Arriving in Rio for Carnaval with little expectations, but thinking I am ready to face the craziest event of the year. All I knew of the district was going to stay with Airbnb was that according to the famous poet Vinicius de Moraes Ipanema girls are pretty; while I thought Copacabana was a red light district.
Carioca (people from Rio) and tourists alike spend the days before the kickoff of Carnaval on the beach, trying to relax in between the shouts and temptations of the vendors. Cerveja, mate limão (a ice cold natural energy drink which I was later told never to drink since it’s made with tap water in most cases), caipirinha, grilled camarão or queijo, sanduíche natural, açaí, biscoitos... these are some of the favourite goodies sold through loud shouts on the beach. I was the only one selling a commodity that isn’t enjoyed though your mouth and who was asking donation-based payment. On my first day in Copacabana I made 30 Euros in 75 minutes massaging tourists. The second day only 10 since it was the owners of the barraca sheds renting chairs, opening cold coconuts and making caipi all day who’s back needed some care.
The insane gauchos I was sharing the apartment with took me on a trilha- hiking to pedra bonita in the national park of Tijuca. They decided to call uber to get us to the start of the trail, which ended up taking us almost all the way to the scenic spot where hand and paragliders throw themselves into the mist. We watched the excited tourists getting ready for the jump of their lives, and the fit instructors helping them at what must be one of the coolest jobs ever…
On the walk down we found a path to the actual peak, but team was too lazy. Back on the beach, I thought I might work a bit and found a group of stoned and good-looking cariocas who loved the massages and payed in hugs, saying that something must be free in this world. Sure, that must be a gringo massage at posto 9 sunset!
The evening I joined my housemates in Nova Gávea instead of meeting the presumptuous Cariocas, so I got to dance to the amazing, jazzy-dub of Manontroppo, and to argue with drunk people on the value of conversations about the past, since I had had enough of Bruno going around telling people about stuff I’ve done and way’s I’ve acted coz he thinks I am so crazy. Carnival proved him to be way more insane than Clarissa-good-girl, but that’s just my point of view.
Sexta-feria de Carnaval, or Friday 5th I went to my first bloaquino de Carnaval, up the endless steps to the picturesque hilly district of Santa Teresa. Carnaval hit me hard- I found myself in a sea of ecstatic drunk people wearing colourful plastic items, the air thick of sweat, weed and smoke from the floats. I had decided to strike from the cans of Antartica beer and Skol Beats (chemical canned cocktail), I bought a cheap homemade caipirinha sorbet called Sacolè. Soon I got to discover that the favourite activity during carnival isn’t much dancing or watching floats go by, but making out with random people. Everyone throws their lips around everyone’s faces, and if you hesitate to accept the kiss, all the people around you start chorusing “beijo, beijo”… it’s like going out to clubs when you are 15.
I lost my group a bit voluntarily since I got bored of waiting around for each person to satisfy their restless thirst by negotiating with the countless street vendors. I found it much more entertaining to run around among the crowd, dancing with the massive orchestra of tambores, stand on the wall to get some air, watch the crowd and admire the old buildings… I met Rodrigo, a charming Carioca who cured my scepticism towards the gatinhos of this city, as well as the concept of street tags. We sat at a bar to rest and discuss art, photography, permaculture… I don’t even know but it was refreshing in many ways. The night had fallen over the hillside when I sadly lost him in the crowd; I got adopted by Gabi, a Bahiana (from Bahia) young mother who was partying with her son and this chick he was in the process of scoring. We all walked down the Santa Teresa hill to hit the centre of the ordinary people’s Carnaval, at the Lapa arches.
Sabado do Carnaval the Gaúchos (folks from Porto Alegre) hit Nova Gávea for a allegedly more trendy bloquinho... water sprinkled from the balconies of the large houses, but the air stayed quite unbreathable at times. By the time we reached Ipanema for the evening carnival session, all I wanted to do was throw myself in the sea and fall asleep on the beach… But I ended up making friends with a crazy crew of Paulistas (folks from Sao Paolo) who took acid like I munch on cereals.
So Camilla and I found ourselves in agreement when we shared our intention of spending the Sunday away from Carnival… we found no sand on the beach, just drunken flesh. So we hit the tourist track and went hunting for some Rio attractions. Some peace and quiet in the military fortress of Copacabana, some good vibes sitting on the Escalera de Selarón and some spaced dancing with transsexuals at Arco do Telles felt good.
I was glad when the moment came to leave the hectic city and its insane celebrations, happy to have experienced it like the locals- although my avoidance of synthetic drugs kept me from attending the street parades alldayeverydayforanentireweek the REAL brasilian way! I had imagined the carnival as everyone sees it on TV, with the massive floats trailing women full of feathers… I discovered this is seen just on TV by most Cariocas too. On my bus to the terminal I got to check out the plastic vehicles decorated with golden bulls, fake palm trees and fast asleep workers as they were being pulled out of the sambodromo to get entirely re-invented for next year.
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