Carnaval Crescendo

 There should be written, detailed warnings about what Carnaval means for resident gringos. If I don’t make it through the coming week: I donate my worldly possessions to my school. Except for my muffin tray, which goes to the Barranquilla Baking crew. Mom and Dad, please take care of the cat.

Carnaval, here, exists in two spheres—school, and the city. The city, obviously, has Carnaval, and PreCarnaval, and that is craziness enough to last an entire year of partying.

But the school system can’t be outdone—we don’t just take it easy on classes because we’re waiting for the city fiesta—we hold our own Carnaval activities. Every day this coming week. Which of course, means, practicing for said activities. Which mostly include dancing, music, drums, and more dancing. The secondary and primary levels each have their own queen. There are parades. There are dancing exhibitions, and spoken verse pronunciations, and, well, I’m not entirely clear on what else.

It wouldn’t be so bad, perhaps, if my role was simply that of an observer. Like it was supposed to be. But somehow, last week, my school tricked me and sucked me in. I am still fuzzy on my role. I have been heard I am the “princess,” which I didn’t think existed and I thought they were joking, until I realized they weren’t. This realization occurred on Thursday  when I got caught walking through a dance practice, and told to come practice with them.

Instantly put into the middle of a cumbia circle, word spread like arroyo water and the entire school streamed to the balconies to watch me dance. (Note: whenever I say dance, this should be read as TRY to dance.)

“You need just a ittie bit more practice,” they told me, the sweetest girls in the world. “Come tomorrow and we’ll do a little more practicing.”

So, the next day I show up, having been told that there would be classes as well. Under the impression I’d be joining class as usual and maybe stepping into a dance practice in between, naturally I was somewhat dumbfounded when I walked into a completely full courtyard filled with every age girl, cumbia drums, and music. It took approximately 1.5 seconds for them to notice I’d arrived, after which they swarmed over, grabbed my arms, and pulled me into the middle of a dance circle, screaming, “Emily! Emily! Emily!”  The balconies were lined, the hordes were dancing and I was in the middle of it all...with no choice but to take the most public, and sweaty, dance lessons of my life. For the next hour.

I was bounced from circles of girls to other circles (made up of grades) until finally I escaped to watch the madness from above:

 Now, where were the teachers in all this, I wondered? I slipped into the teacher’s lounge and found them sitting there, each and every one of them. “Was this planned?” I asked. “Oh no,” they chuckled. “But the girls wanted to dance.”

Right.

Two hours after I arrived, the teachers finally took the microphone back, had the girls put the drums away, and turned off the music, sending the girls to their homerooms to do a little more organized Carnaval planning.

I followed Carlota to her ninth grade homeroom class. Since she’s a Johova’s Witness, she doesn’t believe in Carnaval. So she’d asked if I could walk with her class in the parade on Wednesday, and just make sure they behave and such. (this parade, by the way, is held on the public streets around the school). 

Little, ignorant me assumed this would be something like the teachers’ jobs when we marched in, say, the Oktoberfest Parade back home—the plainsclothed assistant on the sidelines, handing water in when necessary.

And then Carlota makes the announcement to her class. “You will be the only class in the school—maybe in the city!--lucky enough to have a gringa LEADING YOUR DANCE. She’s going to wear a magnificent dress! And makeup! It will be spectacular!”

My mouth dropped. I tried to shield my deathglare. Relax, you say. It’ s only a day! Or a week! They’re nice people, they won’t care if you can dance or not!

This is much easier to think, or say, when thousands of people aren’t watching you. When your coworkers aren’t judging you. When you’re using non-Colombian standards of dance. When dancing doesn’t also define who you are as a person…I could go on.

But instead,  let’s touch on the big city-wide event I attended this weekend—La Guacherna. La Guacherna is a night parade the Friday before Carnaval, begun by Esther Forero in 1974, a famous singer known as the "bride of Barranquilla" who died last year. Ultimately, it’s a city-wide party while the city does what it does best—explodes in costumes, brightly colored nylon, sequins, and loud music. 

La Reina. What you can't see is the guy carrying the giant light who runs after her so all the newspapers can take photos, her personal makeup assistant, and her overall posse

 One of many crazy floats, with ridiculous loudspeakers

 A guy on stilts with fire...no big

All was well until, after two hours, we decided to fight our way out of the crowd. Which literally meant running a gauntlet of drunk Colombians, who identified our  gringo-ness by Tyler, who was leading our group out. “Gringos!” the shout went up. Out came cans of foam, packets of flour, whatever on hand, to cover us in scum as they jostled and pushed and shoved and shouted.

We managed to make it out in one piece and relatively unscathed, although with all the people we never managed to reunite with our other friends out on the route. One group witnessed a small stampede. Another watched as someone, in the midst of a packed crowd, lit a roman candle, proceeded to get punched in the face, and then a street fight broke out. After which the police arrived and arrested the fireworks guy. First arrest I’ve heard of in the city yet!

So. Carnaval officially starts on Saturday. My school Carnaval starts tomorrow. Wish me luck…I’m going to need it.

Just for fun: This picture happened when a group of guys drove this by our house. My host sister's boyfriend ran out, had them stop and get out so we could climb in and take a picture!