This blog entry was supposed to be all about carnivals in South America. As Wee Mo and I couldn't stretch our budget to go to Rio – and quite frankly didn't fancy the danger – we managed to arrange things so that we would be compensated by three other carnivals in three other countries.
Then I was going to tell you about the Paraguayan version, held in the sketchy town of Encarnacion. I was going to say how it hardly had any money spent on it by comparison, but that it was a lot more fun, mostly because of the people in the crowd and the cans of spray foam that made the whole place a goddamn battlefield. Then I was going to put up this wee video and you were going to have a laugh at my expense.
But like I say, our ruse only worked for so long before we were hunted elsewhere. It was around this time that I started drinking at an accelerated rate. It's not just the scran that's cheap in Boliva: three cans of acceptable German brew costs just about £2.30. This became the fuel to my fire as we stood around trying to peer over the top of locals and gringos alike to see more of the 12 hour parade.
I was going to start by telling you about the Gualeguaychu edition, in north east Argentina, and how polished it was, to the point of feeling a bit sterile. I was going to describe how, despite our dreadful hostel, we had a pretty good time watching expensive floats and lavish costumes swagger past us to the samba bounce. I was even going to comment on how everything seemed to move except the rigid, terrifying tits of the dancers who, for the most part had bodies from Baywatch and faces, well you know the rest.
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| Photo: Wee Mo |
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| Photo: Wee Mo |
Then I was going to tell you about the Paraguayan version, held in the sketchy town of Encarnacion. I was going to say how it hardly had any money spent on it by comparison, but that it was a lot more fun, mostly because of the people in the crowd and the cans of spray foam that made the whole place a goddamn battlefield. Then I was going to put up this wee video and you were going to have a laugh at my expense.
But then we went to Boliva, to Oruro, and everything changed. So instead, you're getting this:
When my brother and I were young, we were asked to solve a crime. Hehe! Our father had been assaulted and we were to go to the scene of the attack just around the corner from our flats and work out what had happened. A feral alcoholic at the time, he had absolutely no recollection of what had happened and we were to try and find out more on his behalf. Haha. My brother and I headed out and sure enough we found his jacket – a cream thing, dirty and wet from the previous night's rain – lying on the floor, next to a half open garage door. So far as anyone could tell, he had simply walked into the it, blinded by the bevvy, then somehow contrived to strip himself of his jacket. We brought it home and reported our findings, but not before we'd checked the pockets for money. There was none. Ho. Ho.
I'm thinking about this sorry scene as I lie on a comfortable mattress, staring at the ceiling, trying to solve my own crime. First, I try to fathom the extent of my agony. This is relatively easy to do: most things hurt, but my back and legs are particularly painful. Alarmingly, I also have a small chip out of one of my front teeth.
I sit up gingerly, trying and failing not to disturb Wee Mo. The second step is to work out exactly what is missing. I know my wallet is gone, but what else?
Just what the fucking hell has happened to me?
Unlike the other carnivals that took place every Saturday and Sunday in February, the Oruro edition is spread over a single, extremely long weekend at the start of March. Having arrived in town via a hellish overnight train from Tupiza, we decided to skip out Friday night's festivities and start early on Saturday. By early I mean before noon, but the Bolivians were out dancing by 7am. By the time we were in the centre at around 11am, the tickets for the stands that fringe the central plaza were already sold out.
Most alleyways were already full of semi-conscious bums or those who had seriously misjudged their capacity for booze too. A huge number of people were pissing all over the place, though this is the Bolivian norm, while one or two were actually shitting right in the middle of the street. We quickly realised that this wasn't the quaint cultural event we'd thought it might be, but instead the Bolivian T in the Park, without the open fields to absorb the piss, shit and puke.
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| Photo: Wee Mo |
So we held our breath here, and gagged a bit there, and tried to find seats, which was virtually impossible. When we did finally find a tout, he was asking for £50 for both us us to sit on a wooden plank for two days. And bizarrely, that was pretty much the set price. Despite Bolivia being by far and away the cheapest country we've been to (seriously, it costs £1.60 for an entirely edible four-course meal) the cost of its carnival is ridiculously high. By comparison, the Argentinian equivalent was under a tenner each – and the Paraguayan one half that.
However, being a natural born mink, I somehow sniffed out some free seats for us, allowing us to take some portraits for the best part of four hours before we were rumbled and hustled out of there.
And up-close the Oruro carnival is indeed spectacular. These people may live in the poorest country on the continent, but they are clearly decent tailors, competent musicians and skilled prancers. The fact that they actually play their own music (rather than have it played over loud speakers as in Argentina and Paraguay) gives the whole thing a sense of authenticity too.
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| Photo: Wee Mo |
But like I say, our ruse only worked for so long before we were hunted elsewhere. It was around this time that I started drinking at an accelerated rate. It's not just the scran that's cheap in Boliva: three cans of acceptable German brew costs just about £2.30. This became the fuel to my fire as we stood around trying to peer over the top of locals and gringos alike to see more of the 12 hour parade.
Unable to see much, the whole thing descended into another mass foam fight. There's something about that stuff that brings out the Worst Wean in me – I have scarcely had more fun in the past three years than when spraying a gaggle of boisterous Israelis directly in the eyes.
