Fascinating Carnival

Oruro is a small mining town in the mountains, dusty - and cold at night since it is three times as high as Denver. Chewing coca leaves helps stave off altitude sickness - headache, nausea, and shortness of breath.

Here is the most fascinating Carnival of them all. The small town is swollen with dancers and bands who have practiced for months in extravagant costumes. The folk dances are as varied as the Spanish, indigenous and afro people -each dance with elaborate history and unique music. And the spectators sing along with each one.

The entrada (procession) lasts fourteen hours - from 10:00 AM Saturday until 2:00 AM Sunday. Some groups have up to 300 dancers and band members and may take an hour and a half to pass. It is a spectacle of religious custom, Bolivian culture, and welcoming fun. In the lapse between marching groups giant water and foam fights erupt with only the elderly, infants and vendors exempt. It is a friendly way to get everyone involved and gringos need slightly more involvement.

Sitting street side not far from us was the new president, Evo Morales, shaking hands with any and all. He had only the regular police around him. They seemed mostly concerned with keeping people out of the parade route. Morales comes from a mining town background and sometimes marches in one of the procession bands. One mother handed him her baby for a snapshot. Jean got a good picture.

More on Oruro in the article below.

Oruro Carnival at Sunrise

[Background: The Oruro carnival begins and ends at the church of the Virgin of Sacavon who once saved the city with her sword. At this church the tens of thousands of carnival dancers dedicate their costumes to the Virgin before the dance and return on their knees at the end of the procession. But the carnival at Oruro predates Christianity and has roots in the ancient Andean planting and fertility rites. It is a pagent acted out in magnificent costumes depicting the struggle for balance between the gods of sky and earth, between drought and rain, sun and freeze, man and woman, and between the Virgin and the devil.

Below the church in the dark of an abandoned mine shaft sits an image of “Tio” (Uncle of the Miners), the devil who controls the underground. With his red lighted eyes and his erect phallus he guards the riches of the earth and receives the miner´s offerings of cigarettes, paper streamers, coca, and liquor .
In the dance of the devils there is no attempt to completely banish the devils but only to bring them into balance. The costumed devils begin the procession wildly dancing and are gradually brought to order by Michael the Archangel who leads them into the church.]

We have heard that something mystical takes place at dawn in the chaos of reveling in front of the church of the Sacavon so we leave the hotel early and make our way up the narrow streets toward the church plaza. Jean has decided to sleep in. The only other person from the tour willing to face the cold is Rumu who combines the grace, warmth and elegance of her native India with the curiosity of a sociology professor. At the altitude of 13,000 feet, the predawn air is a crisp 38 degrees Fahrenheit but the small town of Oruro is still swollen with revelers who have danced without stopping since 10:00 AM yesterday. Our eyes scan the dark walkways ahead for open excavations, but they catch the shoes of a man passed out in a doorway and, in another place, blood splattered on the pavement. Small quiet groups move in the same direction – some couples walk one in front of each other, the male in back with arms wrapped around his companion. Vendors are crouched over their food. Masses of people in wool Andes hats and blankets become more dense as we approach the Center. We shuffle our way into a natural amphitheatre and hear of the sound of the brass bands high on the towering grandstands that flank the plaza. Directly in front of us is a wide plaza filled with milling people, thousands of people dancing with arms raised in the dark and the cold. We push our way slowly through the jostling crowd. There has been no rain but the cobblestones are wet and muddy and littered“Welcome to Bolivia!”, a young girl shouts above the music as she dances joyously. She holds her Paceña beer high, “Where are you from?” "We are from India. And from the United States.” Rumu and I buy some Paceña from a vendor working his way through the crowd clutching a cardboard box of beer to his chest. We toast Oruro and join the dancing. Quickly we meet others - from Argentina and Peru. Someone shouts,” There are many problems in Bolivia but tonight we are all happy.” We make our way cautiously to the edge of the crowd, just in front of the grandstands. There we meet a well dressed young couple from Santa Cruz. The woman slips Bolivianos to her beau for another big bottle of Huari, the beer of Oruro. They urge me to try it. I delicately sample the plastic cup. They laugh good-naturedly and indicate by motion that the custom is to upend the glass, which I do. It has a sharper taste than the Paceña from La Paz. “This is Oruro, the best place in the world for Carnival!,” they exclaim. And we are quite happy to be here all together in the music and dancing and cold and mud.We meet a young man with unruly black hair – quite drunk – who welcomes us in evenly spaced English, “Where are you from? I am Raul. This is Migel and Paco and Juan. We are from La Paz.” They offer us their perch on the first step of the grandstand and help us step off the wet pavement onto the boards. Across the way the five story tall grandstands are filled with people and bands. Everyone is standing, everyone is swaying and dancing and waving their hands over their heads. Raul insists on buying us another beer and will take no money. He shares the pictures of his new niece on his cell phone. A pair of men with arms around each others shoulders stops below us. One looks up and chats with us for a long time as the other relieves himself.I am feeling an uncomfortable sense of shame. We are here without our spouses, having our first drink of the day before the sun is up, swaying in this wild scene of dancing, latent sexuality, and overt expressions of friendship. I am out of my element but I feel a sense of tenderness for the people around me. I am touched by their indomitable sense of joy in the face of difficulties and in their yearning for union and harmony. And in spite of my Northern reserve, I am pulled out of myself.The music picks up now and the crowd becomes enlivened. We look up to see that the sun has tipped the opposite peak in gold and is moving down the swaying people to ignite the red blazers of the musicians and to set their brass instruments glistening. It will be some time before we are in the sun so Raul and Migel and the others want to walk up to the plaza in front of the church and into the sunlight. We follow them up, holding onto each other in a line to avoid getting separated. Once in the plaza we glory in the warmth of the sun - at this altitude it is amazingly intense. No wonder their ancestors worshiped god in the sun. Our new friends sweep their hands across the panorama of dawn sky and mountains and church and crowds and ask if the air of Bolivia is not wonderful.Eventually we suggest a visit into the church to the Virgin of Sacavon, but they say, “No barrachos (drunks) en el Sacavon!” Raul says he is a follower of the ancient god Veracocha. Rumu and I decide we will return to the hotel after a visit to the church and they wish to descend to the center again and continue dancing. Raul is barely standing. Rumu says to him, “Basta, no mas cervasa (no more beer). He looks sheepish. She extends her hand and lays it on the side of his cheek. In primitive Spanish she tells him, “I am old enough to be your mother. No more. Promise?” And so we say our good-byes knowing we will not see them again.As we walk home we are left to wonder what happened inside of us. Whatever mixture of faiths they profess and by whatever language we spoke to each other it was clear that they reached out to us and lifted us out of the wet and cold. They allowed themselves to be vulnerable. They embraced us, - and we allowed ourselves to be embraced. When our friends swept their hands across the horizon, we opened our arms and somehow took into ourselves the whole scene of joyous people and sky and mountain and sun. In a very messy and sensual and human way we let ourselves fall in love with the Bolivian people. And for a minute we saw a vision of the world as it should be - as it will be. We were exhilarated and saddened because the glimpse is brief. We wished that Raul and his friends may have a happy life – as happy as might be.

