The now familiar music of "La Morenada" which was played repeatedly by brass bands for two days at the Oruro Carnival filled my head as I said a fond goodbye last week to Oruro, a city that sits in the heart of Bolivia's Southern Altiplano against a colourful range of low hills. I could still hear the shrill sound of whistles as instructions were given to dancers to change directions in the street and the high notes of the Andean flutes played behind the scenes while the musicians waited for their entrance cue.
Firecrackers were still going off around me when I climbed on the bus for the three-hour ride to Cochabamba, much as they were the moment I arrived a few days before.
La Diablada (Dance of the Devils), Oruro's annual carnival celebration, is interlaced with threads of both Christian and Indian myths, fables, deities and traditions. Perhaps some of this stems from the fact that 90% of the city's 200,000 inhabitants are pure Indians. Each of the more than 50 dance groups which were from all over Bolivia had 40 to 300 participants. After experiencing the spectacular costumes, pageantry, and music of the festival, I can understand why they call their city the Folkloric Capital of Bolivia.
My constant companions these few days were three people from Belgium including Muriel and her boyfriend Stefan whom I met on a bus out of Uyuni, and Sylvianne who has been travelling alone for some months. Sylvianne and I met in Quito a couple of months ago and kept in touch via e-mail in order to rendezvous at the carnival. The four of us shared a rented room off the inner courtyard of the home of a charming family, the Delgados. Isabel, the matron of the family, had most of her progeny surrounding her (and us) during these holidays. Two of her four children live overseas as exchange students, one in Switzerland and the other in Germany. The live-in housekeeper kept the rambling single-level house spotless.
When the water fights with balloons and water guns along the parade route got underway the first day of the two-day parade, we realized what good seats we had bought the night before. Direct hits by people of all ages and nationalities into the stands opposite us were difficult due to the width of the avenue. This was not the case a half-mile away where the parade route narrowed considerably. These fights seemed to be an effective way of eliminating boredom for everyone during the frequent lulls in the 18 hours of processions each day.
The festival was at once the most entertaining, bizarre, disturbing and moving pageantry I have ever witnessed - this despite the repetitiveness of the music. It was entertaining because of the variety of costumes and dance. Bizarre because of the vehicles in the parade which were adorned with jewels, coins and silver service. Disturbing because of the extent that real feathers were used as part of the costumes, and moving because of the pageantry that took place in a cathedral that was part of the first evening's events.
The most famous of the Diablada dances is "La Morenada" which is a re-enactment of the dance of the African slaves. When I heard the steady clomp of wooden shoes with spurs coming down the street sounding eerily like the chains the slaves had to wear during their years of servitude in this part of the world, it sent chills down my spine.
I got into a few conversations with English-speaking performers behind the scenes who were wearing natural feathered headdresses, some cascading to the ground. We discussed the use of these feathers as part of their costumes and what it meant to the wildlife in their jungles. All agreed that this extravagance couldn't continue much longer.
The afternoon of the first day of the parade I followed the route to the end, curious as to what scene I would find there as the participants finished their performances. At the top of a hill in an open square I watched as performers, one-by-one, remove their head covers and masks, hats, plums, and then disappear into a large cathedral. I was not prepared for the spectacle I was about to encounter inside the edifice.
It was as if the church silenced the brass band that accompanied them. The silence was deafening. All had made their way to the front of the altar where a priest in full dress was blessing them en mass as they kneeled. I stood transfixed, looking out from the side of the altar at a sea of costumed mestizos and Indians. Their feathered headdresses and devil's masks were cradled in their arms. Their spears were standing tall against the vaulted ceilings. Following the brief ceremony, the brass band started playing again and continued while they approached the altar. Each person kneeled on the altar platform and slowly shuffled along it on their knees while solemnly gazing at the painting of the Virgin above. I can still see devil's masks moving slowly along the altar in the arms of the bearer while he or she gave reverence to the Virgin.
I left the cathedral that evening impressed with the degree that these people were moved spiritually. The next day this ceremony wasn't repeated. Nor was it the following Saturday at the next carnival I attended in nearby Cochabamba. I asked a dancer there why I had experienced this spiritual outpouring at the Oruro event and not at the Cochabamba one (which I observed to be more homespun). She said, 'The dancers in Oruro were dancing for the Virgin, the ones in Cochabamba were dancing for the Carnival'. I accepted the fact that I could only understand this difference by immersing myself deeper into Bolivia's rich culture.
All day and into each of the two nights parading brass bands blasted out the dynamic morenada music. Early in the morning of the second day Muriel, Stef and I attached ourselves to a dance group and snaked our way with them through town. As we moved along more and more people joined us, all dancing in rows arm-in-arm. An inclusive thought prevailed with this activity and nobody was considered an outsider. We all laughed and cajoled together at the end three hours later before parting ways. It made me realize how welcome a person could feel at this event even if they were alone.
On my last day in Oruro I visited the local outdoor market and said a fond farewell to Irma, a lady who worked at a fresh juice stand 12 hours a day, seven days a week. Her come-hither smiles whenever I passed had always made me stop there to imbibe.
As I left the Delgado house for the last time, firecrackers were set off in various corners of the inner and outer courtyards in honour of Pachamana, the earth mother of the indigenous people. The force sent sweets and flower petals which were in the exploding can flying
Mother earth, the devil, the Virgin...the combination of folk beliefs and the Catholic religion during the carnival expressed in dance, music, and ceremonies brought the deep Bolivian culture alive for me.
Reprinted from Merrilee's South American Travel Odyssey available at http://www.iatravel.com/tipssamerica.htm
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