1.8.8 Climbing the greasy pole

To add a little extra spice to the drunken shenanigans, a huge pole was being erected in the bullring. While one man smoothed it down with a machete, another greased it up. The plan was for the guys to try and climb the pole to win prizes (top prize was a bike) at the same time as everyone else tried to knock them off by throwing plastic bottles. I was surprised to see that they weren’t using vouchers but the actual prizes were being attached. This raised the possibility of being knocked from the top by a bottle to the bonce, falling 20 metres to the ground, being gored by the bull and then a saucepan landing on your head just as you were coming round.

Much less hungover today, I went back to the indigenous people’s hall. They’re very kind but I turned down their offer of wheat-based booze. Patricio described it as instant diarrhea, perhaps unfairly. The room filled with dancers in their huge feather headdresses and a band. It was already bright, the far wall covered ribbons, icons and three statues of Jesus dressed in peach chollita skirts—as is the local custom.

Outside, I met one of the drunkest men I have ever had the pleasure of encountering. Swaying back and forth in his firework hat, wooden mask and piss-stained trousers, he giggled and rambled happily. By now, the days of drinking were taking their toll and party detritus was everywhere. Men were passed it out on the floor, in the middle of the road, in the stands of the bull ring…

Near the town is a large lake in the jungle. As the sun set, we sat on the short wooden pier drinking cold beer and jet skiing. This was exactly as much fun as it sounds.

It was not the best night’s sleep: church bells and drums of a night parade woke me up and then the screams of a cat being killed by dogs outside my window stopped me going back to sleep.