Two City Girls and the Uncle´s Tale

There is a common scam here called the “Cuento del Tio” or uncle’s tale. It is simpler than the pigeon drop but just as predictable. A well dressed stranger approaches the tourist and asks assistance in finding a nearby location. As they talk, a “policeman” approaches, shows his “credentials” and informs them he is checking credit card fraud. He will require all of them to accompany him. A taxi pulls up and he orders them into it. They are driven to an alley where the lost stranger helps rob them. Or they may be taken to an ATM and forced to make a withdrawal.

Jean and Lee were approached in La Paz by a trim woman in heels and a business suit who explained she was from Peru and lost. She needed help finding an address. While Lee cleared his throat and marshaled his Spanish skills, Jean -who can smell a shill a Boston mile away - directed the woman to a nearby traffic cop. But the Peruvian woman scuttled in the opposite direction.

In Cochabamba Jean and another volunteer named Ginny were leaving a hotel after lunch. Ginny has been a court recorder in the New York criminal system for 30 years. After walking about a block from the hotel they were approached by a stocky, middle aged man in pressed shirt and slacks. He inquired whether they were tourists. “No, we live here!” they responded in their newly adopted language. He explained he was from Argentina and could not find the hotel. Ginny noticed another man across the street in military green with an official looking cap in his right hand. By now Jean was walking away. The stranger from Argentina pulled out his police ID. Ginny later said it looked like an index card to which he had affixed has name and picture. She regretted not bringing her own N.Y. shield so she could say, “This is what it is supposed to look like, buddy.” They walked quickly away from him, Jean wagging her wrist and saying, “Va! Va!”

Solomon Klein Orphanage

Jean found it easy to coax a smile from this little girl at an orphanage. It is one of 80 in the city. Solomon Klein Orphanage is larger than most and has about 125 infants and toddlers. Many are the babies of the kids who are addicted to glue sniffing. They are known as "Cleferos" after the glue brand Clefa. Unfortunately legal agreements are not in place which would allow North Americans to adopt Bolivian babies.

With a Little Help from Our Friends

With the help of friends Jean and I have recovered from our self inflicted injuries.

We live with a Bolivian family who run a small store out of what was their garage.

In the store one evening they helped nurse Jean free me from the formitable blue fiberglass cast. It took three hours with vine clippers, hack saw and horseshoe-nail pliers which shows that it pays to have the proper tools.

City of Peril and Promise

Jean and I are now settled in Cochabamba among warm and friendly people. We will be her e for five months of language training before going to the countryside.

We were delayed in arriving in January because of demonstrations in Cochabamba. Campesinos (country people) from the outlying areas marched into town to protest Governor “Manfred” who is unresponsive to their needs. He fled; they burned his office. Then white youths from the prosperous side of town took to the streets with bats and swords. For the first time the two sides in this city confronted each other with weapons. One man on each side was killed and the city was stunned. In the end the Campesinos refused to be associated with their more radical leadership and simply went home. An uneasy tranquility has returned to a city that can no longer deny the powerful currents of racism just below its surface.

Cochabamba is a lens on the whole of Bolivia. Seventy percent of the population is indigenous (Indian) and, for the first time, they have an indigenous president. The powerful descendents of the Spaniards don’t want to be backed against a wall and are ready to fight.

Every house in Cochabamba seems to be fronted by a nine foot wall which is topped with graceful wrought-iron spikes, or barbed wire, or simple broken bottles. But it is a city of flowers too! Exotic blossoms surmount the fences spilling color on all sides. They are a more hopeful symbol for Cochabamba and all Bolivia.