'The whole country is just one great big Fellini fest', said Jim in the run-up to Carnival. Sucre was awash with music and parades; dancing in the streets, folklore, traditional costumes, youths throwing balloons filled with water, kids shouldering massive water pistols, and squirting spray foam. It was just one big party. And it went on for weeks. Bands - groups sometimes of fifteen to twenty people - played guitars of varying sizes, brass and wind instruments and drums. 'Bong, bong, bang', sounds resounded around the plaza, and floated up to our apartment on the hill, a fifteen-minute walk away. More than music, this was pure joy and enthusiasm. Each band member seemed to do their own thing, dancing while they played, running around in circles, jumping up into the air; some did 'Shadows'-style kicks. Individuals,
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