¡Carnaval!

Mardi Gras (Fat Tuesday) is the day before Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent on the Catholic calendar. It’s a time for gluttony, celebrations, and “getting your fill”  as you ready yourself to enter 40 days of fasting and deprivation.

Many cities around the U.S. prepare to party, many not knowing why other than images of masks, beads, and inebriated topless girls hanging from balconies in New Orleans, or simply as an excuse to party on a Tuesday. I’m sure they are failing miserably at replicating the same insanity and debauchery as the city most famous for this celebration. Well, the same can be said in Peru for Carnaval in Cajamarca City in the department of Cajamarca. Only Carnaval isn’t just one day, it is comprised of several days leading up to Ash Wednesday. And if you’re in Peru, and there’s a place with an unrivaled Carnaval, why not go?

I arrived in Cajamarca City last Friday morning at 5:30 a.m. with a group of other volunteers, feeling the shock of the cold, thin air as I stepped off the bus and my body attempted to adjust to the increase in 9,000 feet in elevation and 40 degree drop in temperature. Cajamarca is a department east of Lambayeque situated in the sierra and has a much different climate from the one I'm used to. I was extremely grateful I had packed my polar fleece jacket, as when I was packing I could hardly imagine even touching it as beads of sweat ran off my face just sitting in my room wearing shorts and a tank-top.

In fact, it was really hard to pack for my trip to Carnaval for multiple reasons: clothes for colder temperatures, but moments of warmer temperatures during midday with the strong sun, and clothes I didn’t mind getting wet, stained with paint, or just plain destroyed. Because Carnaval isn’t just pageantry, parades, and partying—it is full on war. The entire city erupts with water guns, water balloons, and buckets of paint. No one is safe. No truces are made. All bets are off.

Rumors had been circulating for weeks from the Cajamarcan volunteers that Saturday the 18^th would be the big day—the day you prepared your weapons and chose your comrades to walk in the streets and accept whatever came your way.

Saturday may have been the day for paint, but that did not mean peace was guaranteed for any other day. We had Friday to prepare ourselves, buying super soakers, paint, water balloons, flour, and any cheap clothes we were willing to throw away at the end of the trip. Some even bought painters suits. Walking the streets was dangerous enough, but being seen carrying any of the aforementioned items guaranteed a water balloon in the back, being shot by water guns, or if you were really unlucky, a bucket of water from an overhead balcony. Even stepping out of the hostel was a risk. The only time there was an unspoken cease-fire was when night fell and the temperatures dropped, the cold bringing a reprieve.

That night the Plaza de Armas was overflowing with hundreds of people, everyone arranged in drum circles and drinking circles, singing, chanting, and dancing. The air was filled with the smell of booze and popcorn, and the sounds of each individual group melding into one loud cacophony. Street vendors lined the edge of the plaza, smoke rising from their grills with anticuchos, wisps of steam floating from vats of grease frying chicken and french fries. Volunteers completely took over the bar we all ended up at and I met people from other training groups, programs, and departments whom I’ve never met before, and may never see again. As the night went on more volunteers came drifting in and the night was spent in celebration of the holiday and reuniting with friends from afar.

When I went to bed I slept under three-wool blankets and was still cold. In my site I haven’t even slept under a sheet since December.

Saturday morning most of us were slow to getting up, uncertain what exactly to expect when we stepped outside of the hostel. We had heard the paint fights were starting as soon as 8 a.m., so after some breakfast we filled water balloons, and prepared any other ammo that was handy. Some volunteers started early, shooting each other in the hostel, perching in their balconies and having no mercy on whoever walked below them—women, children, the elderly—no one was exempt. When people finally started to take to the streets I left with a super-soaker full of water and a bag full of water balloons. The second we stepped out of the hostel we were attacked with paint by a group of Peruvians. Some smeared it in our faces with their hand, others threw it or dumped buckets on us. It smelled like shit, literally. The paint needed to be thinned with water in order to be more effective and last longer, and some of city water drainage systems on the sidewalks were opened up and people were taking water from there. That was my first cue that there were literally no rules.

The next two hours of festivities that I participated in (it went much, much longer than that, I just threw in the towel earlier than some) can only be described as a mixture of complete debauchery, nasty paint battles, and unexpected moments of friendliness and sharing. Hoards of people walked in groups on a pre-determined loop through the city (which of course, was deviated from), each group having a drummer and other instruments covered in plastic, chanting and dancing, touting paint of a specific color. It was complete chaos and all out war in the streets, getting hands shoved in your face, paint poured down your back, hit with water balloons that wouldn’t break but instead just felt like getting punched. I ran on a “defense only” method so as to save water and paint in my gun, shooting anyone in the face that attacked my group members or me. Water was being poured from buckets from rooftops and balconies, completely dousing anyone below, and paint and water was shot back in retaliation. Cars were in a standstill in the middle of the streets, as traffic was still allowed to pass, just unable to because of the sheer amount of people and their windows being completely covered in paint. At one point we reach a major intersection where a charter bus filled with people sat, unable to go anywhere, it’s front window a matte of colors.

