The sun is hot, and it beats down on our pale, t-shirt covered backsides like a blistering hammer. Today is Carnival and there is a hush about the streets as we walk along the dusty road, the heat coming off the ground in heavy waves. Frances and I are going to lunch with our new friend, Christian. The restaurant is called the Arena, and we order sour cerviche, which is a sort of seafood salad. It is delicious, the tangy lemon taste brings tears to the eyes, and it is spicy too.
After lunch, we head to la casa de Chrisitan. It is still incredibly toasty outside, and I am glad I applied a layer of sunscreen before departing. Stools are presented to us, and we sit on the vacated street that has been blocked off on either side by a line of motor-carros and wooden benches. Little girls, their clothes already dripping, are filling multi colored water balloons. They smile and giggle at us as we take our positions. The two white gringo girls.
Christian takes up a water gun, aims, and fires. I cover my eyes and cower for a moment, but it feels so good that I eventually relent to the onslaught. The cool liquid drips off of my face, and I can but relish the feeling. The heat is inescapable, but this in one way to flee from its grasp for an instant.
Moments later, I am filling my own water balloons from a bucket of murky water, and stacking a reserve on my lap.
Ammo.
Frances is doing the same, and the little girls are helping us. Between each balloon that is filled, we are splashed with water, our clothes becoming drenched and heavy from the weight of it. Soon, we forgo balloons and resort to dumping the buckets on our foes. There still that small part of you that wants to flee, but really you just stand still and wait for the onslaught that shocks your system, and cools it, leaving you feeling FRESCA and happy.
We drink small plastic cups of cerveza, mostly foam and water from the balloons. Then they break out the clay. It is yellow and sticky, and we smear in on our faces. It dries into a stiff mask that loosens after every balloon, leaving a new mask; the mask of a warrior.
Vamanos! It is about three in the afternoon and Christian leads us down the street to a stage. Workers on spindly ladders are hoisting speakers with chains, and a line of hombres are carrying four foot blocks of ice on their bare shoulders to the tubs that cool the bottles of beer, breaking them into bits with a hammer.
A group of boys, hands covered in sticky yellow clay and purple dye, spy our entrance. We duck and cover, but the chase it on. A short sprint down the street and we are caught, yellow and orange clay-covered hands plaster our faces, fingers leaving brighly colored tracks across our cheeks. We emerge filthy, yet decorated, bent over with laughter. Carnival! Awaiting our reprieve are buckets of cool water that redrench our already sopping clothing and track smears down our painted faces. The smell of fresh clay and river water runs into my nose and I smile with unadulterated joy.
I wish we had holidays like this in the United States.
Pure, city-wide fun. We were definitly a sight to see, to say the least. A pair of gringo girls, out to experience Carnival. Esta bien!
Brigitte
After lunch, we head to la casa de Chrisitan. It is still incredibly toasty outside, and I am glad I applied a layer of sunscreen before departing. Stools are presented to us, and we sit on the vacated street that has been blocked off on either side by a line of motor-carros and wooden benches. Little girls, their clothes already dripping, are filling multi colored water balloons. They smile and giggle at us as we take our positions. The two white gringo girls.
Christian takes up a water gun, aims, and fires. I cover my eyes and cower for a moment, but it feels so good that I eventually relent to the onslaught. The cool liquid drips off of my face, and I can but relish the feeling. The heat is inescapable, but this in one way to flee from its grasp for an instant.
Moments later, I am filling my own water balloons from a bucket of murky water, and stacking a reserve on my lap.
Ammo.
Frances is doing the same, and the little girls are helping us. Between each balloon that is filled, we are splashed with water, our clothes becoming drenched and heavy from the weight of it. Soon, we forgo balloons and resort to dumping the buckets on our foes. There still that small part of you that wants to flee, but really you just stand still and wait for the onslaught that shocks your system, and cools it, leaving you feeling FRESCA and happy.
We drink small plastic cups of cerveza, mostly foam and water from the balloons. Then they break out the clay. It is yellow and sticky, and we smear in on our faces. It dries into a stiff mask that loosens after every balloon, leaving a new mask; the mask of a warrior.
Vamanos! It is about three in the afternoon and Christian leads us down the street to a stage. Workers on spindly ladders are hoisting speakers with chains, and a line of hombres are carrying four foot blocks of ice on their bare shoulders to the tubs that cool the bottles of beer, breaking them into bits with a hammer.
A group of boys, hands covered in sticky yellow clay and purple dye, spy our entrance. We duck and cover, but the chase it on. A short sprint down the street and we are caught, yellow and orange clay-covered hands plaster our faces, fingers leaving brighly colored tracks across our cheeks. We emerge filthy, yet decorated, bent over with laughter. Carnival! Awaiting our reprieve are buckets of cool water that redrench our already sopping clothing and track smears down our painted faces. The smell of fresh clay and river water runs into my nose and I smile with unadulterated joy.
I wish we had holidays like this in the United States.
Pure, city-wide fun. We were definitly a sight to see, to say the least. A pair of gringo girls, out to experience Carnival. Esta bien!
Brigitte
brigitte, i love you. i am so glad you're having fun. sounds incredible + i wish i was there! i'm assuming it's pretty expensive to contact you by phone since you're in peru? i'll send you an email soon.
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