Carnival Fail

What are you looking for from Carnival?  The question was half-heartedly asked of me a few times, always upon hearing I intended to be in Rio de Janeiro rather than, say, Olinda or Salvador de Bahia.  “If you’re looking for the Disneyland Carnival, Rio’s it.  Salvador’s where the party’s at, man…”  This downplaying of Rio isn’t entirely true, as her streets explode with (if you can find them) blocos — moving street parties that follow the path of a flatbed truck carrying a performing samba band — and the beaches saturate to uncomfortable levels.  There is definitely a party here.

Ipanema beach during Carnival

A far more significant mistake was failing to secure a spot in a hostel early on.  After months of travel, I’d taken for granted just how effortlessly hostels provide all the necessary social and advisory needs.  For just 3-15 dollars a night and the minor annoyances of thin sunken mattresses, overcrowded rooms, poor ventilation, vomit-filled sinks, people that don’t have a problem having sex directly below you on a bunk-bed, people that have a problem with you having sex directly above them on a bunk-bed and very little personal storage space, the hostel is possibly the greatest benefit to solo travelers available.

While some of the more expensive hotels I’ve stayed at down here (well, never more than a two-star…) are manned by well-dressed, clean-cut locals, the English is choppy at best and they rarely know more than a few restaurants or attractions to recommend.  Hostel employees (who generally always speak English) on the other hand tend to function as expert concierges to nearly every culinary, social, cultural, religious or hedonistic desire the fledgling tourist might require.  In most cases they’re backed by a wall of information, maps, directions and ideas.

In addition to all the inherent advice given by the hostels themselves, there’s no greater resource than other travelers.  Those on their way out after a weekend or a week bumming around a particular location are only too glad to talk about their exploits, especially quick to share any pitfalls or off-the-beaten-path locations that’d be otherwise impossible to find for someone just passing through.  The generally friendly nature of travelers makes it fairly easy to find short-term traveling partners and good company as well.

(of course there are some downsides to having hosteled in Rio for Carnival, as nearly every South American backpacker seems to be aware of this story…)

So, as I made my way each time through the living room of the beautifully furnished apartment, doing my best to be respectfully quiet and unobtrusive, I realized I might have made a slight mistake.

Compounding this was my lack of Portuguese and the rarity of casual English speakers in the loud, street-side parties we managed to track down.  Blocos are vibrant and infectious with loud, percussion-laden samba music and slow-moving crowds, but with the exception of a single interestingly successful evening, Jaimee and I failed miserably to connect with random party-goers.

With two days left to spare, Jaimee returned to the States leaving me to wander the streets striking up less conversations with locals than at nearly anywhere else since I’ve been travelings.  In my mind I’d envision a dream team of friends from Pennsylvania, New York and Maryland that would dominate the streets of this festival, creating an experience like no other.  The sad reality of it was that I was by myself, and only more and more cognizant of that fact due to being surrounded by the biggest party on earth.

Maybe it’s a classic example of experience not living up to expectation.

Eh, there were some good things.

The Sambodrome

Samba “school” is a misnomer, as they aren’t schools in any traditional sense so much as groups of samba representatives from every district in the city.  Fourteen schools spend an entire year creating their own massive army of floats and dancers — complete with an original samba song, which is played on repeat for their entire parade — to march down through the sambadrome past thousands of drunken spectators and a crowd of judges.  The sambadrome itself is unlike venues for any other type of event, measuring several city blocks — a massive amount of the city’s real estate for something apparently only used in any capacity for four days of the year.

A close-up of some of a school's performers and the elaborate suits they'e forced to spend an hour relentlessly dancing in

Primary schools (14 of them) are split between the Sunday and Monday nights of Carnival while 14 lesser schools perform on Friday and Saturday.  No one was entirely clear on what prize awaited the “lesser” schools, though common perception was that it was an opportunity to advance the following year to a primary spot, as this year’s loser gets knocked down a peg.  From about ten at night until six in the morning, each school gets about an hour to trot out thousands of dancers, four to five floats and a scantily clad queen, all dancing relentlessly down the half mile or so of the sambadrome with unwavering smiles plastered on their faces.

From piecing together common elements in the garish outfits of  the dancers and intricate designwork of each float, it’s clear that each school presents a theme of some sort that influences their entire presentation.  A float with a massive bust of Jules Verne is followed by one of a submarine pulled by giant squids, in a sea of flag-adorned dancers representing Around the World in 80 Days.  A giant roulette wheel is chased by a hundred dancers dressed as packs of cigarettes (vices?).  A focus on cars, trains, planes and boats alludes to a general theme of transportation but not much more.

