Barranquilla Carnival
One week before the main Carnival parades begin, there’s a lively nighttime event called La Guacherna. The word “Guacherna” comes from the local slang used in Colombia’s Caribbean region. It originally referred to a spontaneous street gathering or noisy night event, often with music, dancing, and celebration. Over time, it became associated specifically with this pre-carnival parade.
La Guacherna takes place after sunset and is free to the public. It feels like one massive, chaotic street party bursting with rhythm, color, and energy. Marching groups, folkloric dancers, costumed performers, and musical bands parade through the streets under colorful lights, while crowds—mostly young and full of excitement—dance and cheer from the sidelines.
The best way to enjoy the two free street parades—La Guacherna, which happens a week before Carnival at night, and Joselito, held on the final day during the afternoon—is to secure a spot at a bar or restaurant with an elevated view. From there, you can relax, people-watch, eat, and drink in comfort. Just make sure to reserve in advance, as those spots fill up quickly. Joselito, which takes place on 84th Street and features the symbolic burial of a man who partied for four days straight and “died” from the fun, is generally considered the more entertaining of the two.
We leave La Guacherna at 11 p.m. and head to a club with a couple of Americans and their dates, where many of the patrons are dressed in costumes. There are some striking women at the club, particularly one tall woman dancing with a young man. It’s quite common when people dance up close for the man to rest his hand low on the woman’s back. I watch as this young man, who has been dancing with the tall beauty all evening, slowly lets his hand drift downward. Before it gets any lower, the woman firmly takes his hand and moves it back up. I often see people who don’t know each other dance in that position. However, women have told me they don’t like dancing with strange men because of the closeness and physical contact. Later in the evening, the tall woman—who notices I know Salsa—asks me to dance and tells me she lives in the States. She’s here visiting with her uncle, who used to live in New Jersey and, by chance, I happen to know. He and his slender wife have always been very friendly. Later, his wife strikes up a conversation with me and tells me she was once a Carnival queen and now works with a very poor all-Black dance group that needs a sponsor. She asks me for a $500 donation. The tall woman from the States quietly tells me that her aunt must mean 500,000 pesos (about $150), but the former queen confirms she is indeed asking for dollars. As an American, you can’t go anywhere without being asked for money.
My girlfriend isn’t going to be able to arrive until 1:30 p.m. on the first day of Carnival, which means we’re going to have trouble finding a good seat. The parade starts later, but if you want a decent view, you need to arrive by late morning because this is the most crowded day of the event. At the entrance to our stands, we’re told they’re full and that we’ll have to walk several blocks to another stand. We argue for a while, and eventually they let us in—but they won’t allow me to bring in the fifteen cans of foam I had just bought at 3,000 pesos each, since they sell their own foam inside for twice the price. I give in and let them hold my foam. Fortunately, I had stashed a few cans in my camera bag, which they didn’t check. They helped us find a seat because there was no space and before I can even sit down, my girlfriend grabs a can and starts spraying the people behind us—who happen to be a unified group of about twenty representing Cream Helado, an ice cream company. Right away, they retaliate, and we’re completely soaked with foam. The foam battle continues all day. Things finally turn in our favor when their group splinters and starts spraying each other and are unable to keep up with our supply of foam.
The guy who confiscated my foam at the entrance later tells me he’ll give it back for 10,000 pesos, which I accept. After I pay him and he hands it over, he asks for a tip. There’s no end to the surprises here. It takes about four firm “no’s” and turning my back on him before he finally walks away. It´s like being asked for a bribe and then a tip on top of that.. The best approach in these situations is to say “no” once and ignore the person—which I usually do—but this one caught me off guard.
The Cream Helado group, however, turns out to be a fun bunch. They give me a hat to wear, share their rum and whiskey, and even pull me into their group photos (I think as their mascot). When we leave at nightfall, they ask if I’m coming back the next day. You bet I am. We arrive at the same time the following day, and I’m surprised to see the stands are still packed. Ticket prices this year have been significantly higher—about 40% more than usual. You can, however, find discounted scalped tickets being sold on the street. We rejoin the Cream Helado group and pick up right where we left off.
Living in Colombia has made me extremely observant of small things I would’ve never been in the lookout for in the States. You constantly have to watch your belongings. At one point, I noticed a very young girl climbing up the stands, reaching for my girlfriend’s purse, which was by her feet. As she reached towards the purse I stepped on the child´s fingers until I heard a crack and then let her fall to the ground. I’m kidding, of course. All it usually takes is to make it clear you’re aware. She backed off on her own and wandered away toward an easier target. Theft is rampant in Colombia. As a general rule, treat any street person as a potential thief, regardless of their age. And justice here is often swift and brutal—thieves caught in the act are frequently beaten by angry crowds. I once saw a group of about 20 chasing a youth who they beat until the police had to carry him away.
On the third day, the crowd was even larger than the year before. I wanted to try a different stand, but my girlfriend preferred to stick with the Cream Helado group. So we joined them again, dove into more foam fights and drinking, and before we knew it, it was five o’clock and the parade was over. We had planned to grab something to eat afterward, but one of the guys from the group and his wife insisted we join them for a chicken dinner at their house outside the city, past the airport. I was ready for a bit of quiet, but I was also in a good mood and open to whatever, so I told my girlfriend to make the call. She seemed a little hesitant, but agreed. So we grabbed some beer for the drive—which in Colombia doesn’t look much different from not drinking and driving.
We arrive. When we arrived, they parked in front of the house and popped open the trunk to reveal the party’s sound system: two huge speakers. Within minutes, neighbors began showing up, and suddenly I was being introduced and passed around to different homes— not my Colombian girlfriend—just me, the freak. Back at the house I´m told, not asked to dance The hosts made sure I always had a beer in hand. I taught a few of the girls some basic steps, and then they started giving me lessons on how to improve my hip and shoulder movement. All night, I kept hearing the word “borracho” thrown in my direction, whatever that means.
At dinner, I see a large, expensive TV and the cobwebbed underside of a tin roof ceiling. For drinks, we’re served soda and, of course, beer. My plate comes with three slices of white bread and a generous serving of orange-colored rice. I’m told it’s chicken and rice, but I don’t see any chicken. My friend then grabs a bottle of ketchup and starts pouring it over my rice, the other option being mayonnaise. From what I’ve experienced in other homes, ketchup and mayonnaise are pretty typical dressings for rice and pasta. The female host makes sure everyone eats everything on their plate. When I ask why she’s not eating, she simply points to her belly as an explanation. Dinner is the only time any real conversation takes place.
Once it’s over, we head to the front porch, where I sit down for about thirty seconds before being pulled up to dance. The women are convinced my hips won’t move properly without their hands guiding them. About an hour and a half after dinner, we’re served beef soup. The only time I’m truly allowed to sit is when I’m eating. .
None of the women at the party have ever met an American before, and the 18- and 19-year-olds are both flirtatious and curious—asking about my availability and my relationship with my female friend. Like any guy, I tell them, “I don’t know who she is. I thought she was part of your group.” After more than five hours, we’re finally allowed to leave—but only after promising to come back another day. While I met new people, the experience followed the same pattern as my last four Carnivals: friendly faces, lots of laughter, sharing, nonstop dancing, and plenty of drinking.
