Carnival and Alcohol

That rhymes, if you pronounce Carnival how you would down here (Car-nee-vol). I just wanted to make sure everyone knew how friggin clever I was.

So the first part of the story begins with trying to GET to Carnval. First, I need to mention that my friend Jason from Alaska met up with me in Cocha to head to Carnival with me. But I'll fill that part in on my next post. Anyways, we'd bought tickets the day before, but I guess the company we chose was charging more than the maximum tariff, or wasn't keeping receipts or something, so their office in Cochabamba got shut down. The low-down our friends got (who actually made their bus, because they left 4 hours earlier. I needed that extra time to frantically try and get my mail) was that our bus would still run, but it would run from Quillocollo, a little town about 10 miles away from Cocha. So Jason and I hailed a taxi to the "station" (street with all the bus offices, which makes due for a station in small towns), only to find an angry mob of Bolivians on arrival. Now, Bolivians are normally pretty chill, since they put up with all the annoying stuff that I complain about on a daily basis. So to find them about to riot was strange. I guess there were people still waiting for the 12pm bus (it's now 2:30), and the bus company was stonewalling as to what was going on ("a problem with the road" that didn't seem to be affecting any of the other bus companies). There were so many people complaining that Jason and I just sat and waited for about 45 minutes, after which we noticed most of the people waiting with our company had left. So we asked, and they said all buses were cancelled. We got a refund, which didn't help much since every bus ticket had been sold out since 4am that morning. So we found 3 other people and crammed into a cab, which cost 3 times as much as the inflated Carnival bus prices, but it would be quick. We thought. Our cabbie never went over 40mph the whole time, and we got passed by everything on the road. A 4 1/2 hour journey turned into a 6 hour one (wth 4 people in the back of a cab. Super duper fun). When we finally got to Oruro, we had to argue with the cab driver about how close the center is to the plaza (the answer is about 10 blocks, which is a really long way to go through crowds with all your stuff). He just didn't want to go into all the traffic, but eventually we got him to drive us into town.

When we got to where we would be staying (we were staying in someone's private house, which had been arranged by Korina), we got a very long explanation of the house, which basically consisted of demonstrating what we weren't supposed to touch, and the lady asking us what our astrological sign was (which threw both of us: probably the first time we'd heard that question in Spanish). Then we found out our land-lady had decided we weren't coming and rented one of our rooms. She wanted to rent the last one, but our friends talked her out of it. But it meant we only got one bed (with the sickest Full House sheets - does anyone remember those sheets?), so we were going to have to get cozy. This was especially working out great because my Bolivian friends had decided I was gay at some point, but told Jason that he probably didn't have to worry because "we'd been friends a long time." What sucked was that we were paying $30 a night for this room (we were supposed to pay $15 per person, for two rooms. But everything is per person for Carnival - they charge per head, not per bed). We tried to argue the price down, but it wasn't going to happen. They said we could go someplace else if we wanted, which of course would have been impossible. I tried to ask the patriarch of the house if he would want to sleep in a little bed with his friend, thinking this would be good leverage on an old man from a Catholic country, but he just shrugged and said "It's OK here, because there are no homosexuals in Bolivia" (is he trying to insinuate something? We weren't sure). Unlike in the decadent, amoral United States, where fags grow on trees because we've lost touch with our Christian roots, I guess. Leave it to ignorance to trump logic. Anyways, the first night was spent on dumb jokes between Jason and I about our sleeping arrangements and radical sheets.

So if Carnival had lasted longer, this is the kind of routine I would have developed (it was only three days, so thankfully I didn't feel obliged to put my body through this for any longer): wake up, have beer for breakfast. Go out on the street to drink and watch the parade. Have massive water balloon wars. Drink more to sooth the adreneline from being under constant fire. Have lunch from whatever is open (which is nothing, but the street food is not to be trusted, for taste or health). Get more drunk and go home to shower the foam (everyone packs spray cans of foam that have about a six foot range) out of your eyes, ears and mouth. Make sure and pick up a beer from one of the gajillion people walking around selling them for the shower (cerveza fria, which is "cold beer" usually comes body temperature). Hurry back out to see the parade and throw more balloons and drink. Once the sun goes down, the water fights and foaming dies down a bit, which leaves more time for drinking (by now we're onto puro vodka from the bottle, chased with warm beer or Coke) and dancing with the parade members. Stand around and watch the parade and get even more drunk, while sharing your beer with the hot, sweaty dancers and musicians who go by. Try not to cough too hard when the police decide to mace your general vicinity just to make sure everyone knows who's boss. Go have dinner to cushion some of that alcohol; return to drink and dance more. Chew coca leaves to call up your body's energy reserves for more dancing. Head to the discotech, because it's Carnival and everyone wants to hook up. Return to the street to drink and dance and chew more coca. When it's close to sunrise, dance behind the last of the parade up to the plaza by the church, and drink beer while watching the sick dance-off between the Devil and Archangel Michael. Toast to the triumph of good over evil, and then drink another beer. Dance until the sun comes up. Head home to crash (seriously crash). Wake up 3 hours later. Repeat.

