It’s Monday and a national holiday in Bolivia – a pardon from the government to get wet, get drunk, and sin for the sake of Pachamama, Earth Mother. The party my sister took me to began at noon and lasted eight hours. The moment I arrived I was doused in a bucket of water and sprayed with foam, looking whiter than I already was. The host family had ordered a water truck – they shut down the street, backed the truck up to the house, and placed a bathtub beneath the spout. One grandfather wandered the party with a red bucket, drenching those distracted by conversation or hiding away from the mayhem. By four, the street was a river, and by five, the grandfather was lying in the gutter as women in tight, wet jeans danced around him, kicking waves over his body. One woman grabbed my hand, and I found myself spinning circles to reggaetone. By six the truck ran dry, the neighborhood sobered (momentarily), and a friend of my sister’s took me to the patio for a lesson in salsa dancing. People love to dance here, though with the exception of my brother, very few of the guys I’ve met will admit to loving reggaeton - I offended my sister’s novio today when I told him I didn’t like Metalica.
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