Carnaval en Oruro

Fear and Loathing in Oruro.

Mike, JJ, Juan-Carlos and I caught an overnight bus from Sucre to Oruro on the Thursday night before Carnaval and arrived early Friday morning. The weekend was like a drunken, psychedelic dream. We stayed in the house of one of Juan-Carlos’ friends and within a few hours of arriving we procured a case of beer and we were on our way to the ‘thermal baths’ just outside of Oruro. Our host Jorge, who soon became ‘Don Giorgio’, was straight out of ‘ScarFace’. He lived in the States for a few years which gave him a Tony Montana style accent and a habit of calling everyone ‘bro’. He was pretty special. We ran into some minor issues with the immigration police on the way because neither Mike nor I had our passports with us. At one stage I was convinced we were going to be chucked in the meat-wagon and spend the rest of carnival in a cell. Luckily we managed to straighten things out and it was just as well that Jorge hadn’t started on the beers at that point. It could have been a lot more interesting. I’m fairly sure he was keen for a car-chase. The ‘thermal baths’ turned out to be a warm swimming pool and, as the only gringos, we drew some interesting looks. I’m fairly certain Mike was the first ginger person the locals had ever seen in real life. Certainly the first ginger person without his shirt on.

We got back to Oruro that evening and dived straight into more beers. The streets were a sea of festive people in various stages of inebriation. There was music blaring on every corner and no one as without a smile. It was the most electric, celebratory street party I’ve been lucky enough to experience. We danced like gringos and made friends with countless locals. It was incredible. The only downside was my phone getting pick-pocketed. Clearly not everyone was as drunk as I was.

Saturday is the when the real action begins and by the time we got to the centre the streets were alive with people who seemingly had no other reason to live than carnival. The tradition in Bolivia during carnival is water. So much water. And shaving-foam type stuff. Everywhere we turned someone was armed with water balloons or a massive water-pistol or a can of the ubiquitous ‘espuma’. The first time I got nailed in the face by a dose of foam was slightly annoying. The second time was kind of funny. The third time it was reason to fight back. We armed ourselves with cans of our own and proceeded to get absolutely annihilated by everyone. Again, Mike’s gingerness attracted a lot of attention and he definitely caught the brunt of it.

The carnival itself was mesmorising. A constant, endless wave of dancers of every shape and size imaginable. Their costumes were beautifully ornate, bordering on the psychedelic. Every dance troop that came past was greeted with wild cheers and ‘espuma’. Interspersed between the dancers were brass bands adding a chaotic, rhythmic atmosphere. Many of the people in the procession were getting stuck into beers and I saw more than one side-drummer alternating between playing a note and having a sip. It was beautifully surreal and unique. And so much fun.

Saturday night was the pinnacle of the partying. Full of rum and coca leaves we hit the streets again. By that stage the intoxication had reached insane levels and there were an alarming number of people lying face down in the street. The dancing continued although in a somewhat more ragged fashion and the beers kept flowing. We eventually made it home completely shattered, ears ringing and not quite certain of what had just happened.

By Sunday the spirit was relatively keen but the flesh was severely damaged. We got an afternoon bus back to Sucre reminiscing about one of the most insanely fun, messy and surreal weekends ever.


Check out the photos here: http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10150146462696890.283621.514871889&l=bd6e197ddf