I was very glad to arrive in Salvador, for more than merely carnival-related reasons, after a hair-raising 800km career across potholed one-lane highways. During the journey I confirmed with the help of my trusty Portuguese dictionary that Brazilians have no phrase for 'tail-gating'. Or for 'blind bend' (see: Overtaking On A). Or, indeed, for 'death wish'. This is rather like the British not having a phrase for 'getting drunk'.
However, two million people somehow arrive in Salvador to line the streets for Carnaval, and only the people looking down from the camarotes (raised viewing cabins) are here as spectators. The rest have come to dance, to sing, to drink and kiss, and occasionally to fight. The streets fill up more the closer you get to the circuits, with makeshift beer and barbecue stalls dotted everywhere and groups of happy, excited people merging into the joyful chaos of the big avenidas.
The excitement reaches its height as the best groups come by on the most popular floats and the pounding beats of the biggest songs begin. Down among the pipoca (literally, popcorn), as the crowds are so appositely known, I am reminded of something I once read about locusts. Apparently, in the right conditions, they hatch out in their millions and the heat and the constant stimulation of overcrowding, having to climb over and around and on top of each other, causes them to mutate from small, drab, olive-green creatures into an oversized swarm of bright, sharp orange.
With the singers yelling above the music and whipping up the crowds as the chorus builds, the individually swaying and samba-ing dancers seem to merge, with the heat and the overcrowding, into great swelling waves of people leaping into the air and waving their arms, shouting along in unthinking, giddy euphoria. I thought I remembered what it was like to be in the middle of all this, but it can only really be physically felt. Oh, it's so breathtakingly mental. I’d picked up some of the words from the girls, and even four days later writing this, I can still hear ‘Quebra-ai, quebra-ai, olho o Aza ai!’ being belted out a hundred thousand strong, and it’s still making me smile.
Mind you, being a lowly street reveller has its problems. Every building along the main avenue is boarded up at the front, and there’s a severe lack of Portaloos. As always, this isn’t as much of a problem for the men, who then add insult to injury by leaving the pavements streaming with rankness. *stamps foot* It’s SO UNFAIR! And as I left the girls in order to fight my way through the crowds at a snail’s pace, looking everywhere for even the smallest corner to crouch in (believe me, I wasn't fussy after a while), things were starting to get desperate.
Right, I thought, f*ck this. There have to be some advantages to being linguistically marooned. I went up to the nearest boarded-up apartment block and told the security guard in English that I was a friend of Ana Paula’s and she’d said I could come in. Obviously, during Carnaval the avenue flats are busy with parties and so on, and I was hoping at best to be directed to the ground-floor toilets that most blocks have, or at worst, be told to sod off. The security guard asked me a few questions in Portuguese which I pretended not to understand, including whether I meant the Ana Paula on the third floor. Bingo! I smiled and repeated ‘Yes! Ana Paula!’, and the poor guy, clearly at a loss, wisely passed the buck by calling over a resident who allegedly spoke English.
This guy spoke our dear language badly enough that by replying enthusiastically and at length to everything he said, I confused him sufficiently to say he’d take me up to Ana Paula’s flat. Naturally, he didn't wish to admit that he hadn't a scooby doo what I was on about, especially in front of the lowly security guard . Going up the stairs allowed me time to ask myself what on earth I thought I was doing, and also to agree with him that, yes, I was indeed Ana’s friend Carol. This momentarily appeared to have badly backfired when Ana’s friend Carol answered the door, but thank Beelzebub and all his devils, Ana was unable to say she'd never set eyes on me before, as she was out. My rather bemused namesake pointed me to the bathroom, where the utter, sweet relief now left room to feel rather bad about taking advantage of everyone’s good nature.
However, sisters, we must not fear collateral damage when duty calls us to take a stand against yet another example of ruthless phallocentric oppression. Protesting against which, incidentally, was obviously my main motivation for this selfless deed. Nay, let it never be whispered that I allowed a couple of sheets of bog-roll to stand in the way of the Glorious Wimminstruggle. Every little helps, eh? Hasta la victoria siempre!
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