It’s the morning of the first day of Panama Carnaval and I think I am ready. According the lore of carnaval and memorialized in song, one should sleep with his fingers crossed the night before to bring him luck throughout the following four-day festivities. Indeed, with the help of a rubber band and some gauze pads, I expect to have good fortune.
Panama’s Carnaval, running simultaneously with New Orleans’ Mardi gras, is a sort of last fling—a last chance for people to have fun before the 40 days of lent begin. Around 1910, Panama started celebrating Carnaval in grand scale and today, it is bigger than ever. It consists of four days of celebration throughout the country, from big cities to tiny villages and I’m not sure what to expect.
I venture out into town where all the shops are closed and all the streets appear to be cordoned off. They closed off Via Espana which is the four lane highway I usually have to frogger myself through to get to work. There are vendors everywhere selling what appears to be universal fifty cent beers. The food scene is outrageous: I felt like packman trying to get a taste of everything I could. I snacked on chorizo doused in a delicious, garlic-herb sauce. I threw down two traditionally-prepared Panamanian hot dogs with all the fixings. I tried samples from several of the hundreds of Ceviche merchants with giant trays of the stuff balanced atop their heads. I smelled the smoke from old garbage cans turned BBQs blowing crispy roasted chicken bits into the streets. I was in heaven.
My newly shaved head was getting sunburned so I bought a banana leaf hat for a quarter.
Whether it’s a legitimate tradition or just an excuse to be obnoxious, I don’t know, but children at Carnaval have this thing where they attack you and throw confetti in your eyes or squirt you with water pistols. It’s funny for about four minutes then it gets a bit old—but alls fair in Carnaval. I got soaked and covered by a clan of three little scoundrels with high-powered Super Soakers, which was funny. One casino on the route had a beautiful VIP-looking stage from which you could drink their beer and throw promotional T-shirts into the passing Carnavalers. I wandered up to the entrance and pretended like I had been there before. A man in a suit at the gate stopped me with his large stubby hand and asked me something in fast mumbly Spanish—I though my plan was foiled, but after nodding and waving to a fake friend at a table, he let me through. It was hilarious. From atop my newly befriended stage I had the perfect view. Tons of people screaming, lots of pretentiously dressed partiers giving me over-enthusiastic high fives.
This is when I had one of those moments—what am I doing here? Eating tasty snacks, partying locals in a VIP stage overlooking a century-long Latin celebration wearing a quarter-costing banana hat. I shook my head in self-righteous shame. I am cool.
There was this great vibe about the whole thing. At night, we listened to a concert of one of the nation’s favorite artist and ate churros on a step near the stage. I met some very funny people: Horacio the bigheaded chicken rotisserie man. George the 52 year old California transplant who was in Panama for 8 weeks “learning Spanish”. Legos the bulldog who wears sunglasses and walks on a leash—they call her Legos because her body has very straight edges like a Lego block. She was a thug.
When I woke up the following morning of Carnaval my jeans, shoes, and socks were laid out for easy exit from the night before. My shirt was covered with confetti and silly string, and my banana hat was on top of my head—pushing up against my pillow.
Carnaval was quite the experience and I can’t wait for next year’s to come around. This time however, I’ll know what to expect!