roots in the native past] (Mariátegui, 1970, p. 254), centro de irradiación de la ideología racista [a centre from which racist ideology spreads] (Galindo, 1994, p. 235), and a city with a ‘desire for adaptation to the European culture … because Cuzco already existed when the Conquistador arrived, and Lima was created by him’ (Valcárcel, 1972 [1927], quoted in and translated by García, 2005, p. 18).
There is still little nuance in how the Peruvian upper classes are described and perceived in literature and public discourse. They are considered and discussed as a homogenous block, but this is, of course, not accurate. While conducting fieldwork in Lima in 2010/11, I noticed that upper-class youths were a diverse group and seemed to express their class and racial identity in several ways.
However, in our conversations one major division was highlighted repeatedly:
some like belonging to the upper class, flaunt status and wealth, and describe themselves in interviews as high-class white people. Others (whom I term ‘the alternatives’) mainly identify with moderate left-wing politics, are more liberal, reject notions of exclusivity and superiority, and are generally more involved in their respective local communities. While this divide is not fixed, it is a noticeable internal classification.
One of my online surveys disseminated among white upper-class individuals between 20 and 35 years of age (2010), made it clear that each upper-class sub-group attended a different music venue in Lima. For example, of the respondents who preferred Gótica and Aura (very exclusive night clubs in the affluent Miraflores district of Lima) as many as 70 per cent described themselves as white, while those who preferred Sargento Pimienta (in Barranco) described themselves as mestizos or did not specify their ethnicity.11 The differences between these two groups are also expressed in youth discourse through word
11 Barranco is a district well known for its bohemian, artistic and leftist intellectual inhabitants.
Among the white upper classes themselves, Gótica and Aura are considered the most exclusive discos in Lima, while Sargento Pimienta, Dragón and La Noche (all in Barranco) were presented as more mixed; they are where upper-class ‘alternatives’ gather to listen to their favourite bands. The music programme in Sargento Pimienta is also diverse: classic rock, reggae, salsa and fusion are often on the bill. An advantage of Sargento Pimienta is its size and lack of tables; this enables people to move around freely, dance, drink, jump and express themselves without restrictions of space. Also, groups like La Mente have used the space to incorporate new elements into their shows, such as bringing sikuri [pan pipe] troupes to play and dance among the audience. People do not dress as smartly as they would for other venues;
they are distinctly underdressed, even compared with La Noche’s relaxed audience. During concerts it is not uncommon to overhear jokes and negative comments directed at overdressed attendants, even from their own friends: ‘Where do you think you are, in Aura? [laughter].
play with the names of these two venues and the locations in Lima. There is a music scene and circuit for each lifestyle. ‘Alternative’ wealthy youth predominantly favour Barranco district’s music scene (for example, Sargento Pimienta), and are hence known as barrancoides or barranqueros, whereas the youth who frequent the exclusive clubs are called gotiqueros.
There are other names too, mostly pejorative and associated with political preference and ideology, such as progre or caviar [champagne socialist]: someone from the upper class who has a wealthy lifestyle, but claims to understand
‘the people’ and sympathise with leftist ideology. When asking wealthy limeños whether there really is such a stark divide, the replies came without hesitation:
They’re totally different, I consider myself barrancoide, but I went to Gótica two weeks ago and to tell you the truth I’m ashamed to go to Gótica, because I don’t have anything in common with the people who go there, the music is all 107.7 [reference to Radio Planeta – music in English and mostly from major US labels]. Barrancoide people are like ‘así no más’ [they maintain their distance] with gótica people and they don’t mix because a gotiquero works at a bank and has a different life, different aspirations, they want to marry quickly. We share the same social class, but the barrancoides, for example ... are people who don’t go to Starbucks, they don’t do the
‘cafecito’ [let’s go for a coffee] thing, they’re totally underground … they drink chela [beer]. (Jorge 26, focus group, December 2010)
For the ‘alternatives’, fusion music is a clear marker of their ‘alternative’
identity and an opportunity to explore other cultures and interact with them, a phenomenon Hopenhayn (1999, p. 25) labels ‘transcultural self-recreation’,
‘a way to self-recreate oneself through the interaction with the “other”’. For example, Joaquín Mariátegui, former lead guitarist of well-known group Bareto, clearly felt the clash between his musical taste and his reality:12
I would love to know and speak Quechua and, damn, play yaravíes the way Manuelcha Prado [well-known Andean guitarist from Ayacucho]
does. Again, I’m not Manuelcha Prado, I mean, I’m a colorao [‘red’, a more affectionate euphemism for ‘white’ than blanco] […] I’m not a liar. I’m not Manuelcha Prado, but, damn, I’m not Eric Clapton either, I’m not Bob Marley either … shit … where am I, WHO AM I? I think that for me music has become a way of finding myself on the map, basically, music for me is like a compass and it tells me who I am. (interview, September 2010)
Poor sod, you look lost, there’s nowhere to put your Johnny Walker here. Get with it, here you come in pyjamas and ojotas [car tyre sandals]’ (female, 24, Sargento Pimienta).
