Bombas and Foam 2/3/2008

Da de da duh... The opening beats of ¨I´ve Got the Power¨ begin to blare on the sound system in the main plaza of town. Everyone is soaking wet, with varying mixtures of water, tomato sauce, flour, eggs, and a soapy spray, bobbing up and down with the rythm. The five of us are moving steathily through the crowd, muscles tensed, clutching bombas (water balloons for the non-spanish slang inclinded), waiting for the unlucky sap who thinks its safe to mess with the gringos. Phhhbbbttt, the sound of soap escaping a can from under pressure escapes the overbearing beats of the music, revealing how close in proximity its origin is. I turn to see one of our party being coated in its frothy residue. A bomba wizzes past missing its intended target, spraying a crowd so saturated and accustomed to the constant bombardment they harldy take notice. It was a tall, spikey haired Ecuadorean that decided to make the first move. We begin to unleash our onslaught in the thick of the crowd. I suddenly feel the line of a strong stream of water absorb into the back of my shirt. I whirl around lifting the thin membrane filled with water in my hnd. The perpetrator winces to prepare for the impending impact and turns his back to me. HA! Big mistake buddy. I take a moment to make my aim pinpoint n the back of his neck to ensure that the liquid will spread down for maximum effect. The bomba hits its mark - popping on impact with a force that more than likely left a red mark on the skin.
Its the second day of Carnival in Vilcabamba. We have been eating, drinking, dodging, running, attacking the entrire previous day. The tradition is to load up on squirt guns, water balloons, eggs and flour, and any other mess making substance and then coat any unsuspecting passerby with your weapon of choice. The day before, we stocked up on water balloons and beer then perched ourselves on the balcony of the room we are staying in. With our first batch of the hand-held bliss inducers, we sighted a huge group of older teenage Ecuadoreans. They were probably the worst-best group to instigate a fued with. Our first attack was unexpected and successful, but sent the group off with a determination in their eyes that we knwe would come back to haunt us. As we were just completing the 2nd shift at our balloon assembly line, the revenge had alread been beset upon us. Water balloons began flying over the balcony into the hallway with the bathroom we were filling our arsenal in. We scattered to avoid most o fthe water, but it soon dawned on that we must face the music, or risk flooding the small hallway of the building. We grabbed our ammo bag and loaded our hands, counting to three before the 4 of us rushed out the door of the building to face 10 or more, fully armed local adolescents. It was a massacre of epic proportions. One doesn´t realize how growing up counting down the weeks to Carnival can effect the dodging and catchign skills of an individual. When I thought my balloon´s trajectory was tried and true, on ekid would use his shirt and a spin technique to catch it and fling it right back in my direction. After exhaustin gour supplies, we re-grouped back at home base and went for shift number 3 at the balloon factory, each of us settling into our priorly determined roles in our impromptu assembly line. After the whistle blew, we made our way to the main square where the youth gang waited, critically low in their balloon supplies. A huge street brawl ensued, a smaller group getting involved in the fray. The streets were lined with Carnavallers, laughing at the antics being played out before them, sometimes taking collateral hits and taking it as all part of the festivities. Our battle was quite the spectacle in the middle of the road, sloyly dying out as each side exhausted heir supplies. Once I ran out of my own balloons, I attempted to replicate the shirt catch technique that dazzled me previously, but rather than catch the bombas, I was merely putting myself in their path. With each bursting bomba that soaked every layer of my clothing, I could hear the wave of laughter emanate from the crowds lining the street. Each member of our possé (huh, dont know how to spell it, dont feel like looking it up, sorry), including myself, looking like drowned rats in the middle of the street.

And so it continued on for the rest of the day, making multiple trips for more beers and more balloons, finding the time to stop at the vendors for as many meals as our stomachs could stand to fit. One stand we stopped at 3 or 4 times throughout the day. 3 of rthe 4 of are ¨vegetarians¨(the 4th actually being a real vegetarion, without the earrings of quotation marks), and we could not even try to resist the meat sticks sold at one stand. It started with the best sausage I´ve tasted in recent memory, then a long strip of marinated steak, followed by a piece of hot dog. Smothered in a pesto mayonaise sause we apply librally, we just continued to tell ourselves that it was probably local meat, slaughtered at the local slaughterhouse, so we were just stimulating the small town´s economy, only to find out that was the farthest thing from the truth from our farm manager later that week. I wouldn´t even want to imagine if you added all the kebabs I had that weekend onto one plate, it woudl be soe disgusting mound of meat. This is what has caused me to decide to give up meat for my observance of Lent. It will be rather easy i think, after that weekend, i never want to look at a sausage again. As the day fades into night, the assaults subside aas a quiet understanding that these activities are reserved for the day time and a whole different range are reserved for the night. Our beers were traded in for Rum, and the night regresses into a cloudy haze of drinking, dancing, and of course, more eating.
The timing of this raucous festival, that I hadn´t even planned for, could not have been better. While on the farm, life being quiet and remote as it is (Its amazing to not be able to hear any roads, or any other city noise for that mater, just frogs and crickets. One day I heard a constant humming/ roaring, looking around for the freeway I was hearing, I realized in my city slicker ways, I had mistaken the sound of a mighty waterfall for that of a fast moving Californian highway.) I had read Hemingway´s ¨The Sun Also Rises,¨which anyone who knows their literature would know is about a group of expatriates partying it up in Pamplona during the San Fermin Festival in the 1920´s. (The running of the bulls festival for anyone who doesn´t know their festivals) While reading it, I couldn´t help but think about my night at the San Fermin Festival and how much fun it is to enjoy a city sanctioned drunk fest that everyone paricipates in. I finished that book the night before finding myself in the crazy freak show in town. Funny how it is the second time (now there´s been a third time, more on that later) that I´ve read a book at the perfectly fateful time on this trip (god, you got to love reading books eh? I feel sorry for any sorry sap that says they don´t like to read, one my favorite things i must say, maybe i should just become a librarian and get paid to read all day.)
Needless to say, I´ll remember Carnaval in Vilcabamba for the rest of my life.