February 14th, 2008- Carnival and the misery that followed

They say that the South American experience is not complete without staying on for Carnival, and after my second year of doing exactly that, I have to agree with them (whoever these experts actually are). While I didn´t think it was possible, this year´s festivities beat last year´s by a landslide, probably because nearly my whole group was able to make it, and maybe because we know we only have so much time left in Peru together and people are getting sentimental about their departures. Despite the reason, it was a blast and I feel proud to be a habitant of the region that calls Carnival its own. This year, I was a lot more aware of all of the preparation and tradition involved in the celebration. It is a more festive holiday than Christmas is here. For the two months that the party spans, special music that is specific to our region plays on the radio telling stories about the different municipalities of Cajamarca. Everyone is busy collecting apparatuses to hurl water, buying paint to rub all over their bodies, and making floats to be in one of the parades that officially closes the Carnival season. In a country that doesn´t oftentimes exhibit unity, this is a nice custom to witness. While Peruvians are generally friendly and accommodating of foreigners like us, Carnival is unique in the sense that for one day we are not treated like outsiders. Peruvians invite us to march with them and stand by their sides as they attack other Peruvians. At night, they invite us to dance and be part of their drum circles, not exoticizing us or asking us to teach them English as they usually do. It is nice not to receive unwanted attention for a change, even if the change only lasts for 24 hours.

With all of that said, it must also be stated that Carnival does not lack in drunken debauchery. On February 2, true participants awake early and start drinking whatever liquor is available. Peruvians have a habit of homemaking their liquor, a strong concoction that inebriates them about 2 minutes after it passes their lips. They join their friends to march through the streets in gangs, carting water guns, balloons, buckets of water, paint, shoe polish, and of course, their homemade liquor. They either attack you with water or paint, or offer you some liquor if your appearance pleases them. It is offensive to decline whatever they offer you, even if its taste is unbearable. Because of how generous Peruvians are, everyone ends up what can only be identified as under the influence by about noon, and most are asleep by 2pm, only to leave their houses again at around 8pm to sing and dance and drink some more on the plaza. During the day, the whole world seems to disappear and your only goal becomes finding a target for your paint and water. When I say ¨the whole world,¨ I mean things like cars, as a Volunteer was hit by one this year because he cared only about destroying his adversary. It is really wild to see a whole city soaking wet and covered in paint, with everyone engaging in the same game. No one and nothing is off limits, and most buildings have to be repainted after the festival ends. What an experience!

The least pleasurable part of Carnival is removing the paint from your body, especially since many people buy the wrong type of paint for the occasion, opting for a more permanent variety. The hotel that everyone was staying at ran out of hot water early on, so many of us were forced to go to Los Baños del Inca, a thermal water spa right down the road. This spa isn´t anything fancy, except for it never runs out of hot water (a coveted commodity around here). You can choose to use the bathhouse or shower wing, and you pay a couple of Soles to use the facility for however long you want. It was packed when we got there, which clued us into the fact that we were not the only ones who ran out of hot water. After waiting in a long line to pay, we were told that we were too painted and dirty to enter. How, exactly, can you be too dirty for a shower? Isn´t being dirty the point of showering? My friends and I stood on the curb feeling quite dejected, trying to think of an alternative plan. We tried to rub the paint off of our bodies and pull the paint helmet off of our heads, but it was painful and useless. Luckily, a little girl took pity on us and led us to a carwash in the parking lot that allowed dirty gringos to enter and wash themselves. The only downside was that the water was scalding hot, so we were not able to tolerate it for long enough to clean ourselves entirely. When we got back in line to buy tickets to take a shower, thinking that we were clean enough to at least enter, the guard rejected us again and told us that we had to go out back to where there was a thermal bath to give ourselves another preliminary scrub down. I wish that I had brought my camera. When we reached the bath, we found multiple Peace Corps Volunteers, kneeling over the ledge and submerging their heads in water that had algae and some other unidentified things floating in it. Quite a hilarious sight it was to see a line of so many butts in the air and heads under water. After about two hours of waiting and scrubbing, we were finally allowed in the showers. Needless to say, it was the most satisfying shower I have ever taken.

