Although Rio Carnaval was one of the most eagerly anticipated events on my Watson calendar, it was also the source of much anxiety. Going out alone on a normal Saturday night in nearby Lapa, a seedy neighborhood chock-full of great music joints and transvestite hookers, was enough of an adrenaline rush for me— the prospect of weathering a wild, four-day pagan celebration of hedonism was on another level entirely. I was thus delighted to have two dear friends, Whitney Hunter-Thomson and Katie Josephson, a pair of strapping, able-bodied young women, to accompany me for the duration of the festival.
There are three primary components of Carnaval: the street parties (called blocos), the Carnaval balls and the samba school parade. Our story begins on Friday, February 1st, as the three of us hunted through the streets of Santa Teresa for the Carmelitas bloco, one of the most famous in the city. A bloco consists of a slow-moving truck with a great deal of sound equipment, someone playing a little ukelele called a cavaquinho (ca-va-kee-yoo), and another individual with a microphone, who sings the lyrics to a single song that is repeated for the entirety of the parade (usually a few hours). Both the cavaquinho and the vocalist are hooked up to the huge speakers on the truck, which is itself surrounded by a massive, marching bateria, or drum corps. The bateria is the heart of the bloco, and is made up of men and women armed with drums of all sizes, providing the powerful pulse of the party. Enveloping the bateria are the throngs of carnaval revelers, who come in all sorts of costumes and in all states of inebriation. Beer is sold from accompanying push-carts, in case anyone needs a pick-me-up or three. The bateria is also usually cordoned off from the crowd via a human chain, to prevent over-enthusiastic participants from harrassing the drummers. This motley crew is then followed through the streets by more merrymakers, as well as vendors selling cheap food and more beer. The generous consumption of alcohol, combined with the fact that the blocos parade throughout all avenues of the city, often makes available restroom facilities conspicuous by their absence. Following the passage of a bloco through any thoroughfare, a perceptive observer can spot anywhere from 5 to 10 men relieving themselves on trees, walls and potted plants. These gentlemen quickly take care of business, zip up, and then rush to catch up with the rest of the crowd, lest they miss anything. During Carnaval, there’s no time for shame. Only for partying.
Most blocos advertise the time and place that they will begin their festivities, but the Carmelitas group kept it a secret this year, in the hopes they would get a more local, Santa Teresa crowd. There are upwards of 50 blocos, each with its own bateria and theme song, that parade throughout the city over the four days of Carnaval, so veteran partiers will often plan their schedules according to their favorites. Katie, Whit and I had spent the earlier part of the day shopping for costumes in Centro, or downtown, so that if and when a party hit us, we would be ready. I was particularly proud of my costume. It was less of a costume, though, and more of a hat. The hat was a fuzzy, multicolored top hat meant to resemble a birthday cake, replete with frosting, perky candles sticking out of the top, and “Happy Birthday!” embroidered on the front. I sported it with a styrofoam pink-and-blue bowtie, and no shirt. I will never again look that good. We set out into Santa Teresa, hat in hand and bowtie adjusted, in search of the bloco. It did not take long to find it. Blocos begin at their concentração, or fixed location, and remain there, pumping the crowd up for a little while, before beginning their pre-determined parade through the streets. Following our ears, we found Carmelitas’ concentração only a short walk from my apartment. It was quite a scene. Thousands of revelers crammed into the picturesque, cobbled streets of Santa Teresa, with street kids weaving through the masses, busily collecting cans to redeem. This was the first big bloco in the neighborhood, so people were out in full force. The costumes and gimmicks were also a sight to behold. A few of my favorites included a shirtless man riding a tiny motorcycle back and forth through the crowd, and an elderly East Asian gentleman, dressed in a crimson and white toga and a golden foam Roman helmet, happily puffing away at a cigarette. After a little while, the mob started to move, nudged along by the bateria at the back. We could hear the drums far before we could see any of them. The parade was massive, and the energy infectious. Of all the blocos I got to see during Carnaval, Carmelitas was far and away my favorite. I saw a few other great costumes— like the jovial, obese gentleman, clad only in skimpy green shorts, who had smeared red paste all over his body, drawn on little black seeds and then donned aviator sunglasses and a watermelon peel-helmet— but no other bloco compared to the spirit of the Carmelitas party.
