Theorizing Gender,Race,and Cultural Tourism in Latin America

Gender, Race, and Tourism in the Peruvian Andes

Since the period of violence and conflict when Shining Path militants faced off with the military, tourism has returned to Peru. Specifically, cultural tourism has reemerged, attracting visitors with the promise of exposure not only to spectacular settings and archaeological wonders but to intimate encounters with rural and indigenous Andeans. While scholars have usefully considered travelers’ romanticization of rural Andeans and their spiritual connection to the natural and supernatural world (Hill, 2008; van den Berghe and Flores Ochoa, 2000), gender differentiation in the tourism encounter is less often examined (Meisch, 2002; Zorn, 2004).

Compared with the situation in other areas where I have carried out research on tourism (Cuba and Nicaragua), sex and romance tourism is not as prevalent or as widely known, although in recent years Peruvians have expressed concern about the presence of sex tourism in the Amazon area, especially around Iquitos. Moreover, in areas of heavy tourism, especially Cuzco, young men seeking out female tourists for intimate friendships and romance, known as bricheros, have become commonplace. As in some parts of the Caribbean, these “Andean lovers” perfect the art of seduction of gringas, often by exaggerating qualities of indigenous difference, wearing their hair long, playing traditional flutes, and adopting a dress style evocative of “Inca” culture. Tourists are said to desire their imagined Andean knowledge and experience. In some cases, women attracted to the “authenticity” of bricheros (who actually work hard to speak European languages and adopt a manner that is pleasing to tourists) may invite the men to leave the country with them. The Peruvian scholar Víctor Vich (2006: 191–194) points to the gendered and racialized dimension of these intimate encounters and argues that the brichero stands in for the nation in the contemporary neoliberal world, in which the nation is up for sale. The tourist’s desire is for this figure, at once folkloric and romantic, who appears locked in time, even in the modern city of Cuzco.

“Gringotecas,” clubs where locals meet foreign women and men, provide opportunities for sexual encounters and material advantage in the form of entrée into more venues as well as meals, gifts, and travel. Andean women, less often than men, can also benefit from relationships with tourists, generally not as an explicit form of sex work but as dating or romance tourism. The attraction of Peruvians to international travelers and of tourists to Andean difference is sufficiently well known to be the subject of discussion on various web sites, including one for expatriates and travelers to Peru (http://www.expatperu.com).

Gender differences appear in the performance and delivery of more traditional tourism services in Andean Peru. Jane Henrici (2002) examined how tourism development, cultural heritage, and local economy impact women, particularly when the marketing of traditional arts and practices is viewed as a key to “modernization.” Elayne Zorn’s (2004) work on Taquile Island in Peru offered a rare example of community-based tourism that met with some early success. Interestingly, while men were centrally involved in transporting tourists to the island, women had an equally important role as the main producers of the celebrated textiles on sale to visitors. Women were prominent in social and economic exchanges with tourists, even when this contributed to tensions that emerged between Taquile men and women over access to tourism’s benefits. In the end, however, it was competition from mestizo transporters that led to local men’s displacement from the business of tourism, eroding this communitarian project. Just as Walter Little (2004) discovered in Guatemala, cultural tourism here built on notions of indigenous and female difference, and women more often than men presented themselves as indígenas. Local identity, marked by dress, language, and demeanor and strongly inflected by gender, has been a critical factor in Peru’s tourism development.

The close connection of gender and race or ethnicity in the Andes is clear in de la Cadena’s work in a community near Cuzco, where she reported the perception that “women are more Indian” (1995: 329). She found that “gender intersects with status to structure and legitimate ethnic inequality within the community and even within households.” She concluded that while both men and women might acquire “modern” skills and be perceived as less Indian and more mestizo, for women the advantage to be gained from this was more modest. The question animating my work is whether this is true today or whether in some instances indigenous women have an advantage in relation to their male counterparts.

