With water bombs, Super Soakers and foam spray never far away, the Carnaval de Oruro was as much an education in stealth as it was cultural celebration. In relationship to the former, I was hardly an A grade student but I did do enough to make it out alive and enjoy the craziness that unfolded.
Before I could experience the extremeties of the carnival, I first had to make my way through the town of Cochabamba, a city sat around halfway between Santa Cruz from where I departed last Wednesday, and Oruro.
There were no real dramas on the bus journey although it was nonetheless a little hellish. Luckily, the cracked window immediately in front of me held out for the entire ten hour journey, however this wasn´t really aided by the local sat next to me who kept finding a great fascination in poking the centre of it which was roughly the size of a tennis ball.
For the next few hours, I endured further evidence that suggests the Bolivians are completely immune to fluctuating temperatures. Some of you more creative ones may say they´re 'o-Bolivia-s`.
While I sat sweating like something that sweats a lot, my shirt and shorts as damp as damp clothes, the rest of the passengers seemed content and able to doze off peacefully while wrapped in jumpers and alpaca wool blankets. Feeling I was the only one who was going through this depleting ordeal, I soon began to go a little crazy in the stormy Bolivian night, believing it was some form of conspiracy against me, reminiscent of The Truman Show. After five hours of shirt-sticking insanity, I finally managed to get some sleep and by eight in the morning, I´d managed to dry out, ready to tackle Cochabamba in a slightly more dignified state.
I managed this but then started veering again as a dodgy burger for lunch started playing tricks with my insides, which perhaps wasn´t all that surprising as I found out the restaurant was run by former prostitutes. I´m not at all suggesting they´re bad cooks, but they hardly specialise in health and hygiene.
Before I was struck down by my red-light rump, I did manage to take a trip up the city´s cable car to see the Cristo de la Concordia statue and expansive views of the City of Eternal Spring. On the way down, I befriended a family who were bewildered by travel plans but seemed to love saying my name.
In the evening I reserved a bus ticket for the next days trip to Oruro, then fought fire with fire and had more meat which seemed to do the trick.
On Friday morning, I was confronted with the horror of a packed bus station, as seemingly the entire population of Cochabamba were heading the same way as I. Although my seat wasn´t paid for, it was reserved and so after a slightly heated Anglo-Spanish debate with a security guard, I forced my way to the front of the queue, only to find my name had now disappeared from the 10AM Danubio II to Oruro list. With a little steam fuming from my ears, I joined the back of another queue and after accidentally calling myself James Bond on the revised list, I managed to escape the bedlam just an hour later than planned.
Refreshingly, I was seated by a window which I had full control over. Although he initially pointed it in the wrong direction, an elderly man managed to get a snap of me in what was such a delightful scenario when set against the journey previous.
The four hour trip was a joy as I caught the wind in my hair and enjoyed a Steven Segal double bill of Under Siege I and II.
Arrival in Oruro went as planned and after dropping my backpack at Residencial San Salvador (thanks Stef), I went in search of cyberspace and food. I found both and also got caked in water and foam by numerous little scoundrels but soon had some defence in the guise of a poncho and my own spray. When I returned to my new home, I bumped into Rosheen, an Irish girl I met briefly in Samipata when my illness had it´s most ferocious hold. Things transpired in such a way that she and four of her friends would be sharing the same six bed dorm as myself. With such a catalyst for friendship, we and an Aussie who called himself Paul set out into the firing line and beyond where we found pizza, beers and later rum and coke in the town plaza. As low as this may sound, we were more than outdone by the locals who lay plastered on benches, pavements and in the arms of their faithful drinking companions. There was also a strong scent of piss.
On Saturday, the party started.
Although the group was split between the lazy ones and the lazier ones, we did all manage to meet for lunch before deciding to go tackle the carnival. Armed with ponchos, spray and an aggresive military attitude we took to the streets. It wasn´t long before we were caught up in some serious crossfire, generally turning en masse against anyone who fired upon any one of us. Sadly things went a bit off the rails when in a fairly intense skirmish with some local militia, both Rosheen and another girl had their bags slashed leaving them both a camera and twenty quid lighter. Fuelled by this we embarked on a mission that turned out to be a catastrophic failure.
After watching the parade for a while beside the street, we were subsequently turfed out as we weren´t willing to pay so off we set down the side of the parade in the wrong direction. With hundreds lining the particular route we were always going to be up against it but in the end it was an outright masacre. Continuously, walls of foam and water were raining down on us from all directions and even though we fought valiantly, by the end of it we were a teary-eyed and liquified unit. At one point, upon seeing a whole army of shooters ready to take aim, I decided to try being plain arrogant and just stand there but after a couple of inches piled up on my face and a kid with a Super Soaker added a gallon or two of water to the mix, I was resigned to staggering for cover like a blinded drunk.
We made it to a suitable exit after clearly overstaying our welcome and there we found refuge in a pizza restaurant where we warmed ourselves with cups of coffee.
As the afternoon drew to its close, we went back to the hostel to get dry and prepare for our evening meal at a flashy restaurant where we relfected on the days events, partly under candlelight.
Eager to stay a little drier and see more of the procession, me, Emily and Emma woke early on Sunday to scope things out and try to find some decent and free seats. We had to wait until midday for things to get underway but when they did, we found an excellent location and paid nothing where others had paid up to thirty quid in advance of the festival. Despite feeling a little more conceiled than yesterday, we were still caught up in plenty of crossfire with the spectators on the opposite side.
Other than the actual parade which was an amazing display of dance, music, outrageous costumes and colours, my highlight was hitting a cheeky little sniper on the other side flush in the face with a water bomb. My low point came soon after.
After plenty of skirmishes with the opposing side, I eventually got complacent while sitting content with my legs wide open.
Out of nowhere, a water bomb travelling at frightening speed suddenly reduced me to a crumpled and squeeling heap while also leaving the people around me gasping at what fate had just befallen me. A good minute or so later, I was able to see again and immediately looked to pick out the perpertrator. It wasn´t difficult. Usually, these cowardly Bolivians will strike you from behind or if from the front, put on a blank expression in order to go undetected. Finding someone who just crippled a man from the groin outwards was obviousloy a different matter. Hiding behind the facing stand I saw him and his accomplice almost crying with laughter. Revenge is usually best served cold but there was no time for that. I bought more rubbery water things and took aim. Emotion must have affected my focus as I inadvertantly hit his friend in the face, an old lady in her stomach and then finally a policeman on the back of his head. At this point, I let it go.
In the evening I made bracelets for three of the girls, of which two had birthdays the next day. Obviously they were delighted. This was followed by beers, peanuts and lots of chatter at the hostel.
Yesterday, we all checked out (by now a group composed of me and seven girls) and by half-past one, were boarded on our bus to La Paz.
I was pretty disheartened to see carnaval was still going on here as this meant yet more foam and water confrontations. This proved so quite quickly as I was attacked as I went for a short stroll, forcing me to change clothes yet again and re-stock on waterbombs.
As I´m back at Adventure Brew Too Hostel, I picked up my free evening beer before walking unscathed to the Wild Rover where all the girls are staying. I had a wonderful salad there before sinking a few jars until the early hours. At this point, the streets were flooded so much so that when I stepped out of the taxi, it was into gushing water nearly two feet deep.
Today things seem a little quieter and shortly I´ll be heading to an English pub to watch AC Milan v United, eat some pancakes and hopefully not get wet. I must go now as I want a decent seat for the game but I will upload more pictures tomorrow from Sunday.
No comments:
Post a Comment