Carnival Chaos

Water balloons, check, water pistol, check, rain poncho, check, okay, ready for battle.  Carnival is the closest to war I have ever come, and I am ecstatic to say so.  I found a ticket to carnival in Oruro for 120 bolivianos, approximately $15.  My place of residence was a local school, located wonderfully close to the parade procession, and my traveling partners, a group of 30 youths, all looking to have a great time at a budget price.  Many of the people on the trip were friends from my hostel, or those that I had met while riding the death road.  This package deal included transportation, as as we were leaving town, for what would prove to be a freezing cold, hilariously funny, and somewhat tragic bus ride lasting more than 5 hours, we expressed our joy and anticipation for carnival to the local passersby in the form of spraying them with copious amounts of foam and water.  Of course our attacks attracted attention, we shortly had small children, armed with enormous supersoakers and water grenades following our bus, ducking behind cars and people alike, all to get off that perfect shot through the partly opened window of the bus.  Cab drivers, after falling victim to a multi person foam attack would quickly dive for their own bottle and retaliate.  The spirit of carnival shines through the smiles on the faces of the townspeople.  We make our way out of town, and are treated to the wonderful vistas of Bolivias countryside.  Rolling green hills slowly dropping off in the distance to give way to the immense jutting mountains, their tops hidden in the clouds, giving only the slightest hint to the fury of the mountain.  The sun was setting on the opposite horizon, giving a slight pink glow to the white mountains in the distance.  I questioned my new friends, whether they prefer sunset or sunrise, but it was all but impossible to forget the image before us and imagine something more graceful.  Night had fallen, and it was cold, I sat shivering in my seat, trying to catch some sleep before arriving at carnival.  Just outside the elusive city of Oruro, our bus is stopped by the immigration police.  They board the bus in a fury, demanding passports from the half-conscious crowd.  There were a few of us that had left their passports, locked up in a safe place in La Paz, and there some of us the police didn´t seem to bother at all, unfortunately, I was in the first group, and was asked, or more so, told to get off the bus.  I stood there in the harsh wind of the cold night air, wearing jeans and a t-shirt, arguing with the police about my passport.  Luckily my spanish came through in a time of need, as our tour organizer was told that he would be arrested if he continued to speak on our behalf.  The police demanded ID, and I produced my license.  They told me that I was in violation of the border, and that I had to go to the immigration office on wednesday, until then, they were going to keep my ID.  Freezing in the night air, and happy to not have to pay, I climbed aboard the bus, dejected and relieved to have survived my first encounter with what seemed like my first true foe.  The tour operator paid off the cops for the group of us, and we were on our way.

Oruro was at one time the industrial heart of Bolivia.  Now, as I saw when we drove in through the outskirts of the city, it is a shamble of what it once was.  Extravagant statues line the center of the road, while underneath in the dim street light, youths and dogs pick through the piles of trash that line the way.  Our school was in a similar condition, at one point far better off than it is now, but over our three days there, I began to love the place.  I stayed in a classroom on a dingy pad with about 10 others.  Eager to forget the events of the past day and to enjoy the party, we headed out to the streets to find block after block of fiesta.  Bands had positioned themselves all along the street, and you could not walk out of earshot of one before hearing the next.  Around each stage were an abundance of dancers and drinkers.  We immediately partook and stayed on the streets dancing and meeting new people until around 4 in the morning.

Water balloons, check, water pistol, check, rain poncho, check, okay, ready for battle

The next morning, I woke for a quick breakfast, and by ten, I was on the street following the sound of the parade.  The idea was to go out and buy a seat to watch the parade.  Along the main street through the city, bleachers had been erected on both sides.  At ten the bleachers were packed.  The carnival procession went through the entire city, taking a turn at the main plaza and heading other end of town.  We stood in a line we thought was to buy tickets, only to be pushed out into the center of the parade.  Balloons on either side were flying with the ferocity of a people pent of for far too long.  The opportunity to hit the pack of gringos was far to luxurious to pass up, and as we made our way down the longest two city blocks I have encountered, we faced constant bombardment of foam and water.  We eventually came to a spot we could call our own, and for the next four hours, we engaged in full on war between everyone in our surrounding area.  Mothers from above in the stands would throw head shot after head shot as they took advantage of my blind spots.  Young kids would constantly be running down the streets selling bags of 10 balloons for one boliviano.  They were the arms providers in the melee.  I must have hurled hundreds of balloons.  Even walking the streets was a dangerous feet.  The bolivian version of silly string comes in a bottle slightly larger, with a little bit longer range.  It comes out as white foam, and does have a tendency to disappear after 15 or 20 minutes.  It is not so bad as long as you don't get it in the face, but what fun is a target if it dosen´t care.  Braving the streets meant possible blindness, as the most innocent looking pack of young girls would almost invariably be wielding at least a bottle or two of foam.

During the night, the parade continues, and after filling our bellies with some well deserved nourishment, we went back for streets.  At night it was just as wild, fortunately, the water balloons come to a halt, but the foam is in full force.  I had purchased a soft billy club, constructed of nylon and fabric, and proceeded to spend the majority of the night whopping people as they walked by.  Some of them would retaliate with foam, in which case, I would chase them down and attack, but the majority just smiled and continued on their way.  One thing was for sure, I was meeting someone new every minute or so with my involvement in the crowd, and I soon had an entourage of drunk people aching to talk to me.  I think one man wanted me to get him a green card.  I eventually had to postpone all further conversation for email, and again we were off on our way.  We came to the central plaza and met a group of travelers from Chile, juggling in the street.  We spent a few hours with them juggling and playing music in the night as row after row of dancers moved by, dressed in extravagance, each group performing one of over 300 traditional dances.  At four in the morning the parade came to an end, and we followed the crowd into the plaza in front of the church were the party continued until the morning, with dancing and music carrying the energy of the carnival.  Sometime around 8 I had decided I had had enough, and armed with the name of my school, I took to the streets to find my way back.  Bed had never been such a welcomed sight, I laid down, not even bothering to crawl in for about three hours, before waking to return to La Paz.  Carnival, as I had told many of the locals I met, has proven to be the most chaotic, invigorating, and amazing fiesta I have ever attended.

Now back in La Paz, I am waiting to be reunited with my drivers license, and a credit card as well.  Music still fills the streets, and water balloons are a daily risk every time you leave the hostel.  Once I finally regather myself and my belongings, it is post haste off to cochabamba, and to Villa tunari, the animal refuge.