12 In 2009–10 Bareto was hailed in the media as the ‘most democratic’ band in Lima, because its music was heard by many Peruvians, regardless of ethnicity and social class. Bareto’s social impact was evidenced with descriptions such as ‘the band that united Peru through music’ or
‘the band that broke down social barriers in Peru’. See these interviews as examples: Sonidos del Mundo, conducted by Mabela Martinez (15 Feb. 2009), http://www.youtube.com/
watch?v=-GFQbBHkB-g&feature=related [accessed 6 June 2016]; Cuarto poder (25 Jan.
2009), http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IzFWQ28zktg [accessed 6 June 2016].
Through music, Joaquín ‘finds himself on the map’. Fusion music then becomes the tool he needs in order to discover himself and later reconstruct himself as an alternative wealthy chichero musician.13 Joaquín embraces this categorisation, one that in the past would have been perceived as an insult to a white upper-class musician, as chicha music was associated with marginality, serranos [highlanders] and bad taste (Romero, 2007, p. 31; Bailón, 2004, p.
58–9; Ramos-García, 2003, p. 201).
The aftermath of the Peruvian internal conflict (1980–2000) played a significant role in fostering the feeling of ‘togetherness’ that motivated my collaborators14 to approach previously rejected musical styles and individuals through cultural consumption and interracial/interclass onstage collaborations (Montero-Diaz, 2016). The rise of this music among white upper-class youth in 2005–6 indicated a new taste for previously marginalised genres. This crossing of racialised boundaries allowed for empathetic musical interactions,
13 Person who plays chicha music. The word is not always used pejoratively, yet in upper- and middle-class Lima it is mainly used as a derogatory term to refer to musicians from the provinces, regardless of whether they play chicha. Chicha is the musical product of waves of migration from the hinterland to the capital, as Andeans in Lima mixed one expression of their huayno [traditional music] with foreign rhythms such as cumbia, mambo, guarachas.
A new genre of popular music emerged featuring electric guitars and synthesisers as iconic instruments.
14 I have chosen to use the term ‘collaborators’ instead of ‘informants’, as I find that the former more accurately describes the role of the individuals I spoke to in the course of the fieldwork.
Informant seems to indicate a more distant and unequal relationship with the researcher.
Figure 8.1. Joaquín Mariátegui – Bareto’s former lead guitarist. (Photographer: Alonso Molina. Used with permission of Joaquín Mariátegui and Alonso Molina.)
reconfigurations of white upper-class identity, and new hybrid self-representations, for instance, as ‘white cholos’.15 Phrases such as: ‘I’m white, but I’m black inside’ (Miki González); ‘I love huaynos, I must have Andean blood somewhere’ (Pepita García-Miró); or ‘I’m a proud cholo and white chichero’
(Joaquín Mariátegui, Bareto) are often used when white fusionists describe their engagement with more traditional Peruvian music as a way to embody racialised musical identities (cf. Wade, 2005, p. 248–9). However, there is a tension between the whiteness and class of fusion musicians and audiences on the one hand, and their commitment to social equality through music on the other.
‘Alternatives’ do not feel like ‘regular’ upper-class youths, but most do not feel part of a broader Lima either. Many say that other limeños reject their perspectives because they have not experienced marginality or ‘real’ hardship.
