Carnival fever hits La Paz. All my friends leave.

Bolivia has just finished celebrating carnival. In so many, many ways, La Paz is not Rio. Rather than thousands of scantily clad beauties prancing about in the sun, we had been warned to expect drunken youth gangs armed with water balloons on every corner and looming out of every window. This was trailed as The Worst Time To Be In Bolivia.

In fact, it was quite fun, at least as a spectator. There were excited small children (and the odd pet) in fancy dress: fairies, spidermen, devils even a belly dancer. It seemed to be a great time for the Bolivian equivalent of the dull bloke from accounts: in the supermarkets, sensibly moustachioed men stocked on packets of crisps the size of pillows, foam and firecackers.

In the market, stalls offered everything needed for a good festival: dried flowers, confetti, bangers, streamers, face paint, wigs and Ceibo—the 96% proof drinking alcohol.

Once it had kicked off, the Prado—La Paz’s Oxford Street—was filled with happy schoolboys soaking schoolgirls with water pistols the size of bazookers. Bands bounced along, with dancers dressed as “pepino”, a little devilish chap, who shares his name with the word for cucumber (to my mind, the devil’s genitalia). Men wearing dresses ran about spraying foam and others played along clad in plastic macs.

As the water was thrown around, it looked like a lot of fun. From the safety of the five-star hotel Plaza’s bar overlooking the Prado, it looked great. Clearly, I didn’t want to be any nearer.

As well as the water and dancing, there was also the ch’alla. This is a blessing of homes, cars and offices. I watched a smart office worker spraying lager all over her car at lunchtime. Door-to-door shaman went between offices offering their services like salesmen flogging brushes or insurance. The blessing process is a boozy business and stretched well into the next week.