Los Carnavales

Bienvenidos a los Carnavales. In the weeks approaching Carnavales, whenever our American medical trio would answer the cordial dinner-party question of “Are you going anywhere for Los Carnavales?” immediately upon answering “Las Tablas” we would be subject to a rapidly melting smile, the sort of short inward breath reserved for those feminine film noire protagonists (just before their murder), or a pause followed by a wide-eyed “Niiiiiiiiice” and an equally hearty slap on the back. Invariably, any of the above would be swiftly accompanied by a euphemistic (and cautionary) praise of Panama’s most renowned pre-Lent celebration.

Our gracious and apparently intrepid pediatric neurologist attending, Doctor Báez, signaled no such concern when she gleefully invited us to stay with her and family in Las Tablas, Panamá for Los Carnavales. Las Tablas is the seat of Panamanian culture; it is roughly the equivalent to America’s heartland without the acerbic aftertaste of Bush’s political follies or the threat of an endless ennui. Like many countries and cities that have effortlessly mixed Catholic tradition with enjoyable albeit pagan practices, this small town and the rest the country, in the four days before Ash Wednesday, celebrate tirelessly.

So, Saturday we met with Doctor Báez at her San Fernando office with bags, sunscreen, and the unspeakably cheap and water-ready Albrook Mall attire in hand for the four-hour journey to Panamá’s south. Similar to most developing countries and France, time is clearly just under conceptual here. Therefore, our first stop was Santa Clara, the gorgeous beach here about an hour from the city. I’m always amazed at this country’s diversity. Not just the thoroughly blended shades of Afro, Euro, and Indian that make race an impossible task, but at the diversity of landscape. This area is home to the architecturally clever beach house of Doctor Báez and her family. The beaches are a dazzling and brilliant black & the air is cool and virgin. If I am able to work out moving to Panamá in the future, this is certainly a place to play weekend warrior. But, I digress. On to Las Tablas.

As we’ve said before, the country of Panamá is just a big small town. So it isn’t any surprise that the cities empty to descend on the towns to celebrate with family and friends. The central square swells to a river of brown like the mouth of the Mississippi. And its hot. In terms of temperature of course. So, Panameños being the equally skillful and merry people they are, have invented… Colecos. Colecos is the sort of event that makes lingual slips between embarazado and embarazada irrelevant.

Colecos as a massive outdoor party has three main ingredients. The first, the people. Mothers, hedonists, septuagenarians, and apparently drag queens collide and are packed under the oppressive 90-degree sun. Second is the music. The deafening pulse of reggaeton bewitches the ordinarily pious to gyrate in ways that would make your grandmother giggle. The inexhaustible supply of alcohol is used further facilitate the above. Sounds pretty straight forward, eh? Well then there’s the water.

For those readers that have had first-hand experience with Colecos, you’ve probably paused to yield to your first Colecos memories while letting out a small, knowing chuckle. For the rest, think of those elementary school summers when your water guns, slip-and-slides, and an adroitly and nefariously managed garden-hose served as the only neighborhood weapon against the heat besides your grandmother’s lemonade. Now only add full-pressure water hoses and thousands of people and we can begin to comprehend it. Thankfully the music is suitable distraction from the fact that everyone…everyone, is being the subject an absolute soaking from all directions and from anyone. It kind of blurs the line between water terrorism and benevolence. I haven’t been this soaked since I was caught on my bike in one of those Texas thunderstorms. All of my remaining attention was spent on trying to keep up with Dr. Báez. Her enthusiasm for Colecos forbade her from remaining sessile and betrayed her age. I’m not saying that she’s old, of course not, but I’d like to think myself and three other 20-year-olds would be able to navigate the crowd with the same dexterity and determination as a neurologist…a pediatric neurologist…whose been practicing for 30 years. In any case, Colecos surrenders to the late afternoon need for a siesta and the second celebration of the day begins at night.

Calle Arriba and Calle Abajo are roughly translated into uptown (wealthy) and downtown (regular). Along these lines Las Tablas (and most other towns) divide to elect queens, construct floats, and fashion horribly personal attacks on the opposing queen in the form of song. Amazing. Around 11pm we found ourselves (dangerously) close to fireworks to mark the beginning of the parade. First, Calle Arriba. A huge, garish float turned the corner to meet the town square and a huge expectant crowd. A cacophony of colecos song counterpointed the beautiful array of glorious plumes of decadence married to the soft turns of the Calle Arriba court. The joy and the intractable kinetic energy raced through the crowd only to burgeon with the second float with garnished with the beguilingly adorned dark-haired queen, Ms. Renata Alexandra Díaz Núñez. The whole process is repeated with the equally enjoyable Calle Abajo, Ms. Sara de Carmen Bello Herrera, and her court. For the remainder of the evening (until well into the small morning hours) the two courts circle each other in the square with the tireless chants, lingually Spanish-Caribbean flavor of their respective anthems for that year.

Thoroughly enjoyable. Equally tiring. Multiply by four. The quintessential Carnaval experience.