Small places, Carnivale.

Carvivale is magic in small places like Bocas.

It´s the return of all those family, those friends that left for bigger towns, dreams. And it´s the tourists that flea now to those bigger towns, dreams. (The ones with the supposed epic Carnivales, like Panama City, like San Jose.)

Carnivale here is children and music. It´s devils dancing in the streets at midday and that cracking sound of the whips on wood and the smell of barbecued meats and rice and beans and stale beer, sweat. It´s holding up that kid, too small to see. It´s that booming base constant in the damp air and that town square filled and bars tearing at the seams. It´s stepping over drunks, over crushed beer cans, bottles. It´s sharing wine, rum.

It´s the beach to escape, or to return. It´s home for a break. For Jenga. For goodbyes, hellos. For those hammocks at The (camping) Spot and vino rojo from the box.

It´s the crackle of speakers transcended by drums, and clasping fingers and hips badly (like a gringa) with that Costa Rican musician. In the heavy heat dancing. Swaying on those Spanish songs with the words that vanish in their speed, ´til the sky is black and the power fades and the water at home is gone.

Late. Nights.

It´s Carnivale in Bocas del Toro, where I live for a while.