When Carnival had ended, I still had something to look forward to, or so I thought. Last year, my host sister´s grandfather passed away in February, and since then, she has been talking about the one year death mass and party that would occur this February. Since my town is predominantly Seventh Day Adventist, I have never had the privilege of attending a party within my town´s borders. I was really excited to be part of this death celebration that I have heard so much about. I can´t emphasize enough that I had no idea what I was getting into. At 7:30am, we all headed to Cajamarca city to attend the mass, which only lasted for 45 minutes, so I figured the lunch and party would be equally as speedy. We were all loaded into buses outside of the church, and taken to a small community that is about an hour up the dirt road from my house. It was at about this time that I learned that the party was to last for three days and that no one was allowed to leave during that time. It was also about this time that I wanted to start crying, as I came entirely unprepared. I was wearing a skirt and it was freezing outside (where the party was), I had no jacket, and I really didn´t want to sleep on a flea-infested sheep skin that was pointed at when I asked my aunt where we would sleep. The next twelve hours was spent planning an escape.

I thought that the food that would be served to us would offer a brief respite to my panic, because my host family assured me that the best part of the party would be the meals, which the family would have spent days preparing. Considering I rarely get any protein where I live, when I was asked if I wanted meat in my soup, I enthusiastically responded. I didn´t realize that meat meant sheep and pig intestine, and that just the smell would make me gag. I am not picky when it comes to food, but when I looked down at the plate that was placed in front of me, my hopes of anything good happening at this party faded. I really tried to have a positive attitude, and treat this as a necessary cultural experience. I promised myself that I would not escape unless a Peruvian suggested it, because then I wouldn´t feel so guilty. At about 2pm, my aunt said words that I almost didn´t recognize as ¨Let´s go now,¨ because they came so unexpectedly. I wholeheartedly agreed with her, but somehow, we were still at the party five hours later. Peruvians habitually proclaim things that seem exciting and urgent, and then they never execute their stated plans. Somehow, I haven’t caught onto this, and I am still filled with glee everytime they promise me that we will leave an uncomfortable situation ahorita (right now), or in a ratito (small second). Unfortunately, they do not differentiate between a second and two hours, and this has gotten so annoying to me that it makes me want to cry out of frustration even to think about it. When I realized that we weren´t leaving anytime soon, I sat down next to my aunt on a bench, and we managed to pass out for an hour, at least passing a little bit of time. When we awoke, the music was blaring, and something was about to start. We gathered our benches in a circle, and a traditional death dance started. The whole family of the person who died has worn black for the last year, and has not partaken in any drinking or parties, so this is quite a big deal for them. They, unlike me, are actually excited to party for three days straight with nothing outside of sheep intestines and skin to look forward to. If I had to pick a part of the party that I actually enjoyed, it would be the traditional dance. Each member of the family was assigned a Godfather and Godmother, who had to dance with them, pin money on them, and wrap a red scarf around their bodies to symbolize the end of the mourning period. It was really beautiful the first time, but waiting for every member of the family (30 members large) to do this dance proved quite tiring. After it was over, we all joined in the dancing. The same song was played over and over again at a level that was about 15 notches above too loud. We danced and drank homemade liquor that made me ill in 5 minutes flat. For a while, everyone (including the 12 year olds) was too scared to dance with me, many of them seeing a white person for the first time. I think my host sister had to pay her little brother to ask me to dance, which I was happy for because it gave me something to do aside from feeling sorry for myself. After two dances, my head was pounding and I felt like I was going to vomit. But as is customary, I couldn´t decline the liquor every time they passed it to me. Before I knew it, the sun was going down and I was losing my chance to slip out and walk home safely. I turned to my aunt and told her I was sick and needed to leave. I suppose that leaving was so much of an impossibility that she chose to ignore me, instead throwing me on the dance floor to dance to more Huayno. This is not an easy dance to perform when you feel that you might be dying. It is quite acrobatic, and was making me feel worlds worse. I have no recollection of what happened between 8pm and midnight, but I felt safe losing track of this time since I was with my family. Safe is completely different than happy, though, and at around midnight, I heard a mother of a baby say that she had to leave because the baby was sick. I don´t even know if I asked her for a ride, but I do know that five minutes later, I was sitting in her car. What should have taken us 15 minutes to drive took us an hour because we kept getting stuck in the mud. I could have cried tears of happiness when I finally reached my bedroom. The next day I could not move any part of my body without feeling the worst I have ever felt. My host dad (who did not attend the party because of his religion) decided that while I was on my deathbed he should give me a lesson on all worldly sins, the first being drunkenness. I assured him that not only would I vomit on him if he didn´t leave, but also, that I was not drunk, I was just sick from the gross liquor that Peruvians insist on whipping up for every party. When I was finally able to leave my bed, I was ridiculed for only lasting 17 hours of the 72 hour affair. Somehow I don´t feel bad at all about that, and I vow to never attend a one year mass and fiesta again. I commend Peruvians on their longevity, but sometimes they go a little overboard. Why can´t they last so long when I am teaching them something important? If only partying and generating nauseating beverages was their only job, they would be an utter success!