Daniel and I joined the festivities late Saturday afternoon, quickly discovering what it means to be a gringo at Carnaval. We were heralded like politicians everywhere we went. Women handed us thier babies and daughters and gleefully snapped off photographs. We were covered in foam, doused in talcum powder, soaked with water, and then fed rum from small wooden and ceramic cups worn from thin string necklaces. Kids painted black with engine grease surrounded us weilding sticks like guns saying "we are FARC!" and demanded ransoms. Others covered our faces completely with foam and tried to pick our empty pockets while the crowd looked on, amused. The welcome was intense everywhere we went.

Carnaval

Everything about Carnaval is sexual. Women parade by in scant clothing and wild, colorful peacock feathers. Men dance around in the bizzare elephant mask of Marimonda, a classic archetype of Barranquilla Carnaval. Marimonda represents the core of the average Colombian man - a raving horney drunk bent on dancing, sexual persuits, and having the most fun possible at all times. "Monda" is a vulgar term referring to the exaggerated phallic nose which swings from the freakish mask. Others wear the costume of the dark mulato woman with afro wigs and red polkadotted head scarves.

Marimonda

As it turns out, a curiously large number of Colombian men look exactly like Barack Obama when placed in a suit and tie. As such, Obamas abound, smiling and shaking hands deliberately everywhere they go. And what parade is complete without transvestites? Broad-shouldered men saunter around in high heels and nurse outfits, blowing kisses from behind black masks with red, exaggerated lips.

Little black cermaic handguns were being sold everywhere, with pinkish flesh-colored penises on the end. I tickled us to think that somewhere there exists a factory dedicated to the production of these rediculous penis guns. Someones job depends on drawing the veins and details just so. Later we met two Englishmen who had been robbed with the old concealed weapon beneath the T-shirt trick. They handed over everything, never considering the overwhelming odds that they were being accosted with a cheap ceramic replica, nothing but a life-like penis tip at the end of the barrell.

The official slogan of the event is "Mama ron en Carnavales!" The verb "mamar" means to suck as if from the nipple. Suck rum in Carnaval! And suck we did, dancing insanely with beaming Colombian girls who blew our minds with the unfathomable alchemy of salsa. A parade of women in bright, 1980s rendition of the future of fashion spun by in wild neon dresses with stacked wire skirts.

Something in my mind clicked. Everything became lucid - my consciousness felt of the brink of something huge, something infinite. I licked eternity with the tip of my brain, a massive deja vu condensation of approximate Everything.

And then, just like that, it was gone.

We kept dancing and the world seemed very small, a crude farce of some watered down reality. I felt imprisioned in my body, and danced ever more wildly in a desperate attempt to wiggle out of the damn thing, back into the world of souls.

Ah, but one must wait.

We couchsurfed with Mickey and his girlfriend Jennifer, who were prepared to host thirty people for Carnaval. As it turned out, Daniel, Ruby, and I were the only ones to show up. But he still made sure we had a good time, taking us out to clubs at night and being merry. Jennifer took us to a block party in the barrio of one of her friends. The streets were blocked off and a giant sound system blasted a canon of about twelve Carnaval songs repeatedly until late in the night. There is a specific dance for each of the songs, and the girls taught us all of them. Colombian women are absolutely tireless dancers. Daniel and I clumsily struggled to keep up.

Mickey and Jennifer

I was totally sapped by the debautchery at the end of it all. I sat in the Barranquilla bus station waiting for a ride to Medellin, feeling a poignant loneliness and yearning for the comfort of home. Traveling alone is an amazing blessing, but soon leaves one feeling ungrounded and empty, with friends lasting only a few days at a time. I felt delirious, missing my family and friends, my bike, mexican food.

What was I doing a zillion miles away from everything that mattered to me, roving senselessly around with no true destination? Was I really here to teach English, or was it all an unconscious facade, some weird joke, a flimsy excuse?

I felt useless, indulgent, depraved - like the prodigal son, who blew all of his money on nonsense and then returned home with his tail tucked.

The bus was cold, very cold. All through the night the air conditioning chilled us deeper and deeper. It felt like a meat locker. I hid beneath my towel, shivering half-asleep for fifteen hours.

I know how ya feel dude!