Cochabamba on three hours of sleep…

Four days ago I departed slushy Troy for Miami, spent ten hours in the airport eating almonds and contemplating palm trees, flew the night to Cochabamba, Bolivia where our program directors (one with freckles and the other with extensive tattoos) herded us onto a bus, sat in a hotel conference room taking notes on 101 ways I might die this semester, lost myself and my friend in the city center, flagged a taxi but forgot how to argue the charge, wandered the Cochabamba bars in a pack of gringos, got pelted with water balloons, rode a bus to Oruro over the mountains, found myself in a crowd of 400,000 drunk Bolivians, watched a parade for 38 hours, followed the dancers until (almost) dawn, ate saltenas for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, boarded a bus back to Cochabamba but forgot to sleep, ate more beef than I’ve eaten in my life, and to end this run-on sentence, found an internet café so I could write it all down before I fall into a deep sleep and forget what I’ve done in these four, awake days.

So I’ve arrived and am in a daze. But having never lived in a third world country (nor a city, for that matter), I’m happily out of my comfort zone. It feels good to be shaken. From the little I’ve seen of Cochabamba, I’m in love with this city. There’s no order to traffic – you could pass a car to the right or the left, and it makes no difference. Vendors line the sidewalks, and the plazas are packed with protesters and dancers. It’s warm here and generally dry with the exception of the occasional water bucket dumped on your head from an apartment above.

The country is in the midst of a very long party – Carnaval in Oruro this past weekend and here in Cochabamba next weekend. This week I´ve had to avoid the city plazas, where gangs of kids like to stand waiting at the entrances, armed with water balloons, super soakers and cans of "espuma" - soapy foam that they spray like whipped cream at unguarded passerbyes. It´s actually hilarious to watch - Bolivians take "water wars" to a whole new level. You´ll see mom´s sitting in cars, pumping up super soakers and handing them to their toddlers in the front seats. Unfortunately my hair has made me a magnet for water balloons and machismo – I find myself dodging projectiles by day and comments like, “You. Me. Not work why?” by night.

I spent the last two nights in the city of Oruro, just about 5 hours west of Cochabamba. Oruro is the traditional host for Bolivian Carnaval - Ishmael (my program director) explained it well - he said Oruro Carnaval takes the best and the worst of all of Bolivia and condenses it into one weekend and one 10 mile street. I´ve never seen Mardi Gras, but I have a feeling there´s no competition in size and energy. The central event of Carnaval is a parade that lasts five days straight, 8 a.m. to 5 a.m., with three hours in between for the bolivians to sober up and start over again. The street the marchers take is nearly 10 kms long, lined with bleachers where thousands of onlookers stand to watch, dance, and lob baloons at innocent victims during breaks in the parade. The costumes are more colorful and elaborate than any I´ve ever seen - they must cost nearly an entire year´s salary for an average boliviano, and each participant buys a new costume each year. I´m not sure where they come from or how the bolivianos pay for them, but Carnaval is such a foundational part of the culture here that perhaps these costumes are the most important annual investment.

I spent last night following the dancers to the end of the parade route, where thousands gathered to watch the alba, or the sunrise ceremony. And now I´m writing on three hours of sleep, having to greet my family for the first time tonight.