After a few hours of bloco-immersion and people-watching, we retired back to the room to prepare ourselves for the Red and Black Ball, reputed to be the most scandalous of all the Carnaval balls. The balls are gala events, typically held in large dance halls in Leblon (one of the more upscale neighborhoods, near Ipanema), and we had gotten quite excited about the evening. Whit and Katie brought dresses for the occasion, and looked fantastic. I, deciding to go all out as well, wore long pants and a shirt with buttons. We ate dinner at a barbecue put on by Vinicius, my paraglider pilot/gourmet chef friend, and then headed on to the ball. We got there at 11 p.m., and, upon presenting our tickets, walked in, expecting to be shocked and appalled at the depravity and sin to which we were so looking forward. Instead, we were mostly disappointed. The dance hall was packed, there was a large samba outfit on stage belting out tunes, and there was a long line for drinks. The whole affair was not unlike a large college dance party. We stayed for a little less than an hour, and then decided our night would be better spent at home so that we could get started early the next morning (some blocos start as early as 8 a.m.). The only notable events of the night were the valiant yet unsuccessful attempts of a few daring young fellows to court Whit and Katie. These endeavors proved to be a recurring theme of our Carnaval experience, as beautiful American girls tend to attract attention. The efforts of these young men also prompted me to realize that I have not been wooed by a single Brazilian woman over the course of my three months here. As a virile, young foreigner who was looking forward to getting taken advantage of, this has been a disappointment. Once, an elder lady cashier did tell me, “You have a nice face.” I suppose I’ll take what I can get.
We woke up early the next day, and were thrilled to find that the sun was shining. The weather had been poor the past week, so we took the opportunity to venture over to Copacabana, where we lolled around in the sun and headed into the water to let the waves crash over us. Copacabana was once the jewel of Rio, home of the rich and famous, the loveliest beach and the most coveted properties. That title has since passed to Ipanema, as Copacabana fell into a bit of a decline a few decades ago. The crescent-shaped beach of Copacabana is now a bit dirtier than the straight stretch of sand at Ipanema, and is not particularly safe at night. We had been to Ipanema a few days before, though, and thus decided to check out Copacabana this morning. As we lay on our chairs and beach towels, letting the sticky salt water evaporate off of us, we ordered açais (a-sah-ees) from a vendor. Açai is a deep purple Amazonian berry, touted as a superfruit since it is packed full of antioxidants. The fruit is typically served as a frozen, sugary smoothie, with granola and honey liberally added to the mix. A perfect beach food. We then toweled off and roamed around the city, going from Ipanema to Botafogo (two other neighborhoods in the south zone of the city), chasing blocos and jumping into the festivities. That night, at sunset, we took a cablecar up to Sugarloaf, a famed peak that looks out over the city, and then returned home and wandered around Lapa before calling it a night.
The next day was rain-filled and generally depressing. Rio is a rather sad city in the rain, and we opted to wander around the downtown area and see what we could find. The blocos continued to happen, but were a bit less spirited, as the weather put a damper on everything. We cheered ourselves up with caipirinhas (kye-pi-ree-yas)— Rio’s signature cocktail, made with sugarcane liquor, sugar and crushed limes— and hotdogs, which are served with corn, peas, mayonnaise, ketchup, potato slivers, cheese, and a quail egg. We were cheered up in short order.
By Monday, we were ready for something different. We hit up a few more blocos, but spent most of the day gearing up for that night, since we were going to the Sambodrómo, a massive, single-purpose stadium built expressly for showcasing the samba school parades. There are over 70 samba schools in Rio, all of which parade at some point during the four days of Carnaval. The schools aren’t actually institutions of learning, but are instead more like samba teams, each with its own fan club and history. The top few schools parade for 80 minutes through the Sambódromo, to a repeated, original song, with colorful, ostentatious floats and extravagantly costumed dancers. The biggest and bestest 12 schools parade on Sunday and Monday nights, and often feature up to 10 floats and 5,000 samba dancers. The schools practice, build, and compose for the 11 months preceding Carnaval, and the result is absolutely spectacular.
We arrived at the Sambódromo on Monday night at around 11 p.m., and looked for people hawking tickets. The bulk of the pre-Carnaval tickets are bought up by tour guide companies and hotels, and then resold to tourists at inflated prices. The remainders are then distributed on the streets. We had decided that we were willing to spend a maximum of 60 Reais per person (approximately $40 a ticket), and I approached a shifty looking individual who looked like he might be hawking. “How much for 3 tickets?” I asked.