My research on Peruvian tourism has focused on cultural and experiential tourism (known locally as turismo vivencial) in the Callejón de Huaylas in north-central Peru, an area best known for adventure travel and mountaineering. Responses to my interviews in the area indicated that a majority of travelers come to the region for cultural and ecotourism. As a Spanish teacher from the United States wrote, she was most surprised “that it is relatively authentic—though I’ve only been in the north so far. The campesinos aren’t what I expected—posing in their quaint dress for a sol. Instead they seem to patiently deal with our tourist presence spying on their customs—which are not staged.” An Israeli man who came to Peru following his military service captured the elements that drew him to the country: “Beautiful scenery, amazing people, and as a backpacker, it’s rather cheap.” Many are struck by what a French woman described as “the kindness of people and how helpful they are. The way they’re living with the strict minimum and seem to be happier than people like us, who have everything so easily.” Similarly, a man from the Netherlands appreciated “the endless solidarity and cariño [affection] of the poor people.”

While I have been based over the years in the city of Huaraz, capital of the department of Ancash, I have observed travel throughout the Callejón region. In particular, I focus on Vicos, an Andean community that is well known in the history of applied anthropology since Cornell University assisted the Vicosinos a half century ago to become the owners of their former-hacienda land (Dobyns, Doughty, and Lasswell, 1971 [1964]; Stein, 2003). Recently, Vicos has launched a small tourism project with the assistance of nearby nongovernmental organizations (NGOs). I have made short visits to Vicos over three decades and stayed there for several days in 2006 and again in 2010 as a guest in order to learn more about how a handful of families with support to build guest lodges has fared in launching this project. Those acquainted with the Cornell-Peru Project of the 1950s and 1960s may recognize this enterprise as a logical extension of development initiatives of the past. By now, however, Vicosinos themselves are seeking to manage the business of drawing travelers, largely from the United States and the Netherlands, for stays of a few days or more during which they participate in the everyday activities of the rural, agricultural community. A selling point for potential visitors is the opportunity to get to know about the lives and culture of a traditional, indigenous Quechua-speaking people. To that end, the community has shifted from agricultural modernization to modernization based on cultural difference.

Having conducted archival research on gender relations in Vicos during the time of the Cornell-Peru Project (Babb, 1985), I was eager to see how Vicos community members were approaching tourism as a new means for economic development. In Huaraz, an NGO supporting Vicos’s tourism project, the Mountain Institute, had produced an attractive brochure that serves to orient prospective and current visitors to “a direct experience with families that live in the Andean mountains.” Images and text offer a brief history of Vicos from the time when it was “a typical Andean hacienda” (1611–1952) to the time of the Cornell-Peru Project. The present is described by reference to the continuing biodiversity and traditional culture in the region. What rivets attention are the photos and descriptions of the eight hosts of tourist homestays and other residents of Vicos. All of the hosts and other local specialists are men, and the descriptions emphasize what tourists will experience by staying with or meeting a craftsman, a beekeeper, a musician, a weaver, or a toolmaker—all men. Women are strikingly absent from this portrayal of everyday life in Vicos.

My visits to Vicos brought to light the gendered and racialized nature of the experience, suggesting that these social vectors continue to be salient, as they are elsewhere, and that tourism development efforts have differential consequences for women and men in the community. In part, this may result from the greater difficulty women have in speaking Spanish, given past practices of sending sons to school or the military while daughters remained at home. It may also stem from the perception identified by de la Cadena (1995) that rural women are “more Indian” and less modern, less able to fulfill key responsibilities in tourism development, though, as I have shown, elsewhere in the Callejón de Huaylas women play active roles in the local economy (Babb, 1998 [1989]).

Only Vicosino men attend the tourism workshops, or talleres, in Huaraz. There they are given advice on how to receive guests and interact with them, including the suggestion that family members should eat together and offer commentaries on how things were done in the past and how traditions are continuing in the present. One of my hosts, whom I call “Tomás,” explained that relating to tourists was new to them and that for his wife, “Dora,” it produced considerable anxiety, since her Spanish was very limited and she was not sure how she would manage. While it might be said that women are the principal conservators of culture and tradition in Vicos, men are the ones who are expected to pass this knowledge on to their guests. Tomás spoke frequently and reverentially of the time of their grandparents, and even as the radio or TV played loudly he emphasized that things were much the same now as in the past. As the male head of household, he played host while Dora provided the critical and labor-intensive services of preparing the guest quarters and meals.

