30.7.8 San Ignacio de Moxos

I was off to a fiesta in the jungle. Although I would have felt safer in a large jet, at least in a 23-seater plane there are no arguments about who gets an aisle seat. The captain gave a turbulence warning and we felt every bump as we climbed over the mountains and beyond the clouds. Then we dropped out on to endless scrubland, this was Trinidad.

It had recently rained hard and was extremely humid, so I congratulated myself for taking off my long johns in La Paz. In truth, my jumper was also unnecessary. Past the chickens outside the airport, I took a motorbike taxi to where my bus left for San Ignacio de Moxos (my destination). Incongruously, the driver was sporting a dress shirt that may have seen better days but at least showed he was making an effort.

Killing time, I sat outside a bar with a cold beer and watched the swarms of motorbikes. Men, women, babies and televisions went past, and that was on one bike. Girls comfortably sat on the back often ridding side-saddle, some wearing pro-autonomy T’shirts.

Trinidad is not a wealthy town, the buildings are squat and their paint is peeling in the heat. As I waited for my bus, I saw a filthy toddler drinking from a puddle and wondered what the passing squad of riot police were policing.

The bus turned out to be an open-top truck with padded planks for seats. It was a dramatic if uncomfortably journey. As the sun set, white birds became pink as they flew overhead and the weather deteriorated. An otherwise dark night was illuminated by electrical storms, fireflies and countless stars.

Some hours later and having crossed three rivers by tiny boat, we arrived at San Ignacio. I was greeted at the town square by a menacing parade of blokes in wooden old man masks and wide heavy hats approaching a crowd with huge feather headdresses carrying wooden machetes. One of the masked men danced around me pointing at my cricket hat in a dismissive manner. So this was it.

Things were really picked up after I met my friends. One of them, Gourdy, had a firework competition with another man in the plaza. This was great, except they kept falling over and flying into the crowd. Then the bands kicked off, led by heavy drums they pounded ceaselessly. While the marchers in headdresses and machetes danced, fireworks were thrown around by the crowd—sparks hit me in the head and hand—and the masked men wheeled through the crowd, their hats spraying out pyrotechnics and clouds of toxic smoke.