The entire valley smelled of pungent incense. Beer was spilled carefully into the corners of rooms inside. Firecrackers were lit to sanctify the corners outside. Last Saturday the water wars began. Walking down the street you turn a corner and find yourself face to face with a seven year old holding a two foot-long water rifle.
Negotiation is fruitless, running is futile.
Bands of teenagers cruise the streets in pick up trucks, armed with several hundred balloon bombs. And no one makes a better target than a six foot tall, not especially fast, Gringo. No where and no one is safe. Pistol wielders hop on the buses and nail you in your seat. Little old ladies with Bolivian bowler hats, gray hair, and huge skirts will suddenly lift up those skirts, whip out a pink balloon loaded for bear and douse you with the aim of a major league relief pitcher.