During this visit, Dora remained largely behind the scenes while Tomás interacted with me directly. He called me to meals that she had prepared, except in the case of the pachamanca, the traditional Andean barbecue on my last day, which was prepared by Vicosino men and then served by the women. He escorted me to a local wedding, and she joined us only after carrying out work at home. While he delivered a speech at the time of my departure, she was shy and scarce. Both were kind and hospitable, but Tomás performed the role of gracious host and family spokesperson. Women in Vicos may be simply too busy with household responsibilities to play a more active part in the tourism project, but the androcentrism of the tourism project may well be repeating the practices of past interventions in Vicos that singled out men for economic development projects (Babb, 1985; Greaves, Bolton, and Zapata, 2011).

On another visit I interviewed women at the long-standing visitor attraction operated by the Vicos community, the thermal baths and hotel at Chancos. Vicosinas are much more in evidence in the Chancos enterprise, playing a significant part in the operation of the baths, rustic hotel, small restaurants, and market stalls that are concentrated along the quiet road that leads into Vicos. The women vendors and restaurant workers I spoke to were more comfortable in Spanish than many other Vicosinas; those I spoke to told me that they were not familiar with the tourism project, though they were interested in hearing about it. They were regarded as cholas, women bearing characteristics of both campesinas and mestizas who had adapted to the world of urban commerce and interacted with a wider social network.

Tourists come to Vicos to see Indians leading “traditional” lives, not savvy women bargaining with buyers in the market. It is to larger towns and cities like Huaraz that tourists go to visit busy markets and haggle over prices. In such towns there is more diversity, and social differences stand out in sharp relief. These differences between rural communities and more urban settings are captured in regional popular culture. A fascinating touristic display of the contrasting provincial Andean and elite cultures in Peru is found in the sales of knock-off Barbies in handmade outfits identified as “chola” (urbanized Indian) and “de Lima” (from the capital city). In Vicos, however, cultural commodification is better concealed than revealed, and there is little need for cash during a tourist’s stay unless it is to give a host a small amount to purchase coca leaves for an Andean ritual—until the end of the visit, when there is a quick accounting of the payment due. Tourists are spared learning of families’ urgent need for cash for children’s school supplies, household items, or transportation to nearby towns and of women’s central role in managing household budgets.

It remains to be seen how tourism will fare in Vicos and how men and women will collaborate in this initiative. Although I have noted that men are the designated hosts and play the leading public role in experiential tourism in the community, women are critically important to its success. The complementarity of gender roles in Vicos is arguably as apparent today as it was 30 years ago. Just as the significant part of women in the community eluded the applied anthropologists some decades back, the supporters of the tourism initiative may also be overlooking the key role played by women. When Tomás told me of his wife’s nervousness about his becoming a member of the project, I believe that he was also signaling his own anxiety that without her full support he could not make a go of it. A wider recognition of the significance of women in the project and more generally in Vicos might have positive effects going beyond the tourism project.

Race, Gender, and Tourism in Chiapas

Since the Zapatista rebellion nearly two decades ago, there has been renewed international attention to Chiapas—although anthropologists like June Nash and those in the Harvard Chiapas Project focused close attention on its cultural history beginning a half century ago (Nash, 2001; Vogt, 1994). Journalists and activists were the first to arrive on the scene in 1994, but mainstream tourism returned later in the decade, and today there is a busy tourism season and visitors come throughout the year.

