National Water Fight

The past week of travel has thrown me into the crossfire of a national water fight, also known as Carnaval. Those ridiculous translucent plastic ponchos aren’t just for unprepared gringos. Bolivians, too, are decked out in full body plastic bags, nudged out of embarrassment by the threat of water guns, foam spray, and water balloons. A school aged boy with a bucket of water could be hiding out on any rooftop, and at this point I scamper like a scared dog when I hear a trickle of water falling from a pipe. In Cochabamba, I was proud to have never been hit by a balloon, but since I’ve started traveling I’m just one in an endless line of tourists with a target sign on my body.

But carnaval is more than just water fights. It’s a week long, all day, all night fiesta. No town is too small for fiesta, few people too mature to wrap streamers around their neck and toss confetti in the air. Taxis and busses are decked out in balloons and streamers. People gather around the plazas dancing until the middle of the night, older ladies bouncing around to traditional music until the early hours of the morning.

In the weeks leading up to carnaval, I took dance lessons at a plaza in Cochabamba, learning the Tinku style of dance with a team out practicing near the University. You could walk the blocks around the plaza and sample each style, and I loved spending the evenings out there making a fool of myself. The movements felt totally foreign, and I could follow along up until the turns left me spinning.

This also got me on local television. The novelty of foreigners floundering along to Tinku dance moves was apparently news worthy, and I was chased down for an interview. And I mean chased. I ran until a man with a microphone grabbed my arm and forced me in front of the camera. I managed to speak enough Spanish to talk my way out of dancing in front of the camera, though a shot of us all practicing together still got on the air. This makes time number two that I’ve been featured dancing on local TV. Maybe a shot of me dancing electric slide to an island remix is still airing every once in a while on Kosraean TV back in Micronesia.

For the real festivities, I landed in Oruru, which is apparently the place to be for carnaval in Bolivia. The parade started at 7 am and lasted until 4 in the morning, the sheer number of sparkly costuming, marching bands, and continuous flow of enthusiasm became more and more impressive as the night went on. I only saw 12 hours of the 48 hours of festivities, and that was enough parade to last me for the foreseeable future. Making it until the end of the first night, freezing and exhausted in the bleachers at 4 am felt like an accomplishment- though what exactly I accomplished still eludes me.