Carnaval de Oruro

They say a picture tells a thousand words. In our 2-day weekend at Carnaval de Oruro, Mhairi and I took over 600 pictures. 

Cars at the festival had been magnetised to attract as much tableware as possible...

It did not start well. Oruro may be trying to starve any vegetarian that comes within the city limits. Carnival comes from the Medieval Latin meaning 'farewell to the flesh' - placed typically before a Lenten period where feasting of all animals would take place and also with connotations of abandoning oneself to one's passions. Oruro is clearly very aware of this. It was definitely party time and meat was everywhere - even greasy chips came as salchipapas - smothered with sliced hot dog meat. So our late breakfast search became a tortured hunt for non-meat based snacks. The sound of carnival drums haunted our efforts, its pulsating rhythm backed up by the crash of cymbals. And then came in the brass with majestic pomp; the crowds cheered, and we soldiered on. We finally hit upon a lady selling grapes and peaches, before a lone seller of humitas cropped up. The doughy cornmeal and cheese snack nestled on a barbecue next to some lamb kebabs, but picking a specimen furthest from the flesh, we had some kind of a breakfast.

One skull staff. We needed some seats for these views...

Shouldering our way to a place in the crowd it became apparent - we needed seating tickets. The street was lined with tiered spectator galleries and while the cheap seats further from the main square were free you needed considerable Bolivian moxy to force a space, and even more drunken Spanish to survive the constant boisterous action. This was at 1pm on the first day of carnival.

So we shoved our way to some high-class seating, complete with padded seats and rain cover. The first benefit of a carnival free from over-commercialisation was immediately delivered: a couple needed to sell their seats. In front of an authorised ticket dealer the young Bolivian girl resold her seats to us: second row, better than any others on offer. And no problem. The ticket girl shrugged as we swapped wrist bands.

Finally, we took our places and let the carnival envelope us. The roar of the bands, background noise while we were sorting out tickets, became an ear-popping, brain-filling rhythm pushing on the procession. On the street, big white banners announced the province next in line, and would hide everything until costumed dancers exploded forth. Riots of colour, shrouded in the fog of fireworks, young dancers led the charge; ladies with short skirts twirling, big smiles and bright eyes; caballeros behind them, all fiery shoulderpads and flinging their sombreros, they leaped and spun down the street. Everywhere, they urged on the crowd for more energy and the crowd responded by singing the songs as loud as they could, and chanting 'Beso! Beso! Beso!' - everyone wanted a kiss from the whirling young Bolivians on the street: and a blown kiss would send up a mad, crazed cheer and the crowd was on its feet and standing on seats and dancing along. It was about 3pm on the first day of the carnival.



The second benefit of a carnival without heavy corporate intervention became very clear as soon as Mhairi and I got thirsty. Every minute or so, a cholita or young kid would come by offering soft drinks and beer for a quid. At one point, we had three beer sellers swamping us to be the first to sell us a can. Given the massive queuing in UK festivals, taking hours out of your enjoyment, the beer delivery service operated at Oruro was a revelation.




Meanwhile, the crazed whirligig ride of carnival was endlessly fascinating. Every province a different set of colours: some sporting more traditional wear, with complex textiles, others in brash pinks, blues, greens, purples and on and on. As the afternoon wore on we picked out more of the details: some carried trucks with octopuses on them; others had twirly armadillos; still more carried staffs with skulls heads, snake motifs. Silk frogs clambered over the back of some dancers while giant spiders haunted the costumes of others. And youth gave way to age: older dancers in heavier costumes like a cross between brightly coloured tanks and the Oz tin man spun down the street, their metallic bearded faces in frozen smiles; and older ladies too with long flowing skirts that spun around their gyrating figures as they waved silken kerchiefs in the air. No-one was excluded - the biggest cheer of the day reserved for the caballero dancing, smiling and clapping his way down the road in his wheelchair.

