CARNIVAL..... OR NOT
Who has not heard of Brazilian carnival celebrations, with sweeping samba music played by dozens of drummers and dancers who, paradoxically, show lots of human flesh and lots of glittering costumes simultaneously. Since I was in Brazil in mid-February, I decided I should witness at least something of the country's carnival. Rio de Janeiro was out of the question: too far and thus too expensive; too crowded and thus too dangerous.
Early February I started watching some practices. In Curitiba, Paraná state, a couple of public squares were used for drumming / percussion orchestras to rehearse. Twice on a late afternoon, I was attracted by the many decibels and had no trouble finding the centre of the action. There was no melody; just rhythms. Half of that crowd seemed to pretend to be dressed with the idea of emphasizing their carnival mood, but their efforts usually did not go further than one silly hat or one conspicuous T-shirt, or maybe simply some colourful facial decorations - nothing as impressive as TV coverage of carnival in Brazilian Rio or Italian Venice.
Looking around I noticed that the maximum age of most crowd members had to be about a third of my own age. It painfully stressed my position as the outsider even more than my status as a tourist.
The rehearsal did not seem very serious, as the loud drumming stopped and started without a clear pattern. The rhythms changed from time to time, sometimes with a few minutes of a quiet non-playing interval, but who conducted all the drumming was unclear in the mass of people surrounding the performers.
More interesting was the rehearsal that a samba school had in a nearby modern theatre. Most of the percussionists were even dressed in the samba school T-shirts of red and blue. The performance of one long piece conducted by their leader kept me spellbound. Their next number was a song, for which some musicians, singers, and dancers joined. I was fascinated by how fast the high-heeled dancers moved their feet for the samba steps. Those were at least 5 times as fast as in my Vancouver zumba class! The rehearsal was a glamourous spectacle, and I felt sorry that I could not see it during the official carnival parade in Curitiba.
In Florianópolis I missed all those practice parades but could attend the events of one of the four carnival dates. I did not want to miss this one and only opportunity. I arrived around 4 pm, much too early, when the number of beer vendors still equalled the number of spectators. At the stage in the distance, some ear-splitting electronic music was already being played, while images of advertisements were flashing on the screen behind. I regretted not having packed any earplugs for the deafening, inane music. Where were the happy samba rhythms that I had expected?
The place had a deliberately visual presence of the police, all decked in protective clothing showing belts with guns, and all twirling their black batons that were dangling along their legs. Hmmm, did they foresee any trouble? Or was I myself in trouble? There were also plenty of other security personnel. One of the security guys told me that the show would start in two hours. Finding a spot slightly further away from the hellish loudspeakers I sat down patiently on the curb. Watching the steadily growing crowd I noticed again that most of them were millennials. Many seemed to like the ear-piercing electronic music. Again, I was not impressed by their carnival outfits. Was that all? Couldn't you have found some better costumes, nicer make-up, funnier props, sweetie?
The quickly accumulating level of alcohol inside rather than outside human skin made the police decide to do a few ostentatious rounds in the crowd. The following day I heard that there actually had been violence later in the evening. But I myself had run out of patience after about three hours when there was still no sign of the start of a show half an hour after its scheduled beginning. I had had enough. I got up and carefully pushed my way through the increasingly inebriated throngs of predominantly teenagers. I wanted to leave the ear-shattering electronic thumping of boring music and the rising alcohol levels behind. Also, I had some uncomfortable doubts about that upcoming "show". It appeared to be some "gay" show, with a contest attached, as I discovered while waiting at the curb. My imagination conjured up something offensive, something ugly, far removed from "Gay Pride". I didn't want to find out if the show was closer to a homophobic "Gay Joke" or "Gay Ridicule". Enough: no show for me. Time to go. Missed carnival again.
Who has not heard of Brazilian carnival celebrations, with sweeping samba music played by dozens of drummers and dancers who, paradoxically, show lots of human flesh and lots of glittering costumes simultaneously. Since I was in Brazil in mid-February, I decided I should witness at least something of the country's carnival. Rio de Janeiro was out of the question: too far and thus too expensive; too crowded and thus too dangerous.
Early February I started watching some practices. In Curitiba, Paraná state, a couple of public squares were used for drumming / percussion orchestras to rehearse. Twice on a late afternoon, I was attracted by the many decibels and had no trouble finding the centre of the action. There was no melody; just rhythms. Half of that crowd seemed to pretend to be dressed with the idea of emphasizing their carnival mood, but their efforts usually did not go further than one silly hat or one conspicuous T-shirt, or maybe simply some colourful facial decorations - nothing as impressive as TV coverage of carnival in Brazilian Rio or Italian Venice.
Looking around I noticed that the maximum age of most crowd members had to be about a third of my own age. It painfully stressed my position as the outsider even more than my status as a tourist.
The rehearsal did not seem very serious, as the loud drumming stopped and started without a clear pattern. The rhythms changed from time to time, sometimes with a few minutes of a quiet non-playing interval, but who conducted all the drumming was unclear in the mass of people surrounding the performers.
More interesting was the rehearsal that a samba school had in a nearby modern theatre. Most of the percussionists were even dressed in the samba school T-shirts of red and blue. The performance of one long piece conducted by their leader kept me spellbound. Their next number was a song, for which some musicians, singers, and dancers joined. I was fascinated by how fast the high-heeled dancers moved their feet for the samba steps. Those were at least 5 times as fast as in my Vancouver zumba class! The rehearsal was a glamourous spectacle, and I felt sorry that I could not see it during the official carnival parade in Curitiba.
In Florianópolis I missed all those practice parades but could attend the events of one of the four carnival dates. I did not want to miss this one and only opportunity. I arrived around 4 pm, much too early, when the number of beer vendors still equalled the number of spectators. At the stage in the distance, some ear-splitting electronic music was already being played, while images of advertisements were flashing on the screen behind. I regretted not having packed any earplugs for the deafening, inane music. Where were the happy samba rhythms that I had expected?
The place had a deliberately visual presence of the police, all decked in protective clothing showing belts with guns, and all twirling their black batons that were dangling along their legs. Hmmm, did they foresee any trouble? Or was I myself in trouble? There were also plenty of other security personnel. One of the security guys told me that the show would start in two hours. Finding a spot slightly further away from the hellish loudspeakers I sat down patiently on the curb. Watching the steadily growing crowd I noticed again that most of them were millennials. Many seemed to like the ear-piercing electronic music. Again, I was not impressed by their carnival outfits. Was that all? Couldn't you have found some better costumes, nicer make-up, funnier props, sweetie?
The quickly accumulating level of alcohol inside rather than outside human skin made the police decide to do a few ostentatious rounds in the crowd. The following day I heard that there actually had been violence later in the evening. But I myself had run out of patience after about three hours when there was still no sign of the start of a show half an hour after its scheduled beginning. I had had enough. I got up and carefully pushed my way through the increasingly inebriated throngs of predominantly teenagers. I wanted to leave the ear-shattering electronic thumping of boring music and the rising alcohol levels behind. Also, I had some uncomfortable doubts about that upcoming "show". It appeared to be some "gay" show, with a contest attached, as I discovered while waiting at the curb. My imagination conjured up something offensive, something ugly, far removed from "Gay Pride". I didn't want to find out if the show was closer to a homophobic "Gay Joke" or "Gay Ridicule". Enough: no show for me. Time to go. Missed carnival again.
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