We read these words every Sunday at morning prayer during Lent. These words come to mind as I reflect on what I saw Saturday afternoon at the Corso de Corsos in downtown Cochabamba. Sheer rejoicing was the spirit of the day, and it gave prodigious momentum to the affair.
I didn’t have to go far to find the Corso. One block north, up Calle 25 de Mayo from Templo San Francisco and the convent to Avenida de Heroinas, and there you were. I couldn’t go much further, either. One block east to Calle San Martín, and the route was packed with spectators already. There was no more sidewalk, and you couldn’t walk in the street while the groups processed. Well, you could try, but you would get sprayed with espuma from spectators in the peanut gallery.
I arrived late, after one o’clock, which is why I could not make my way north along Calle San Martín to El Prado, as I had done last Sunday to view the Corso Infantil. The reason there were no sidewalks is that upon them the city erected wooden bleachers, as well as risers with plastic seats, all of them covered by tents or canopies to keep out the rain, which fell in the morning, and the sun, which returned in the afternoon, annihilating the gray-white clouds. In effect, if you did not arrive early enough to pay for a bleacher or riser seat, you were walled off from the Corso, at least from where I approached it. What you had to do, as I did, was crawl into the narrow space left behind the risers, about 18 inches deep, pull back the tarp covering the rear, and crane your neck around the backs of other heads and necks to see what you could see. Fortunately, from my peephole behind the risers at the northwest corner of Avenida de Heroinas and Calle San Martín, where the parade bended to turn north, I saw and heard everything.
What was this everything? A rock concert. An IMAX movie in 4D. The Rite of Spring. A victory parade for the gods. A war dance. A freak-out. A rave. A happening.
Hour after hour, fraternities, groups, and societies, men and women marching, playing, dancing. Hour after hour, brass and percussion bands thumping and thundering all the time. It was like one continuous song, relayed from one band to the next, never ending, though I know the rhythms and tunes changed for the different traditional dances. It was like there was a war deity acting as DJ and mixmaster, and all the bands were like discs on his turntables, tracks on his digital player.
Hour after hour, there were dancers, resplendent, surreal, doing la Diablada, la Morenada, la Llamerada, la Cullaguada, los Incas, los Tobas. Blink, and you missed something. Where did they come from, all these performers? They just kept coming! Did they go around the block and return? No! There were all-new groups, with new moves and new costumes.
Dios mío, how can I describe the costumes? Red-yellow-green-black-pink-teal-orange-blue-white-brown-gold-silver. So many combinations of colors, in never-ending invention. To watch the rainbows dancing by was like tumbling inside a kaleidoscope that would not stop turning.
What was I seeing? Women in mini-skirts and six-inch platform shoes or knee-high high-heeled boots wearing three-foot plumes looking like Amazonian glam rock stars. Men moving like mixed martial arts masters in their psychedelic indigenous costumes. Where did they all come from? Venus and Mars? Mount Olympus? The sun?
Both the men and women were looking like messengers of the gods and demigods, like kings and queens and angels and demons, like avatars of ancient and coming ages. Shimmering in sequins, skirts, padded shoulders, unreal headdresses, and armor.
These fraternal societies, dedicated to preservation of Bolivian folklore and culture, prepare months for Carnaval. Understatement of the year: it shows. My mouth hung open at the dress of the performers from Tinkus San Simón. How could there be so many colors in one costume? How could there be so many pieces to one costume? So many threads, sashes, tassels, stoles, plumes, mirrors, beads, trinkets, fringes, sequins. What embroidery, what weaving! Hats and caps, breeches and skirts, bandanas, scarves, vests, boots. Incredulity followed incredulity as more unbelievable costumes appeared, as in the team from Tarata dancing la Diablada to remember the legend of Wari and the Urus. Vipers, toads, lizards, ants, condors, bears, Wari himself, the Inca princess Ñusta, and angelic Auroras. How tall were the headdresses—three, four, five feet?
As I regarded all of this, this is what I was thinking: Everybody is graceful. Everybody is talented. Everybody looks beautiful—transfigured. And I want to see something like this again in heaven.
For all their efforts, these mighty musicians, these regal dancers, too, were sprayed heartily with foam. Prohibited or not, espuma was being sold, and espuma was being used. As I was standing behind the risers, a little boy, maybe 6 or 7 years old, sprayed me with his empty can, blowing only dust at me. He looked very happy to see me.
