Fat Tuesday

Toto, I have the feeling we're not in New Orleans anymore.

In a city with barely any air conditioning, I have yet to see an adult brave enough to open their car windows the past few days. Carnaval seems to be Mardi Gras on diuretics. Shortly after New Year’s a water balloon shattered a cafe window at the table of three of my friends, thus kicking off the six weeks of mahem known as Carnaval in Latin America.

As a tall female gringa who walks nearly everywhere, I seem to meet all the criteria for good target material. Initially, I tried keeping track of the water balloons that hit me, but I had already started to lose my tally, and then gave up completely when my “friends” waged war, guerrilla-style last Thursday with foam, water balloons, buckets, a hose, and super soakers. The original intent of the water “gifts” during Carnaval were meant as blessings to others in honor of the abundance the rainy season brings. Dripping wet, I had a hard time feeling blessed.

For some, arming the water warriors becomes a seasonal occupation. People take up temporary residence on heavily trafficked street corners and sell bags of loaded wet weapons. The madness is such an important part of the culture here that they've made a verb out of the act of throwing water balloons, "globear." This morning, the culminating day of the entire season, running around the lake, we adopted the chant small children use to egg on their adversaries, "Mojanos" (get us wet), but ironically, for once, no one obliged.