So far, so normal (well, almost - still don't understand those octopus laden miniature trucks...): and then the chant from further down the street, repetitive, insistent, almost manic: Orso! Orso! Orso! Orso!... Again, and again, it didn't stop, in fact it crescendoed as more people along the way saw what was coming: the carnival bears. Giant fur-clad dancers with a lumbering gait, the bear-people leapt in a jerky rhythmic bounce with waving arms that infected the crowd: soon we were all mirroring their claw-pumping movements. But it was their heads that kept you mesmerised: giant gaping maws with sharp fangs, with huge orbs for eyes, a myriad of clashing coloured spirals drawing you to their dark silvered pupils. To receive their gaze was to draw you in a find yourself jumping in the air and yelling along. 

The weird and wonderful started to appear in droves: Death stalked the streets, giant ravens circled the procession, while a lone Archangel Michael fronted hordes of ferocious demons with their chifa supay consorts. As one Bolivian next to me explained - it's how the world is, the bad way outnumber the good, you know?






And it didn't stop. The skies darkened as the sun set and rain threatened. But all that happened was that lights appeared flashing happily on the costumes of the dancers. A downpour of the type only monsoon climates can deliver ran rivers through the street, but the carnival continued unimpeded, unhindered - its incessant drum beat could not be stopped. By 9pm, after 8hours dancing, chanting and failing to learn the Spanish songs, Mhairi and I left the Bolivians to it. The assault on our senses had left us dazed; punch-drunk happy with the riot of colour and sound that we had been sunk into for the entire afternoon. For Bolivians the party was getting started; more beer, more rum and coke; more dancing; and participating in that collective that lets you lose yourself and feel like part of something deep, rich and important.

Sunday, 10am in our hotel room and the banging in our heads was not a hangover. The procession had started again. Last night's efforts had gone on till the small hours, but Bolivia's biggest party was not to be stopped. We had at least found a good dinner the night before - Nayjama put together a quinoa quiche for Mhairi and served me half a lamb. I'll repeat that: half a lamb. Complete with tail, the entire back of a lamb was succulently cooked for my plate - 'the entire back, you see, so you know the lamb wasn't more than 6months old'. Mhairi grimaced.

Sunday, 1pm: 'Why are you not drinking?!' - fired by the biggest carnival weekend in Bolivia, a local next to us had already cracked open his beers while his eyes showed the glassy need of recovery from yesterday's exertions. With mumbled excuses we promised to drink with him soon and let our heads plunge into the atmosphere again. It didn't take long for us to supply a passing Pacena-beer lady with some trade as the carnival feeling took hold of us too. The Sunday party seemed to start even earlier, the tempo was greater from the off - helped by the dancers themselves. In contrast to Saturday's lustrous parade, the procession took more time for itself on the Sunday. Bursts of energy were mixed with dancers coming to the crowd to take sips of beer and exchange greetings. The monstrous heads of the costumes were pulled back so you could see the smiling, sweating face beneath - taking the applause from the crowd for their efforts. More cheers, more beers - we got to know our neighbours more and more. All Bolivians, we had half-conversations in Spanglish, but always raised our beer cans to toast each other at the end. And we never forgot to thank Pachamama - the Earth mother goddess - by spilling the first sip from our cans onto the ground to quench her thirst.

The hours passed by as before in a whirl of colour, and the happiness on the faces of every Bolivian remained undiminshed: they gained superhuman stamina from the passing of the procession, screaming for their friends, taking kisses when they could get them and finally, in small numbers they clambered the barriers and danced alongside the carnival for a while. No big-shouldered bouncer threw them anywhere: instead after a few minutes a security guy would ask the reveller to go back to their seat. Because what we really understood about this carnival is that it is made by Bolivians for Bolivians. Indeed, we felt like the only 'spectators' around: it is the best of carnival when it ceases to be a show and is a partnership between the people, crowd and dancers, so that each enjoys their role. Mhairi and I were privileged to be swept along.

By the time Monday morning rolled around, Mhairi and I had again found ourselves exhausted by the activity of Sunday's efforts and we slept late. In the city, the after-party continued. While seating galleries were dismantled around them crowds still gathered to see irrepressible groups of dancers and small clusters of musicians back out on the street and giving everyone their final taste of the carnival.

For us, the carnival was over. We packed our bags and headed for the bus station, with the beat of the drums still throbbing through the air...