But despite hitting perfection somewhere around that point, I kept drinking, and drinking. And by the time nine cans had come and gone, not much was making sense. Then I noticed that Wee Mo had run out of drink and I offered to go get her some. She refused, but as I wanted to keep drinking myself, I lurched off to get more. I turned a corner and there, waiting for me as always, was the familiar abyss of a blackout.
The first sensation after that was pain. Pain and suspicion of the small Boliviano trying to help me. He spoke virtually no English, and in my state, my Spanish was utterly miserable. The pain, though, translated pretty well – searing hands gripped my spine, ribs and kidneys. Even through the booze it was excruciating.
I knew I should be making my way back to Wee Mo – how long I'd been away at this point is anyone's guess – but I could barely walk. The Boliviano, Jose, offered to take me to hospital. I accepted.
I knew I should be making my way back to Wee Mo – how long I'd been away at this point is anyone's guess – but I could barely walk. The Boliviano, Jose, offered to take me to hospital. I accepted.
Over the next few hours I went back to black a few times, and what I do remember comes with Vaseline smeared on my memory's lens. I know this: the ER was packed, mostly with people in much worse condition than me; the pain was constant, until they gave me a jag in the ass; and when it came time to pay the bill, I couldn't find my wallet. A bag of beer and spray-foam I'd had was gone too. Thankfully, whatever had transpired, I still had our camera bag, with almost £5000's worth of equipment intact.
When I finally got chucked out at 12:45am, Jose was still with me. Somehow his family had arrived too. They took me back to the hostel in a taxi and paid everything, with me promising to reimburse them the next morning. I literally couldn't explain my gratitude.
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| Photo: Wee Mo |
I shambled into the room and found Wee Mo distraught with worry, then quickly furious. She had spent hours looking for me and had gone through all kinds of hassle and distress in the process. Evidently Bolivianos aren't simply content with pissing all over their streets and businesses – Wee Mos also make for targets. Add that to finding someone's hand in her pocket (looking for the wallet I was carrying) and getting hit with a firework earlier in the day and, for Wee Mo, it was comfortably the worst day we've had on the road.
And all I could offer was that I was in pain and that I'd been in hospital. The rest was a mystery.
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| Photo: Wee Mo |
When Jose arrived the next morning, I paid him and asked if he had any idea what had taken place. He didn't – he'd just found me limping along the road, holding my side.
I crawled back up to bed and spent the rest of the day a paranoid mess.
I crawled back up to bed and spent the rest of the day a paranoid mess.
Perhaps I was mugged, but then why didn't they take the camera bag, and why was my back so sore, but not my face? Maybe I was run over, but then why wasn't I more hurt, and why were the cameras all fine?
Ultimately, the most likely scenario was that I simply fell over and landed awkwardly. The missing wallet was probably stolen earlier in the day, or just lost by me, deep within the grips of uselessness.
Ultimately, the most likely scenario was that I simply fell over and landed awkwardly. The missing wallet was probably stolen earlier in the day, or just lost by me, deep within the grips of uselessness.
But with a chipped tooth and a trace of blood in my first painful piss of the day, it must have been some fall... Without any evidence, we decide to try and put the whole sorry affair behind us.
The next day, circumstances force us to leave Oruro 24 hours earlier than we had planned. Some genius decided that as the Tuesday after carnival is a national holiday, absolutely no buses should run. This makes for a grand panic as everyone tries to get the fuck out of town.
The next day, circumstances force us to leave Oruro 24 hours earlier than we had planned. Some genius decided that as the Tuesday after carnival is a national holiday, absolutely no buses should run. This makes for a grand panic as everyone tries to get the fuck out of town.
With tickets bought, we head to the station – me still feeling glum, Wee Mo justifiably pissed off – and join the scrum to find our bus. I've accepted the fact that I will never know what happened to me because, just like my father before me, I'm no witness to my own crime.
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| Photo: Wee Mo |
But then, out of nowhere, a small family comes up to us.
“You! You! Are you OK?”
The boy offers me his hand, I shake it and put my other on my wallet. This reeks of a scam.
“We saw you on Saturday – are you OK?”
“Hold on, do you know what happened to me?”
“Yes, you were drunk,” he says and sends my heart sinking.
“Yes, but did you see what happened to me?”
“Si, si! Are you OK?” Offers the mother.
“I have a problem with my back, but I spoke with a doctor and I am OK. What happened?”
“There were three men,” says the boy. “They were in your jacket.”
“They got my wallet... Were they hitting me?”
“Yes, and one of them had a knife.”
Silence.
“We shouted: 'Polizia! Polizia!'” Says the mum. “And they ran away.”
I offer them things, pathetic tokens, by way of thanks. They refuse it all.
So maybe my back and ribs are sore because I was protecting the camera bag while they wailed on me. Perhaps my tooth is chipped because I bit someone (I have a history of biting). Maybe I fucking murdered someone. But really that's all speculation.
So maybe my back and ribs are sore because I was protecting the camera bag while they wailed on me. Perhaps my tooth is chipped because I bit someone (I have a history of biting). Maybe I fucking murdered someone. But really that's all speculation.
All I know for sure is that I got a doing, I'm a lucky bastard it wasn't worse, and that the blackouts must end.
