Walking Disasters at Carna-crawl

Wake up. If it´s 1 p.m., you´re an early·riser. Scrounge for food. Eat a piece of bread and avoid flies. Sit outside in hammock. Pile seven people in a tiny two·door car. Drive to the beach. Listen to the same music you listened to while dancing the night before. Crash on the beach. Nap. Get a snack. Walk on the beach. Leave the beach as the sun stops beating down on your back and 

it´s almost as if there is no hole in the ozone. Pile back in the baby car. Mexi pack. Jam out. Drink mate. Sit on the porch. Sit on the dirty brown couch. Do nothing. Eat dinner. Come back. Sit. Previa. Sit some more. Avoid yawning from exhaustion. Dance. Pile back into car. Drive. Go out. Dance. Meet people. Talk to creepers. Sing. Walk a lot. Fiesta. Don´t look at the time. It´s getting late but you don´t mind. People watch. Dance to the same song you just danced to at the previous bar. Dance in the street. Lean against a wall. Wait in line for the bathroom. Answer questions. Tell people you´re from somewhere you´re not. Avoid stares. Pile back into car hours later. Fight the night. Crash in your bed right before the sun comes up. 

It was a hard life these past four days. Carnaval hit hard for sure in La Pedrera.

It's the second largest Carnaval in the world, second to Brazil, of course. And we were in the middle of it.

The baby house we rented was … well, there are many adjectives to describe it. Smelly, stuffy, hot, adorable, relaxing, dirty, perfect sized, out-of-a-movie, colorful, cute, homey, creepy, etc. The bathroom continuously smelled of feet, bathroom business, wet dog, and a splash of soap. It was more effective to avoid the shower if one hoped to clean his or her feet, for the ground was a mess of dirt, water and BO that became a part of my ankles and did not leave until about two days after I returned to the effectiveness of our regular shower in Pocitos.

Carnaval should be renamed Carna-vom or Carna-wall people run into, Carna-fall over or Carna-crawl on the ground as the sun rises in the horizon behind you as you crawl to your bed, which is sometimes the ground outside your house, a rock, or the beach. 

Luckily for us, our beds were blow up mattresses, dirty couches, the floor or beds with dying foam pillows and surprisingly comfy mattresses in our casita in Costa Azul, a beach town that resembles North Carolina's Wrightsville with a Latin American twist.  My friend Amy and Ana and I slept in a bed one night, as there were nine people in a house that holds six people. After a night of meeting new people, dancing in the streets, talking to random people, avoiding crazies and embracing crazies, we decided we had had enough of dancing to electronic music, attempting to avoid creepers and walking up and down the street. We headed back to our own beach resort, if you will, leaving Amy behind who was still having fun. After Ana and I slept for maybe two or so hours, our REM was interrupted with the slam of well, we were not sure what since processing things while half awake is not our fortes. We heard an overwhelmingly-perky-for-nine-a.m. "hey guys!" come from behind the window. It was Amy, or Shwaka, as we call her, ever since she told people she was from Sweden. "Want to see my toe? It's bleeding!" she exclaimed while she climbed through the window, stuck her foot on our pillow in order to show off her bloody toes. Carna-crawl at its finest. 

Or should it be Carna-ball -oons of water. Before our friends Andrea and Marina arrived Sunday night, Amy, Rob, Shantala, Ami, Sabrina, Ana and I were riding in a two-doored car down one of the main streets in La Pedrera. After a few hours on the beach, we were relaxed, jamming to music in the car, windows down, sunglasses on, spirits high. De repente as we say here, we were dripping with water. Before we could figure out exactly what was going on, more water filled the car, splashed on our faces and soaked our clothes. We were screaming and cracking up at the same time. Carnaval. Las bombitas de agua. In recent years, kids have found it hysterical and managed to make it a tradition to throw water balloons and buckets of water at idiots who appear to not be prepared for such a thing (hence, a packed car of extranjeros). I wish I could say there is some kind of symbolic meaning to this water, but it's just crazy kids having the time of their lives at our expense. Our car, with its manual windows, did not take the situation well. We were laughing uncontrollably with disbelief that we were completely soaked, riding inside a car with nine people, because of crazy preteens and children. Not to mention we later were attacked by a group of about 25 kids who dumped buckets of water on us while we were napping on the beach.

Of course it's tradition to dress up for carnaval. There's always an excuse to make a fool of yourself; it's practically the definition of the ridiculousness of the event. Us smart, cheap and creative college students decided to pull our resources. The streets of La Pedrera were roped off for the big weekend. But not for long. We "borrowed" the "Pare" tape, or caution tape, enough for the nine of us. Back at the house, we wrapped ourselves in the cinta and made skirts, dresses and tops out of garbage bags. Walking disasters; disastres caminandos. Couldn't be more perfect for the mess of a group that we are. 

When we left at twelve noon Tuesday to catch the bus people were still walking home, half of their costumes falling off. Others were napping on the side of the road.

I guess it's time to be a productive member of society now, maybe return to the "real world," where people don't steal your money out of your hands, sleep on the beach all day, dance for hours straight, go to sleep after the sun comes up, make up names, dress up like half naked characters or wake up completely trashed from the night before. But then again, this is Uruguay, where Carnaval lasts for 80 days, the longest in the world.