Later that night I was back dancing in Beribe. The crowd was even thicker this time and as a precaution against having another t-shirt ruined I wore only my shorts and sandals. No sooner had we squeezed our way into the square then I was attacked by a group of girls who covered me in head to toe in spray snow. Every time I thought I had lost them in the crowd they would pop up, spray me with snow, pour flour over me, and then melt back into the crowd. Once again I thought: this is carnaval and I love it.
Just as I was losing myself to the music again, Death tapped me on the shoulder – complete with white face paint and scythe. I started to splutter an explanation of why I had drunk that last bottle of cachaca last night and how I would definitely cut down my consumption in the future, when I realised that I was actually standing on his cloak and he couldn’t move. He smiled as I freed him and gave me a knowing look “ate logo” (see you soon). He was soon moving easily though the crowd to meet up with a dozen other grim reapers and four dozen priests were busily getting slightly hammered on cachaca.
Squashed as I was in front of the stage I had no choice but to dance. If I had been able to look around I would have seen men dressed as women, woman dressed as babies, one group of men dressed as nuns, one group of women dressed as go go dancers, another group wearing cloaks and masks from the movie “Scream”, the odd bare breast and everything in between. I guess there must have been more than about 120,000 people jammed into the square.
Once again there were a few small fights throughout the night, but considering the number of people, the amount of alcohol consumed and the sheer energy of the music I was greatly impressed with how trouble free the night was. I will always treasure the memory of the six burly security guards carrying a screaming and kicking mountain of a man, dressed in a frilly dress, shoulder high through the crowds.
Later that night as we made our way home I chatted to some other sweaty, bruised and slightly drunken revellers. In between singing and declaring their undying love for my country, which is the opposite of what normally happens, they explained why carnaval is so important, especially here in the northeast. They told me that it was a festival that everyone, regardless of social standing or wealth could participate in. Covered by the anonymity of carnaval, working class, businessmen, judges and maids dance together. With new identities, modelled by a costume, all of them reign for a while. It seemed the most accurate image of carnaval I had heard so far.
We had almost fought our way back to the car when I caught a grubby little child with his hand in my pocket. Clearly he wasn’t a professional pickpocket as instead of screaming blue murder and blaming everyone standing around him he just looked miserably at me with sorrowful eyes. He told me he wasn’t trying to rob me, which would have been difficult as I had no money anyway, but he wanted my empty beer can, which like a good civic minded person I had stuffed in my pocket until I came to a garbage can. To authenticate this story he pointed towards a huge sack of cans which he was dragging behind him. I willingly gave him my empty can and he explained to me that during the four days of carnaval he would work collecting cans more or less continuously and the money earned from this allow him perhaps to buy school books or some food for his family.
This, I thought, is also carnaval.
By the time I got home a few days later I hardly recognised the person who stared back at me from the mirror. My bloodshot eyes, my stubbled chin and the remnants of a bag of flour in my hair gave me the look of a wild man.
I hobbled on bruised feet (the result of some excessive bouncing on the part of a rather over zealous and overweight girl) to my bed. It had been so long since I last slept that I was vaguely worried if I still remembered how. I lay quietly trying to find sleep, humming a song about cachaca.
In all honesty I was none the wiser in understanding carnaval. I had been there, of that I was sure, but had I really understood all that I had seen? My final thoughts as sleep finally claimed me was to find when next year’s carnaval is going to be.
Perhaps, then I will finally understand.
About the Author
The author grew up in London and left at the earliest opportunity for a glittering career in Asia. After failing miserably to adapt his Japanese colleagues to an English sense of humour he took off for sunnier climes.
He currently lives, and is rumoured, works in the NE of Brazil. He has travelled extensively, mostly using other people’s money – of which he is absurdly proud. He is a regular contributor to this, and other esteemed travel magazines. He is always happy to receive letters from readers and will personally reply to all. He may be contacted at: philip@dem.ufc.br
Read all five parts of the adventure:
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