One collaborator said:
I just want to be me, I don’t want to be like my parents or like other snobs, but I can’t escape my class totally. I am a lefty, I study anthropology, have diverse friends … but still some people think I am fake, too idealistic, empty, [a] naïve spoiled pituco, and this is because I am still white and I still live in Miraflores. For me fusion music is the soundtrack of Peru, not just of the elites, or the working classes, it represents an ideal Peru, where everyone is treated the same and can make music together […] Do I have to paint my face, leave my home and university to prove I am genuine, that I am not a liar? [his voice breaks]. (Male aged 25, interview, 10 March 2011).
Even fusion fandom is seen by many in their own class and lower classes as a consumerist, appropriative fad, a ‘hipster’ act. However, some ‘alternatives’
I interviewed made a distinction between upper-class fusion ‘fans’ and
‘followers’ by knowledge and social identity, much like the categories defined by Tulloch and Jenkins (1995). ‘Followers’ engage with fusion erratically and inconsistently, while fusion ‘fans’, many of whom are ‘alternatives’, engage not only with the aesthetics, but also, and principally, with the message and ideals of fusion (interculturality, celebration of diversity, social and personal transformation) (Montero-Diaz, 2016); this distinction is an attempt to
15 Cholo is originally a pejorative term used to refer to Andean-mestizo urban residents and people born in cities who have Andean ethnicity, background, phenotype or cultural traits.
However, from the mid 2000s, hand in hand with the growing popularity of fusion music and the tendency to embrace previously marginalised genres among the middle and upper classes, a new sense of ‘Choloness’ (choledad) emerged in Lima. Redefined as a form of celebratory non-assimilative mestizaje, this describes a proud fusion of cultural traits between the Andes and the coast, giving rise to a distinctive cholo identity. Cholo/a blanco [white cholo] is a term used by white musicians when giving reasons for their engagement with music not traditionally associated with white upper-class taste.
validate their hybrid identities by differentiating the fad (hipsterism) from sincere musical engagement.16
Through intercultural contact and friendship, ‘alternative’ fusion musicians explore their city outside the fixed trappings of race and social class. Many play at both exclusive venues and at mass popular events, challenging the
‘allowed spaces’ of their class in search of something more ‘real’. I coined the term espacios permitidos [allowed spaces] as an analytical tool to examine what the white upper classes perceive as safe poverty-free places for them to live and travel around ‘comfortably’. For most limeños the experience of their city is limited to spaces where one is comfortable among people who share one’s habits, purchasing power, prejudices and fears. These spaces are perpetuated as ‘allowed spaces’ passed down from parents to children.17 The way fusionists challenge ‘allowed spaces’ hints at what Arellano (2010, p. 172) calls an ‘inverse aspiration process’, in which the white upper classes reject social distance and aspire to feel socially included in the city.
I think we have grown up looking abroad a lot, don’t you? We go out for a Coca-Cola [she puts on an American accent], we go for hamburgers ...
finally Peruvians, and I wouldn’t say that it is just the upper classes, look at themselves and say ‘ok, my chicha is bloody brilliant’ … yeah sure Michael Jackson is cool, but listen, Grupo 5 [cumbia norteña band] is brilliant, I love it. So I also think it’s a kind of better self-esteem, but I see it like that, I don’t see it as a longing, but like taking a look inside, when you suddenly look at yourself and say ‘I like myself’. (Pamela Rodríguez, interview, Miraflores, Lima, 4 March 2011)
This interaction through mixing genres brings issues of participation and agency to the fore. Who has the right to mix and play this music? Who has agency to represent themselves? Are these sincere attempts at dialogue or just another way to ignore differences and pretend that everything is fine? White upper-class performers have to grapple not only with the limeño audiences’
imaginaries and ideas of what they ‘should’ be doing or performing, but also with their relationships with fellow musicians, the scene and academics.
Multiple pressures have forced some of them to change genres, bands or even rethink their music careers, an indication that discrimination, exclusion and racism in Lima are complex and merit examination across the whole ethnic spectrum.
16 Arguably fandom is always performative, sometimes defined as ‘an identity which is dis-claimed and which performs cultural work’ (Hills, 2002, p. xi).
17 For examples, see the undergraduate thesis on Lima’s imaginary city limits by Eduardo González Cueva (1994).