Kulture Karnival, Kreuzberg

I woke to the sound of drums reverberating the springs of my camper bed.  Given my new flatmates penchant for creating noise, I cursed the likelihood they had adopted a bongo related hobby. It was then with a mixture of relief, pursued within a knuckle wrap of a a cow hide, by delight. The realisation it was the whit sunday Karnival der Kulturen marching outside. 

I quickly got dressed - my plan to sit on Miche’s balcony, clasping a coffee - the sound from the street made me recollect the elephant scene from The Jungle book.  Joining an excited, but sleepy Miche, I watched as first Peru, India, Belgium?, and then, as you can see from the attention it drew from the local Pap, the money shot paraded below us.

A stately wake up call,  befitting even... Mustafa 'Better-than-Beckham" Izzet

                                                                             Pap attack

After the caffeine started to return my senses, I  started to notice that lots of people who passed in the street were gazing up at the obscured windows to the left of us. Whole floats were waving, giggling, blowing kisses and pointing as they passed in their organised traffic jam. Given the exhibitionist nature of my new flatmates, I wasn't entirely shocked by the view that greeted me as I looked up, now standing with fellow bystanders on the pavement.

                                                              Petra Flurr, some bumpkin, and Rodrigo                         

With beer from the usually overflowing newsagents now encroachiong onto the pavements on makeshift tables too, I was quickly in stride. After sitting on the curb and watching the floats go by,  I noticed for the first time the way middle aged Germans dress on holiday as tourists,  is actually how they dress on a daily basis. 

                                                             The girl was a heartbeat from feigning injury

I then met my Danish/French mate Ervin from work. We spent ten amusing minutes watching the heavily intoxicated, and I presume self titled, "King of Fallafel" , attempt to construct a wrap for me, while lurching and stumbling around his kingdom.

Brushing aside suggestions to follow the Electro with the Scandinavians we met, I marched behind the Dub/Ragga/Dancehall float. Ignoring the glaringly obvious Caucasian rhythmic inadequacies when it comes to dancing to reggae and Dance Hall, this white cat shook his booty out of time to African drums for the following five magical hours. 

The Purple explosion magical mystery tour. One love to my boi dem Escobar!

The Purple explosion bringing da party

Exhausted from the full afternoon of stomping, we finished the night listening to Electro in a packed West Kreuzberg  street;  sipping Caiprinhas, feeling groggy, and swaying like the King of Falafel himself.