Jaimee and I went on Saturday, and while we witnessed “lesser” schools, it was still one of the biggest spectacles I’ve ever seen.  The stands are divided into “sectors” and we found ourselves placed in Sector 9, which is basically a sector comprised of bleachers towards the end of the throughway.  Across the way are the more expensive sectors — private booths like small parties made up of those willing to spend a little extra to view the display.  Food and drinks here are plentiful and there’s surprisingly little price-gouging, even for mixed drinks.

From the "transportation"-themed school, this float was something of a transformer, switching from a train to, uh, a bunch of people in black dancing weirdly. Or something.

The more expensive sectors across the way. By this point in the night (or morning) they'd cleared out a bit, though we were surprised by all of those sitting on the edges, even in the higher booths.

No clue.

Who doesn't love tanks?

Just to sort of give an idea of the size of this thing...

Yeah, I'm sure this one's never been done before...

This was the beginning of the Jules Verne-themed school

20,000 Leagues Under the Sea

This group apparently has lots of Pride in America.

Each float (no matter how bizarrely conceived) had about this level of effort and detail put into it. The schools work year-round for a single night's performance.

Dancing cigarettes. There is a context for which I'm sure this makes sense.

Jaimee and me with various spinning shining things in the background

Roulette, with a boundless supply of vice-themed dancers in tow

I was celebrating something -- a school, maybe? -- by dancing with flags they had handed out. Smart move giving them to intoxicated people... It's close to five in the morning at this point and many people have already taken off.

Jaimee and me, enjoying the spectacle.

I actually have like 30 pictures with this French girl. For some reason I kept getting her to pose with me. Maybe it's because she gave me the bunny ears...

Bloco Parties

The banda, in blue and white hats, lead the bloco along

They shuffle down the street with the slow lurch of drunken zombies, heads bumping steadily to the persistent thumping of live samba music.  The parade-style parties share the same general idea as the larger sambadrome presentations, but are far more informal and open to the public to join in as the flatbed truck carrying the banda (it just means band) of musicians lumbers slowly forward.

Blocos range from small, unpublicized affairs that are little more than glorified drum circles while a crowd watches on to massive beachfront events bringing in as many as 200,000 onlookers.  There are estimated to be between three and

four hundred of these roving parties over the course of Carnival week in Rio, though only about forty of them are highly publicized.  Based on our luck in actually finding any, the publicizing is a little sloppy.

One of the smaller, less publicized blocos. We stumbled upon this one accidentally while wandering through a part of town less known for its parties.

At one point, Jaimee and I found ourselves on a nearly deserted corner at four in the afternoon on Friday, standing beneath a sign that basically translated to: “Bloco - HERE, Friday, 4 pm.”  Walking streets that are peculiarly empty for being so close to the beach during what’s heralded to be the biggest party in the world.  Crossing one of these streets, a car careens around the corner and almost plows into me without slowing as I only narrowly throw myself over it screaming an obscenity that even non-English speakers all clearly recogized.  Minutes later, in a clothing store we’d entered to find something for Jaimee, a local woman approaches me.

Beach Blanket Bloco. One of the larger ones we went to, the banda (on the slowly moving platform above) steadily moved down the sidewalk as large crowds to either side followed along.

“You speak English, right?” she asks.

“Si.”

“You have to be careful here.  We.. These drivers.  They are not nice like you.  They are not like drivers where you come from.  They always more important than people walking.  They will…hit.”

It’s true.  Never have I seen drivers with less regard for pedestrians than in Rio.

There are apparently blocos going on non-stop at some point in Rio for all of the long Carnival weekend.  Unfortunately, only a few are going on in set locations at any given time.  We begin asking passers-by and anyone that understands English for advice, getting directions from knowledgable-looking people that appear to mean well, though after walking upward of ten blocks in the random directions the point, fruitlessly, aren’t of much help.

A few days in and we start to grasp how things work.  Pete had tried to hook me up with one of his friends down here, who’d emailed me a list of bloco locations that actually got us to a few as they were going on.  The friend would’ve been a great resource, except that his phone died the first night of Carnival and his bloco email was the last I heard from him until after I’d left Brazil.

So… Carnival.  Interesting?  Sure.  Fun?  At times.  Did I do it right?  Oh hell no!