At times we ran out of water, and in those moments there would be someone on the side of the road with a hose, giving water to whoever had a bucket or an empty water gun (or course, with the price of being momentarily soaked and sprayed), or simply people would offer water out of their homes in order to keep the party going. Drinking circles dotted the path and we were invited to stop at each one to drink a glass of beer and continue on. Bathrooms were offered to those who needed to use them at gas stations and public areas where one usually needs to pay (although not everyone “wasted” the free liquid to go down the drain, if you get my drift). At one point during the long walk, groups would run out of paint and water and walk up to other groups and ask for some. Everyone shared, not wanting anyone to be left out. If someone got paint in their eyes, others would offer what clean water they had to help clean them out. It wasn’t complete civil war—the point of the games and paint fighting wasn’t for there to be a victor, but for everyone to partake and have fun. The need to continue the party was more important than depleting others of their resources in order to “win.” Of course there were people who played dirty (urine, oil-based paint, drainage water, spray-paint), but as far as I know no one was physically hurt out of malice.

After two-hours of walking the streets of Cajamarca through areas of businesses and neighborhoods, we arrived back at the Plaza de Armas where the whole party started. Some people re-looped around, the parade of paint ending at a concert a few blocks away from the plaza. Others stood in the plaza in their groups, still playing their drums and instruments, still singing and chanting, and occasionally throwing a bucket of paint on anyone nearby. Having just walked something close to 6-miles, my water gun completely empty, and paint crusted in my ears and all over my body, I decided I felt good to stop. I wasn’t cranky, I kind of wanted to keep fighting, but my skin and crunchy clothes told me it was a good place to leave things. I went inside the hostel where I finally met up with people from whom I’d been separated and realized I was clean compared to others. Taking a shower helped reveal which paint was water-based and oil-based, leaving one of my friends with a large chunk of yellow hair that wouldn’t wash out, and me with blotches the color of dried blood on my neck, stomach, arms, and legs that are still there three-days later.

A group of us who ran into eachother in the hostel, some went back out while others cleaned up.

If Rambo was a a hot chick and went to Carnaval, she would be Ali

Out in the streets people played music, sang, drank, and threw paint late into the afternoon.

Once again, as night fell the fighting died down and the partying in the plaza continued. Sunday would be the day of the parade with beautiful costumes and cameramen from national news channels, and the  paint wars were done. However, water fighting was still fair game. I spent most of the morning with a group of friends watching the parade from another volunteer’s balcony in their room, but the second any of us left it was a full on attack with adults and children chasing us with water guns and water balloons. 

The parade from a balcony in the hostel

Some volunteers armed and ready to shoot anyone who passed below

No rain can ruin this parade

Even when the afternoon rain came dumping down we weren’t free from attack, and while walking to a restaurant I got a hard water balloon to the back of the head. I was wearing my rain jacket, but the sting from the balloon and annoyance with being chased in the rain and soaked by people scooping buckets of water out of the gutters just got to be too much. I was no longer in the spirit of Carnaval, I was pissed, I was cold and wet, and I needed to be somewhere dry where I wasn’t a walking target. But what can you do? It’s Carnaval; it’s what happens. You might as well sign a contract when you come to Cajamarca during Carnaval that says, “I acknowledge that getting hit by a water balloon, soaked with a super-soaker, or flour thrown in my face is completely acceptable at any time or place within city limits, and there is nothing I can do about it but join in.”

After some much needed food and hot coffee, the evening was slow and quiet, many people falling asleep or laying around. Just as I was readying to catch my night bus back everyone re-emerged, ready to continue the party before separating to different departments. Monday was supposedly one of the “prettiest” days of Carnaval and I was going to be missing out on it, but I needed to get back to site and I grudgingly said bye to my friends, not sure when I would be able to see them all again.

The night bus home was just as sleepless and rough as the night bus to Cajamarca, only this time when I arrived in my regional capital at 5:00 a.m. I immediately felt the heat and broke a light sweat. I haven’t stopped sweating since, as it has reached the hottest days of summer in my site.

As I sit here typing this, sweating while just wearing shorts and a sports bra, it is hard to believe that just the other day I was in the mountains wearing pants and a jacket, at times even shivering and complaining about the cold. It feels like weeks ago that I wandered the streets of Cajamarca equipped with a super-soaker filled with blue paint, looking around in awe of an event that I would never be able to experience in my own country. But I look at my toes and legs blotched with red paint, and my shirt I just washed that will always show the signs of a paint battle, and I am already excited for next year. Everyone kept telling me, “you have to go at least once,” but I see no reason why I wouldn’t go again. And next time, I’m buying a bigger gun.