So yeah, drinking is an integral part of Carnival. You see people partied out about midday, and I learned a couple important terms besides the standard salud (literally "health," but it's more like "cheers"): te invito means "I invite you," which means if I drink half my beer, you have to drink half of yours. Refusal is not an option. The other important one is seco, which means "dry," and if I call seco we both have to drain our cups. But besides the drinking, the parade is really, really awesome (It was declared one of Mankind's Masterpieces of the Oral and Intangible Heritage of Humanity by the UNESCO in 2001). 20 hours long each day, something like 30,000 dancers and 10,000 musicians from all over Bolivia come to strut their stuff - it's a serious competition for best costumes, dancing, etc. People save up all year and practice for three months prior to Carnival. This is something that could never exist in America, because we're just too damned lazy. The whole thing is a huge hodgepodge of indigenous Andean myths fused with Christian mythology (the Spanish wouldn't let things be Andean, so the locals had to improvise). But the most important themes are the triumph of good over evil; the reverence of Pachamama, which is the Earth Goddess or the Virgin Mary, depending on whether there's any conquistadors around; and the appeasement of Tio Supay, who is the violent mountain god/Christian Devil (who you need to keep happy if you want to stay safe in the mines for the coming year). The dancers, in their various amazing costumes, represent all of the above (someday if I'm not on stupid Internet Explorer I'll add pictures. Or you can Google Image seach carnival oruro).

The last lesson of Carnival is to watch your step: we saw a gringo and his girlfriend taking pictures of his cargo pocket and wallet, both of which had been surgicaly slashed and their contents removed. And then there's my own story: I was with two girls walking to a disco around 2am, and we just happened to go down a street with no lights to speak of (the lights were off just on this one block for some reason, it's not like we went down an alley or anything), and there just happened to be light foot traffic at the time. These three young guys were walking the opposite direction as us, and when the got up to us one of them rapidly pulled me towards him and said "give us your money!" and pressed something against my ribs. I think it was supposed to be a gun, but it was really small, was a strange, plastic color, and had strange curly-cue designs on it. If it was a gun, it was some sort of single-shot, 19th century replica. At first I just kind of played dumb/figuring out what the Hell was happening to me, smiling amiably and saying "what is this? What is this?" Then he moved the "gun" up to my neck - and once I got it against my skin I knew it was fake. I said "what is this?" again, which I think the guy was now taking to mean I knew he was robbing me with a toy, and he just let me go and starting walking off with his friend (I think other people were coming down the street by now, too). But when I turned around, the third, tallest guy (maybe 6'2") had my short lady friend (maybe 5'2") by the back of the neck and was walking off with her. So I thwacked him upside his head with my water bottle, and he let go of her and kind of open-palm smacked me on the side of the head, and ran off to catch up with her friends. I shouted after them quieres mas? (do you want more?), and they fled into the darkness. OK, stupid drunken bravery on my part, but the first two guys were already bugging out, and I guess I figured a show of strength was needed. And I got to be the Tough Guy, which I don't really get to do much - I'm not that tough. It all happened within like 30 seconds - I didn't really have time to think much. Also, in my defense, even though I never really felt scared or threatened (although probably that's due to slowed reactions from alcohol), I was definately preparing to pull out the $6 or whatever I had on me and drop it and run - it's just that I was moving and thinking a little slow, and they ran first. But It's not like three Bolivian guys on a dark street really need a gun to rob me. All they have to do is ask real nice and be persistent. In hindsight, I think it was just three drunk assholes with a little brother who likes to play Pirate who decided they could pay for their drinks that night if they tried to act tough. Anyways, I got lucky and came out on top. And it makes a good story.

So yeah, Carnival and alcohol. Good stuff.