As in the case of Andean Peru, Chiapas is well known for its rural and indigenous population. Cultural or “ethnic” tourism (van den Berghe, 1994) is a response to the broad appeal of traditional Maya people and culture, and many travelers make the circuit (Ruta Maya) that includes the Yucatan, Oaxaca, Chiapas, and, across the border, Guatemala. The fact that rebels in Chiapas made headlines when the North American Free Trade Agreement went into effect on January 1, 1994, adds to the allure for some who wish to see the place where indigenous people rose up in opposition to free-trade measures that they claimed would further marginalize them in Mexican society. A visit there offers quaint colonial towns, traditional communities, archaeological and jungle tours, and a politicized climate in which market vendors offer the ubiquitous Zapatista merchandise. What tourists do not often recognize is the diversity of the region’s indigenous peoples (Eber and Kovic, 2003; Gil, 1999; Rovira, 1997; Stephen, 2002), viewing them instead as essentialized Indians. This is seen in the desire of solidarity tourists to have intimate encounters with idealized indigenous Zapatistas and of other tourists to purchase textiles made by authentic Indians whose specific cultural identities remain unknown to them.

Researchers and some tourists have, however, discovered the gender differences that exist in Chiapas, and some have noted indigenous women’s voice. Many women have been empowered through organizing artisan cooperatives in which they control production and marketing. Mayan women who have become involved in Zapatista activism have spoken up about the extra burdens they shoulder at home and in society, with heavy family responsibilities and often unequal access to education and other resources. They have addressed domestic abuse, reproductive rights, and the social discrimination they face as both women and indigenous people—asserting their individual and collective rights (Speed, Hernández Castillo, and Stephen, 2006). Their organizing as women and as Zapatistas is now widely recognized, and several comandantas have become celebrated figures in the social movement. The Zapatistas’ call for indigenous rights includes particular attention to women’s rights, and the “Women’s Revolutionary Law” is one of the cornerstones of their political platform.

Hernández Castillo (2005) has discussed the strategic essentialism of Mayan women activists who are embracing the ideal of gender complementarity even while acknowledging current gender inequalities. A cultural politics of celebrating gender difference along with Mayan spirituality and worldview not only enables them to hold their male counterparts to a higher standard but positions them to be cultural standard bearers. Women participating in the tourism economy have the further advantage of being deemed by outsiders to be traditional and authentic Mayas, embodying cultural heritage and ancestral knowledge and resistance to the homogenizing forces of globalization.

In the course of my research in the region, I joined several groups of solidarity tourists in the cultural center Oventic in Zapatista territory. We met with members of the Zapatistas’ good-government council, and each time there was at least one woman present among the indigenous leadership, even if she was a quieter member of the group (having less fluency in Spanish). In this way, women were visible to tourists and broke with traditional gender divisions in Chiapas. The conferences I attended along with numerous international activists also made gender issues central features on their agendas. In workshops and panels, indigenous women and their supporters discussed matters relating to women and health, education, and livelihood.

The iconic Zapatista women in braids and bandanas adorn the most popular items sold to both solidarity and mainstream tourists, including T-shirts, posters, and even ashtrays. Also in abundant supply are male and female dolls wearing wool tunics and masks symbolizing their resistance; both genders have androgynous forms and carry rifles. Female Zapatistas are represented as different from males by the addition of long braids tied with colorful yarn and in some cases by small wrapped bundles attached to their backs, often with masked infants peeking out. A newer invention is the “nursing” dolls created by Zapatista women of the regional Women for Dignity collective; these artisans use Mayan textiles designed in their communities to dress larger plush figures featuring snaps on hands that link together, and snaps on each breast to join nursing babies to the dolls. Along with braids and masks, this clever innovation draws considerable interest from tourists intrigued by women’s place in Zapatista political culture.

Having described the relatively prominent role of women in Chiapas’s political culture, I should also note that in places like San Cristóbal de las Casas, where there is a heavy concentration of tourism, indigenous women may be rendered nearly invisible—folkloric but bothersome—as they move through the city selling craft items to make a living. As Little (2004) showed for Antigua, Guatemala, women in their indigenous dress in Chiapas are viewed as the repositories of cultural tradition and may be the preferred vendors of items that tourists desire, but tourists often pass them by and pay higher prices in city shops where they judge the quality of the weavings and traditional articles of clothing to be higher.

