Bad Places to Faint in Bolivia

A fluffy creature from the Diablada

February and March mark carnaval time in different corners of South America.  My research led me to two different carnavals that, I felt, were necessary to check out.  One was the world renowned celebration in Rio, a sort of Mardis Gras on steroids.   The other was the carnaval held in Oruro, Bolivia.  Perhaps it is just me, but I’d never heard of Bolivia’s celebration, whereas Brazil’s brought to mind iconic pictures of exposed women in magnificent costumes.  When one thinks of Brazil’s carnaval they think of the sparkly masks, the gaudy jewelry, the peacock style costumes, the floats, and the nonstop party.  But what about Bolivia? 

It’s the poorest country in Latin America and I’d been warned by every backpacker I’d talked to that it was a difficult place to travel.  Even Lonely Planet warns of children in ski masks who spit on you and, while you stand there shocked, steal your wallet or slash open your bag.  I’d like to state that the only problem I had with kids on the street was the occasional water balloon being thrown in my direction.  Having said that, a German girl I talked to said that she was a victim of spit robbery.  Maybe I just don’t look like I have anything worth stealing, but I found the people to be warm, friendly, and full of life.  It was, after all, a time of celebration.

You cross the border from Peru and you instantly notice the change.  The houses aren’t as well kept up, the fields aren’t as green, and the people begging for money seem a bit more desperate.   In La Paz and Oruro I was struck by how barren the whole landscape seemed.  My first connection when I hear Bolivia is jungle, but in the highland regions it’s beautiful, but desolate; what I imagine Afghanistan to be like.  My second preconception of Bolivia did turn out to be accurate.  The percentage of native peoples in Bolivia is something like sixty to seventy percent, much higher than other Latin American countries.  The streets were full of women in bowler hats and ornate black dresses.  Full of old men with dark tan faces that wrinkle like accidentally laundered paper when they smile.

This year marked the two hundred year anniversary of the carnaval in Oruro and everything was on a grander scale than usual.  Oruro is a mining town and doesn’t usually have too much activity, but during carnaval it takes a completely different form.  The hotels and hostels had been completely booked  weeks in advance and by Friday evening all the bleacher seats to watch the parade were sold out.   On Friday, the streets were packed with venders and celebrants.  Alcohol flowed freely in every direction and spontaneous marches and horn playing were commonplace.  Kids and adults alike carried large squirt guns, water balloons, and funny foam to spray at passersby.  Many people were wearing ponchos to protect themselves, not from the natural elements, but from each other.

My wife and I had been travelling pretty hard core for a few months before the carnaval.  Plenty of twenty four hour buses and sleepless nights in strange hostels.  The carnaval was to be our last big celebration before we settled down in Santiago, Chile for awhile.  So, while exhausted, we gave the celebration everything we had.  By seven in the morning we were in our seats, beers in hand, watching the police chase passed out drunks off of the parade route.  One man, who was completely incapacitated, was picked up and laid on a bleacher.  He had wet himself and lost a shoe, when he woke up a few hours later in midst of the parade it was as if he’d awoken inside of a nightmare. 

The parade was one of the most amazing things I’ve seen while travelling.  Two days of virtually nonstop brass bands and strange costumed dances.  Two of the dances that have imprinted themselves on my mind are la Morenada and la Diablada.  Morenada is a dance that was made to represent the release of the black slaves.  It’s a strange dance consisting of bearded men with whips, who are meant to represent Spaniards, silvery men in large costumes that look like a layered cake, and beautiful twirling girls in short skirts.  One can identify the Morenada from afar by listening for the spinning noisemakers that the silver men carry that are meant to sound like the clanking of chains around their feet.

La Diablada is a dark affair that deals with archangels, in this case carrying swords and whistles, leading demons and other devilish creatures back to hell.  The dark host of characters consists of fat furry creatures with bug eyes, sexy horned women, and demons with enormous fiery helmets that were so large some had to take them off for short breaks during the parade.  Whenever they took off the helmets it revealed a sweaty and suffering human beneath the horrible mask.  Usually someone would run over and offer the poor soul a large sip of beer. 

The parade and revelry went on for days.  A clear thought, let alone sleep, were unmanageable during the festivities.  I could barely even walk on the streets they were so crowded and whenever I did, for a snack or a toilet break, I always came back covered in white foam.  There was no easy way to and from our seats in the bleachers, my wife and I had to climb up and down rickety ladders made from scrap wood and then push aggressively to get to our seats.  We only left our seats when absolutely necessary.  On Sunday my wife collapsed.  Perhaps it was all the travelling beforehand, perhaps the lack of sleep, perhaps the noise, perhaps the drinking, perhaps the devilish costumes, but she suddenly was out cold.

It was one of the most terrifying moments of my life.  We were in the stands cheering and singing along to the different chants when she fainted.  I didn’t know what was happening at first and started slapping her face.  I started trying to think how I could possibly carry her down the ladder and how impossible it would be to get an ambulance there if this was serious.  Luckily, after a few minutes and a few splashes of water she came to.  I held her hand tight and we pushed our way through the masked, cheering, half insane revelers and made it into our room.  Even behind closed doors there was no escape from the blaring horns and drunken screaming. 



The Morenada



It felt like fleeing from a horror film when we got on the next bus out of there.  I breathed a sigh of relief as the sign said we were leaving Oruro.  If I close my eyes and think back I can still hear the horns and the chanting; my hands get clammy and I feel a bit panicky.  It was just the way a good party should be: just the right mix of insanity, terror, and intoxication so that I’ll never forget it, even if I want to.