“130,” he responded. I was pleasantly surprised. Only R$ 130 for the three of us? I enthusiastically agreed, and he dove into his pockets to produce three white plastic cards, each enveloped in a paper envelope labeled with a seat number and “SECTION I.” It all looked very official.
“See the envelopes? It means these are legit. Section 1 is the best,” he explained. “So, that will be R$390.” It seemed we had a miscommunication. I explained that we were willing to pay R$130 for three tickets. He looked at me, looked down at the tickets, and then shook his head. “One moment,” he said, as he once again searched through his pockets. He produced three bare black plastic cards that read “SECTION XIII”. No paper envelopes. “Section 13,” he said. “R$ 200 for all three.”
I inspected at the cards suspiciously. “Is there really a Section 13?”
“Don’t be stupid.”
“But where are the paper envelopes?”
“Don’t worry about that.”
“But you said…” I trailed off. “Are these real tickets?”
He growled. I nodded understandingly, and then conferred with the ladies. We decided to take a chance. In retrospect, I should have bargained. Or at least suggested another price. Instead, I handed the man four R$50 bills, thanked him for his time and moved on.
Section 13 did, in fact, exist, but it was a very long way from the entrance to the stadium. At one point we were walking on a highway. We eventually made it, and were glad to find that the tickets scanned properly. After wading through the crowded bleachers for a few minutes, we eventually found a narrow space where the three of us could fit. We then turned around to face the parade, and what a magnificent spectacle it was. The endless rows of extravagantly dressed dancers, moving in perfect unison to the music powered by the equally impressive drum corps moving with them, was enough to impress anyone. The gargantuan, elaborate floats that towered over the whole parade, though, put the whole affair over the top. The floats featured everything from massive, statuesque Amazonian warriors, to immense smoke-breathing dragons, to real waterfalls that poured over the scantily clad women dancers who were featured on every float. I later read in the paper that there was even a float with a snowy ski slope, that had dancers skiing down it in rhythm for the duration of one team’s parade, but we did not get to see it. As though we needed any more entertainment, there was a family from São Paulo seated next to us who had brought their young son along. He had decided to amuse himself by throwing paper airplanes into the bleachers below us, and, in his more daring moments, up the stands into the faces of those behind him. When he grew bored of this, he began blowing up condom balloons. The source of his seemingly endless supply of paper and condoms remain a mystery to me, but I do know that his presence made my evening complete.
The next day— which technically marked the end of Carnaval, as it was the Tuesday before Ash Wednesday— was mostly spent recuperating. We saw a few blocos, and took a bus up to see the Christ the Redeemer statue, but our energies were sapped. It had been a good ride. Katie and Whit returned home the following Wednesday and Friday, respectively, and I was once again left friendless and lonely in Rio. Until I went to Brazilian band camp that Saturday, but that is a story for my next post.
Until then, and much love,
Auyon
P.S. I must include a special thanks to Hattie Cobb, a fellow American residing in Rio and Carnaval veteran, who was kind enough to provide me with a guide detailing the history of the festival, bits of which I regurgitated and/or flagrantly plagiarized in the above post.
Preface:
Dear friends and family,
I must first apologize for the lateness of this message. It has been a busy three weeks, with Carnavale, a stint at Brazilian music camp, and then a visit from my parents and older brother this past week. I will be doing my best over the next few days to catch up with my posts. Until then, please enjoy this poem.
Much love,
Auyon
The Watson Fellowship
The Watson Fellowship
is when you decide,
“Tonight, I will make salmon,”
because you have never
cooked fish before
and if there is any time to try
something new
it is now.
So you buy a salmon
steak
and you lovingly chop the garlic into
tiny bits
and you slather some
olive oil
all over the fresh
pink flesh
and you put it in your little gas oven
and wait
excitedly.
But half of an hour has passed
and nothing has happened.
Your oven,
you realize,
is a piece of
shit.
Not to worry—
you are industrious,
clever,
gifted and able.
You are, in short, a
Watson Fellow.
You will panfry the little bastard.
But you do not know how
to panfry salmon,
and watch as your perfectly pink steak
is rendered brown
and inedible
by your incapable
hands.
Looks like you’re having
dried fruit
for dinner
again.