An example of gender and indigenous difference on display but nearly invisible in plain sight could be seen in one of the shops ringing the café and cultural center TierrAdentro. In a space with a small quantity of traditional textiles for sale, two women in traditional dress were sitting on the floor talking quietly while one wove on a backstrap loom. There was little movement through this area, where the women worked as part of the artisan cooperative Women for Dignity; they were stationed there as a sort of “living history” cultural performance for the rare tourist who wandered into the shop from the cyber-café. For me, this recalled the way that women and children pose on the roadside for tourists on Andean Peruvian circuits and baby alpacas are brought to high-end boutiques in Lima to boost sales of clothing.

Little has been written about women and gender in the Lacandón jungle area, an important site of early civilization and the cradle of Zapatista political organizing. Travelers go there principally to visit archaeological sites and the jungle, where local men are generally the ones who transport and guide visitors while women are busy behind the scenes preparing lodging and meals. My stay in a local community catering to tourism in the jungle revealed significant similarities to the gender division of labor in community-based tourism in Vicos. The jungle tour I took, led by a young man as guide, was the most sustained period for more intimate acquaintance with a member of the Lacandón community; women, I was told, rarely served as guides. I needed to seek out a few women to talk to, something that would be difficult for travelers who do not speak Spanish.

During my stay at the camp at Lacanjá, I spoke with a small group of women who were relaxing with their children in hammocks outside their home. All were members of the same large family, which had several camps where it hosted visitors. The women told me that tourism had helped them by enabling them to sell crafts in the camps’ shops. However, an older woman among them lamented that younger women were no longer wearing traditional dress, suggesting that this was due to the influence of outsiders and their cultural practices. Nearby, the local Internet place was operated by a Lacandón man and his wife, who was from Oaxaca and nonindigenous. She experienced difficulty as one of only a few non-Lacandón women in the community because people there generally spoke the Mayan language and not Spanish. She was nonetheless part of the socially diverse fabric of the community, which increasingly was marked by differences of age, language use, gender, and economic opportunity.

Of sex and romance tourism, there is little at present in Chiapas. The prostitution that exists is directed mainly to local men or to soldiers (Kelly, 2008), who during the region’s recent militarization have been known to draw local women into commercialized sex. Previously unknown in many indigenous communities, prostitution may be related to family violence and abuse of alcohol (Eber and Kovic, 2003: 12). Relationships sometimes form between travelers and local men and women, and I heard one account from a European woman who came for a few days and met a man whom she married; she has lived in San Cristóbal for some years now, working along with her husband as a tour guide in a leading tourism office. However, as a travel destination Chiapas does not attract the sort of sex or romance tourism found in Mexico’s resort locations.

As in Andean Peru, the intertwining of gender and race in the lives of indigenous women in Chiapas is complex and contradictory. Generations of subordination to those of higher socioeconomic class and racial status and, often, to men of their own communities have put these women at a disadvantage with regard to education, employment, and social position. Mestizos in both regions continue to look down on campesinos and indigenous people and on the in-between category of “modernizing” Indians; women among these groups may be the object of particular scorn. Tourism may reproduce discriminatory practices even when, in some cases, the figure of the indigenous woman is rebranded as desirable in marketing traditional societies in transition. The iconic woman spinning yarn in the Andes or weaving on a backstrap loom in Chiapas can be a selling point and a particularly reassuring image of cultural continuity in places recently marked by conflict. These women are aware of the power of representation in tourism and may seek to get ahead by enhancing their image as authentic indigenous women, in some cases using web sites and other marketing devices to encourage tourism or the direct sale of craft items. In contrast to a short time ago, when it was safer to conceal one’s indigenous identity, it is now a point of pride for some, at least in the realm of tourism. In the case of Chiapas, the indigenous struggle for human rights is characterized by women playing a significant role in activism to counter local- as well as national-level injustices (Speed, 2008), and this appears to carry over to their participation in tourism.

