LATIN AMERICA - BRAZIL - RIO DE JANEIRO : The World’s Biggest Party
by Stuart Graham



One man is dressed as Little Red Riding Hood. He is doing the samba with his partner, the Big Bad Wolf. Another group of fun-lovers has pots on their heads which they beat with spoons.

It is carnival in Rio, a time when locals, or Cariocas as they are known, lose their inhibitions and indulge in a four-day party before the Christian holiday of Ash Wednesday.

The festivities start once a year on a Friday afternoon in February and end the following Tuesday. There are parades and street parties in virtually every suburb, but one of the best places to experience carnival is with the Banda de Ipanema, a drag queen march on the beachfront in the shadow of Sugar Loaf Mountain in the suburb of Ipanema.

During the carnival weekend I found a good spot on a grass embankment to watch the parade drift past. What a spectacular sight.

A bus carrying a band of guitarists and trumpeters lead the way followed by hundreds of samba drummers and singers.

There were easily more than a million people there, most of them dancing the samba and singing songs in Portuguese about carnival, about the freedom to choose, and the courage of the South American freedom fighter Che Guevara.

The temperature on a street clock said 35 degrees Celsius but that did not stop the crowd from getting into a frenzy as the parade got closer to Sugar Loaf.

I was enjoying the scenery when a giant Brazilian man with gold tinsel hair, a Speedo and a hairy chest found a place next to me.
“Hola, Gringo,” he said. White men are known as gringos in most places in South America.

“Hola,” I said.

“You white,” he said. “Dance with me.”

I said no thanks, but the giant took my arm and nimbly went through his samba steps. I wanted to be a good sport, so I made an attempt.

I started worrying when he looked me up and down.

Sweat was pouring off the man and, nervous of his intentions, I turned quickly to a wrinkled old lady on my left, took her by the hands and did the samba with all the gusto I could.

Somehow, the giant was caught in the crowd and was being swept away. His eyes were wide and desperate. I noticed him clawing to get back to me, but was swamped by the masses.

Now I had a new worry. The old lady moved close to me. Her hips were grinding against mine and she had her arms around my waist. She grabbed the collar of my shirt and pulled my head towards her. Coward that I am, I pulled back and scrambled to the beach.

I found a seat at a table under an umbrella and ordered a caparinha, an alcoholic drink served with cubed lemons, sugar and crushed ice. A group of people were ignoring the parade and playing a form of volleyball, using their feet, heads and chests. No hands are allowed.

There were playing with skill and energy. Sometimes a rally would go on for about two minutes.

After the caparinha, I walked to Copacabana beach. There, soccer posts had been erected right along the beach. Hundreds of competitive soccer games were on the go, all being played in the sand. It’s no wonder Brazil so often wins the Soccer World Cup.

If people weren’t playing soccer, they were cycling along the beach, playing volleyball or beach bats. Everyone was doing something. Most Cariocas have slim, muscular bodies they are not afraid to show off. The string bikini is mandatory for women.

Later that night I headed with a group of friends to the suburb of Lapa, near the Rio town centre for a street party. I had met two young women from Cape Town and another from Mozambique. We Africans enjoyed the carnival together.

At Lapa there were at least 500,000 people partying under a massive white aquaduct. Vendors were roasting beef, chicken and chouriso sausage kebabs over coal fires.

People drank the local Skol beers and sipped icy pineapple and granadilla caparinhas through straws.

There were samba parties on every corner. Men were groping the women as they walked past, the women stepping aside as though this was the most natural thing in the world.

Often I passed a couple clinched in a passionate kiss.

My friends and I found a place under the aquaduct and joined the party.

Suddenly a woman near us shouted at a red faced young man. She punched the man in his face. He turned around. She hit him twice more on the back of his neck. He turned and she punched him again. This time he stumbled back and went down. The woman jumped on to his chest and hit him several times more.

The man wriggled free and sprinted off. The woman ran after him crying.

The crowd around us shrugged and carried on doing the samba. The party went on until early in the morning.

At the hotel a group of three men were standing in line at the reception desk. I had met one of them at the hotel pool earlier. He was from Nelspruit and had come to Rio to have a break from his wife and children.

“She picked me up on Copacabana beach,” he said.

“How could I say no?”

Many foreign men come to Rio, to pick up women.

A Brazilian tour guide told me that “gringos” are popular among some girls because they have money.

During the carnival prostitution flourishes. Drugs also sell well. The guide said the drug lords who run the local slums or favellas do a roaring trade during the carnival.

In the weeks leading up to the carnival there was an outbreak of violence in some favellas as the lords tried to topple each other for control of the drugs.

Many Cariocas simply chose to leave town to escape the chaos of the carnival.

I strolled down the Copacabana beach front the following evening and stopped at a bar.

I ordered a Skol and next to me at the bar was a retired German headmaster named Peter. He had a moustache and wore spectacles. I asked him if he was going to the main carnival parade later that evening.

“No, not at all. There are too many people there. Here I can get beer and girls. There is no need to go anywhere else.”

I left Peter and took the subway to the Sambodromo. The subway was full of people wearing bright, feather-covered costumes. They all sang and used the train doors as drums to create their samba beat.

I bought a ticket in the cheap seats from a scalper for ten US dollars. Two South African women told me they had bought their ticket from an agent and paid 600 dollars each. They would have grandstand seats, among the tourists. I was glad with my bargain. I would be able to sit among the Brazilians and have a more authentic experience.

What an incredible spectacle.

I have never seen anything like it. The lights, fireworks, costumes of all colours. There is too much to describe. There were seven samba schools parading, each getting 80 minutes.

There was no crowd control in my section. People were packing in more and more. I was sweating like mad and so thirsty. Eventually I was so crushed I squeezed my way to the exit and got out. Many Brazilians seem to get in a trance as drums beat and they sing the same song over and over. They go wild. Maybe you have to grow up with it to understand. The ordinary Brazilians just want to have fun. They and their kids dress up like clowns and angels and go to their local parade and sing.

Foreigners aren't here for that.

Seven of the top samba schools in Rio parade on Sunday night and seven on Monday. The parades start around 9pm and each school is given an hour and 20 minutes to perform. Each year the best school is crowned as carnival champions.

Experts spend the entire year making floats and costumes. Dancers spend hours training to get their bodies into perfect physical shape.

One float on Sunday was made of gold and shot out glitter. One of bright orange shot flames into the air, another made of white Star Wars storm trooper robots. Dancers in sparkly little outfits danced away on top of the floats. They were followed by singers and dancers wearing fancy outfits.

As the parade moved away from the tourists and closer to the stands, the crowd grew into a singing, dancing, bouncing-up-and-down frenzy. I looked around me. People were sweating, but all were smiling and singing. They appeared to be in a trance of joy.

There are no water or toilets readily available and once inside the cheap seats it was very difficult to get out.

At 2am, I couldn’t take it anymore. I squeezed out and made my way back to my hotel. There a group of men sat quietly outside a tavern watching the Sambodromo parade on television.

At the hotel I pushed my way past a group of prostitutes who had gathered in the lobby.

I collapsed in bed. It was Monday morning. Two more days to go. I heard more samba drums. I closed my eyes, the sound of drums still ringing in my ears. What an experience. What a carnival to remember.


Photo: courtesy Rio CVB
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