You leave the pan
unwashed
in the kitchen
and throw the fishy mess
into your trash bin,
wanting to forget,
to forgive yourself
for ruining what could have been
a lovely meal.
You walk
to your bed,
feel the cold concrete
under your bare feet.
You lay down,
exhausted.
It wasn’t that far of a walk,
since your kitchen is
technically
in your bedroom
but how
tiring
failure
can be.
You try to sleep,
the stench of poorly cooked
salmon
lingering heavily,
palpably,
invading your nostrils.
Your doze is
cut short
when you hear a rustling
in your trash bin.
There is
a cat
in your garbage.
A furry white intruder,
with brown speckles.
You did not even know
that cats could get in
through the metal grate
outside your window.
Now you know
though.
You yell obscenities
at the cat;
its presence
adds only insult to injury.
You have been wronged
by an oven,
a fish
and now,
a cat.
You feel sorry for yourself.
The cat
leaves.
The Watson Fellowship
is when you try
something new
and then your apartment
stinks
like fish
and then
you have
cats.
One of the most spectacular vistas I came across in Ireland was at the Cliffs of Moher. I remember speculating how it must have felt for the first Irish explorers to come upon the massive, mist-enveloped rock faces looming over the waters below. To not know how far the ocean extended, or what strange beasts lived in the caverns within the cliffs— the scene would have prompted an entirely magical sense of wonder. I, on the other hand, was led to the cliffs in a bus by an eccentric Irishman named Desmond who warned us not to venture too close to the edge, and made disparaging comments about the other bus-tour companies. The inevitably sterile feel of my visit, as just another tourist and sightseer, caused me to fantasize further about life when “explorer” was still a viable and socially acceptable career option. Although there are many, and decidedly more, fields of discovery that exist in the academic world today, there was something that remained singularly attractive about the prospect of setting foot on uncharted soil. I returned home from the cliffs that night feeling unfulfilled.
My galavanting around the city of Galway did not satisfy my budding urge to explore. While Galway was certainly foreign to me, the commonalities in customs, society and language made me feel very much at home. My discovery of free broadband internet at the library was a fine illustration of this sentiment. I had been paying for web time at cafés and shops for my first two months in the country, and had learned about the free library wireless through chance circumstance. Rather than being happy about my finding, I was only annoyed. I felt as though I should have known about free public internet access, and that I had discovered it so late was only a result of my ignorance. The basis of this reaction was my expectation that I would easily understand and assimilate into Irish culture, and thus any shortcomings were a source of frustration.
My arrival in Brazil quickly purged me of any presumptions regarding my ability to seamlessly integrate into the culture. It took an entire month before I could even understand what people were saying to and around me. I lived off of the advice of other English speakers, and my own limited, but expanding, understanding of my new stomping ground. Six weeks into my stay here, I discovered a supermarket in my neighborhood. I had been shopping at the tiny local grocery store, which had been a disappointment. I am a sandwich man, but the abysmal offerings at the store, where the meat smelled like cheese and the cheese smelled like fish, and the entire store stank of fish, caused me to swear off sandwiches for a good while. This supermarket I discovered, though, was a real American-style beast of a warehouse. I was ecstatic. A place where I could buy both insecticide and decent wine was a godsend. Strangely enough, there was no frustration regarding the tardiness of my finding. A lack of expectations allowed me to wallow in my own cleverness rather than care that I should have found it earlier. The library broadband in Galway was not a discovery— it was a right I had not known about in a world I understood. Rio, however, is uncharted terrain as far as I am concerned. A place where old men sit on the sidewalks in pairs with big bottles of beer and little glass cups, where hot dogs are served with peas, corn, potato slivers and a quail egg, where hardened lady-butchers don’t wear plastic gloves, and where I had no idea there was a supermarket in my neighborhood. This is my new world.
With only two months until my departure and my Turkish lessons underway, I’ve also grown pretty excited about my discoveries in Turkey. I’m specifically excited about discovering a serious Turkish massage from some mustachioed masseur in a hamam, but I’ve still got a few more months of Brazil to explore. I will keep you updated.
Much love,
Auyon
P.S. I have been informed that my blog posts of late have been ill-received by Jared Mayers, a dear friend in the more northern America. There has been a bit too much thinking and not enough doing. Next week is Carnavale, a week of drunken, saturnalian revelry. I plan on doing a day-by-day account. There will be no thinking. Get excited.