Indigenous Women and Tourism

How does tourism, and particularly cultural tourism, affect the balance of gender relations among indigenous peoples in Andean Peru and Chiapas? When de la Cadena described Andean women as “more Indian,” she parted ways with analysts who emphasized harmony and complementarity among Andean women and men. She acknowledged that women who gained experience as marketers were already acquiring the modern urban skills that might enable them to appear less Indian and more mestizo, but she claimed that local men and women devalued such activity as “not really work” (1995: 330). Whether or not Andeans uniformly hold that view, we might ask whether they view work in tourism as meaningful and worthy. We have seen that indigenous women are often viewed as the most culturally authentic members of their communities and as such may have an economic advantage in tourism when they produce items and sell to the public or interact in other ways with tourists. Does this result in higher status for them in local communities? Does marketing their identity as traditional or indigenous benefit them in other ways?

Recent research in the Cuzco area supports the view that women are finding new ways to market their identities as well as their products in the tourism economy. For example, women and children who pose for photos, using folkloric dress and sometimes iconic alpacas to cater to tourist preferences, have become commonplace enough that individuals serving as models are referred to as sácamefotos (take-my-pictures). However, as do the bricheros who seek women’s affection in the tourism market, these women gain new sources of income without necessarily gaining respect in family and community; the work is not regarded as worthy in the way that the work of artisans is (Simon, 2009). In such cases, gender and racial identity are put to work in ways that result in deeply ambivalent outcomes at the local level.

Long-term research at an eco-lodge in the southeastern Amazon area shows that competition for tourism revenues has resulted in local concern to manifest indigenous identity and culture. In this area, characterized by mixed “native communities,” gender appears to be less significant than ethnic identity. It remains to be seen to what degree tourism is a benefit, offering new economic resources and validation for indigenous identity, and to what degree it may promote new inequalities as both potential income and ethnic identity become contested sites. In an ironic twist that recalls the tourism project in Vicos, as the Amazonian community seeks “modern” progress it is “considering the possibility that a return to the past [reclaiming traditions, retention of language and dress] may be the best path to a prosperous future” (Stronza, 2008: 251).

Research on indigenous women in Latin America suggests that women’s position may undergo the greatest change in areas where they participate in local women’s movements or in indigenous movements that offer substantial attention to gender injustice and seek to overcome it (Speed, Hernández Castillo, and Stephen, 2006). This could account for the greater visibility of women in Zapatista communities than in other areas of Chiapas or in Andean Peru. It may also help explain their active part in organizing artisan cooperatives that direct their sales to the tourist market (Ortiz, 2001). In times and places where women recognize the need to assert their rights, they clearly tend to have a more prominent role both in political mobilization and in tourism development. Tourists themselves often seek opportunities to interact with indigenous women, and this may serve to draw women into more active engagement with tourism. To be sure, as women participate more in tourism they may lose some of the apparent authenticity that serves to attract tourists in the first place. My work presented here supports the view that it is critical to sort through the ways in which identities are shifting in response to both new challenges and new opportunities for those who have been marginalized historically. For indigenous women whose full citizenship rights have been denied in the past, even short-term gains may be used strategically to advance their individual and collective interests.

Peoples and nations that increasingly look to tourism for economic and political stabilization frequently refashion their cultural identities and histories to draw travelers. The emergence of indigenous social movements in southern Mexico and in countries like Ecuador and Bolivia and, to a lesser degree, Peru has the double advantage of asserting rights at the national level and capturing the interest of international travelers and supporters. Chiapas and the Andean region thus have a higher profile for those considering their options for travel destinations. They have the cachet of having recently made international headlines and the security of having emerged from deeper conflict. Women, whether exoticized for their cultural difference or simply admired for their artisan skills and new-found activism, are coming to play a more important part in the tourism encounter in these postconflict and transitional societies. Being “more Indian” can become a source of cultural capital. These women’s growing visibility, their social and political participation, and even their marketing of Zapatista dolls and chola Barbies, suggest that in some cases women are making gains under the new terms of engagement with tourism.