From time to time, the cosmic DJ hit Pause. As the music died down, the street crowded with people, spectators and vendors mingling with performers, eating, drinking, spraying, until you did not know who was who.
(Profesor Óscar estimated on Friday that 15,000 people would be participating in the Corso de Corsos from all over the department of Cochabamba. Cochabamba is the name of one of the states of Bolivia, as well as the capital city of the department. The daily Los Tiempos estimated 20,000. Never mind how many came to watch.)
Gradually, the canned music over the loudspeakers was overtaken by a rumble coming from the north down Calle San Martín from El Prado. A Corso marshal raised a green flag: the cosmic DJ hit Play; the dancers and musicians got back into formation; and the dance resumed. Firecrackers and whistles! The glorious mysteries of life had risen again!
I remained for three waves of music and dance. At last, a company of Afrobolivian drummers passed through. Oh, am I glad I stayed long enough to hear them! They were different from the other groups in rhythm and dress. After a litany of sights and sounds exotic to my senses, this felt like a coming home. My soul was uplifted, my body stirred. I was moved.
I stood for almost three hours, until 4 o’clock, but it all began at 9 o’clock this morning and was still going on as I composed this draft on Saturday evening. From the convent, it sounded like the Civil War. It looked like a battle. Fireworks in the sky! (I missed the real soldiers, the military procession having occurred at the beginning of the Corso.)
My eyes and ears full of sensation, I walked back to Templo San Francisco through the street fair that stretched along Avenida de Heroinas between Calle San Martín and Calle 25 de Mayo. Once more I passed the trampolines, the carousels, the games of chance. I passed the foosball machines. I passed the aromas of all the cooking meats, the tang of the cotton candy, the saltiness of the popcorn and nuts. I passed the spangle of the jewelry and the glitter of the masks. Whoosh. I turned around. Some kid found his target … me. A spray of foam found the back of my habit. Not much, but noticeable. I put out my hands and, like an old fogey, shook my head at him to say, why me? But I shook it off. Why not me? Brushing myself clean—the foam faded like water—I continued home, feeling initiated.
You can read a perspective on the Corso de Corsos here and see a video here, with many more attractions I missed earlier.
From time to time, the cosmic DJ hit Pause. As the music died down, the street crowded with people, spectators and vendors mingling with performers, eating, drinking, spraying, until you did not know who was who.
(Profesor Óscar estimated on Friday that 15,000 people would be participating in the Corso de Corsos from all over the department of Cochabamba. Cochabamba is the name of one of the states of Bolivia, as well as the capital city of the department. The daily Los Tiempos estimated 20,000. Never mind how many came to watch.)
Gradually, the canned music over the loudspeakers was overtaken by a rumble coming from the north down Calle San Martín from El Prado. A Corso marshal raised a green flag: the cosmic DJ hit Play; the dancers and musicians got back into formation; and the dance resumed. Firecrackers and whistles! The glorious mysteries of life had risen again!
I remained for three waves of music and dance. At last, a company of Afrobolivian drummers passed through. Oh, am I glad I stayed long enough to hear them! They were different from the other groups in rhythm and dress. After a litany of sights and sounds exotic to my senses, this felt like a coming home. My soul was uplifted, my body stirred. I was moved.
I stood for almost three hours, until 4 o’clock, but it all began at 9 o’clock this morning and was still going on as I composed this draft on Saturday evening. From the convent, it sounded like the Civil War. It looked like a battle. Fireworks in the sky! (I missed the real soldiers, the military procession having occurred at the beginning of the Corso.)
My eyes and ears full of sensation, I walked back to Templo San Francisco through the street fair that stretched along Avenida de Heroinas between Calle San Martín and Calle 25 de Mayo. Once more I passed the trampolines, the carousels, the games of chance. I passed the foosball machines. I passed the aromas of all the cooking meats, the tang of the cotton candy, the saltiness of the popcorn and nuts. I passed the spangle of the jewelry and the glitter of the masks. Whoosh. I turned around. Some kid found his target … me. A spray of foam found the back of my habit. Not much, but noticeable. I put out my hands and, like an old fogey, shook my head at him to say, why me? But I shook it off. Why not me? Brushing myself clean—the foam faded like water—I continued home, feeling initiated.
You can read a perspective on the Corso de Corsos here and see a video here, with many more attractions I missed earlier.
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