It happened quite suddenly: a jet of foam hit my cheek, splattered over my arms, and settled on the table in front of me. I had been ambushed as I sat at a sidewalk cafe, and to my great dismay, I couldn’t spot the would-be assassin.
Something was strange about the people passing by on the sidewalk as I ate my empanadas and drank my licuado, though: they were unusually young, were all walking one way, and were all carrying bottles of spray foam. Some of the younger passers-by playfully shook the bottles at me, threatening to add an ingredient to my dinner. After a few minutes, I asked another pedestrian why everyone had bottles of foam. “Bueno, el carnival porteño. ¿No sabes?” No, I definitely did not know about el carnival porteño.
I finished my dinner and walked toward the sounds of drums, whistles, and bells, stopping in a corner store that had foam for sale, advertised as nieve--snow. I would call it something like a cross between silly string and shaving cream, but hey, it doesn’t snow in Buenos Aires. As I walked the last few blocks to the festival, I worried that I would be the only adult with his own can of nieve. That worry quickly passed when a woman in her 50’s sprayed me from head to toe. I had not expected people to be so, well, vicious with their aim.
I took a few steps back from the foam-soaked crowds to take in the scene. Moments later, a girl--no more than 12--walked up, her hands cupped. “Por favor, nieve,” she asked, and unwittingly, I filled her hands. She smiled, thanked me, and then smashed it all into my face. She ran. I was too stunned to chase her, but it wouldn’t have made any difference: she quickly vanished into the crowd. The people around me laughed, and after a moment, I did too.
Just beyond the running, foam-covered children paraded a marching drum line, all dressed in bright colors and adorned with sequins. When the sound of the snares, whistles, and cymbals faded, a voice came over the loudspeaker, exhorting people to be proud of their neighborhood and of their city. (I couldn’t help but remember that elections are only a few months away here: a timely delivery of good times in hopes of favor at the voting booth would hardly be unusual in Argentina.)
Over the heads of the dancers and drummers flags--blue, red, and yellow in all possible patterns--flew, and at their feet danced toddlers, doing their best to keep up. The costuming matched the flags, but it was impossible not to notice that as much as the costumes sagged and billowed on the men, they clung tight on the women.
Although few of the bejeweled, sequin-covered performers were focused on making music, they managed to produce a sound that boomed and echoed off the high rises for blocks. Base and snare drums, whistles, bells, and who knows what else combined in a unpredictable but melodic manner. Even the base drummers high stepped in rhythm despite their unwieldy instruments, and the those with more manageable instruments twisted and moved in unison. None of the performers could match the enthusiasm of the youngest performers: toddlers in miniature versions of the troupe’s shiny costumes. They did not exactly stick to the beat or follow any choreography, but that didn’t seem to be a priority.
I haven’t done a very good job of explaining just how covered in foam the crowd was. Nieve clung in hair, tripling or quadrupling its volume. I occasionally wiped of what felt like liters of the slippery, slightly aromatic foam from my face. Little kids rushed about, completely obscured from head to toe--I’m honestly not sure how their parents could keep them straight. Carnival porteño was one big, slippery mess.
I left after about two hours. As I walked away, the girl who had so cruelly smeared foam all over my face walked up to ask for some more, and I looked at her skeptically. “¿Vas a pegarme en el rostro otra vez?” She smiled--the same smile!--and said, no, she wouldn’t hit me in the face this time.
I am a trusting person--sometimes I trust too much--but this time, I was right too. I watched her run off and smack some other adult with a thick pie of nieve and laughed.
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