Crazival

Facts. Facts are fun. Facts are the currency of truth, traded as hard cash in a world of disputable observations. One seemingly undeniable tome of facts, the Guinness Book of World Records, has consistently maintained Salvador’s preeminent status—its number one position as biggest street party in the world. Imagine five million people running amuck in a swarming mass of sweat on skin, letting loose with wild abandon, dancing, bobbing, a landmark of such a sufficient size it is likely visible from space. Believe me when I say, the heat alone of those bodies could rival that of the sun, at least in intensity or zeal. For those of northern blood, it is more than surreal, something God probably shakes his head in wonder at. Call it sensory overload at its most human. And it must be experienced, at least once, in a given life time.

Let me attempt to describe it for you.

Porto da Barra – O something hundred or anothor hours – Bahia, Brazil.

It is dark. The hot Bahian sun has dipped somewhere over the distant horizon. The city is beginning to take over the night with lights of its own, flooding the street with hues of hazy acrylic. The shadows of cement electricity poles move in waves above the street as taxis, busses, and buzzy one cylinder motorcycles dance across their path. Traffic has breached and flooded its boundaries, spilling in steady moving lines to the official point of commencement, the beach front streets that line the Salvador bay. People vibrate in anticipation, drinking heavy cocktails of beer, and vodka, and red bull—anything to intensify the heat of their own civic fire.

Get out. Step out of the car. People are everywhere. The music hasn’t even started to play, and yet the city dances. Masked men and women in all manner of dress enter stage left. To the right, colorful t-shirts swirl in mass moving down the street to the beach front and initial staging point of the picture show. The scale of this movement – little points of light eating, running, talking on the phone, uncountable in its activity – robs the mind of control. That inner desire to organize, so human in its subsistence, all but flutters away, driving one to another state—one more akin to liberation, and the true acknowledgment of the world as chaos. It is a scary yet awe inspiring place to be.

From one end of the port to the other, massive semi-trailers line the street, belching out heat and fumes and noise. Thousands of watts of sound equipment sit like ancient columns built ten feet tall on their side, and on top bands prepare to play. Drums, keyboards, guitars, microphones, all are switched on, tested, tuned, and readied. Singers drink cold water, cooling their own vocal aspirations, ready to excite the crowd. Behind these trailers, large areas are roped off for the paying patrons, those people who can afford to follow the heavily armed vehicles as they pass down the road.

Look. Stirring, stirring masses.

The crowd drones in anticipation. People bob in and out of reality, swirling with thoughts of alegria (happiness) as the booze begins to kick in. Before anyone is truly ready…..buuuutat. Bu tat to tat to tat. The drums explode! Announcers come on and greet the crowd. Everyone cheers and the massive pile begins to churn and move languidly down the road. Breathing room and personal space mix, and thousands upon thousands of people begin to share their sweat and their voices.

Quick, grab a beer. Avoid loosing money to a robber or the street (I lost 100 reis, grrr!). Watch and listen. The queen bee stirs from her pedestal, grabbing the microphone and smiling. She will lead the way. One foot, one foot, then the other. She sings, everyone cries, steps on and follows forward. She will lead the way.

The semi-trailers of sound belch ahead. The heat of the equipment mixes with the hot summer air, creating a rolling mass of steam that lurches down the street. People begin to dance, really dance, swirling in red and green and blue patterns. Men grab women, women grab men, men grab men, women grab women, few barriers remain for those who want to breathe and to kiss and to love. To the side of the paved avenue, vendors sell roasting meat, beer, and water, hoping to make a quick buck in this so called season of madness.

And mad it truly is.

As the rain starts to pour, a thick torrent from the sky, the city continues to buzz, an up hill crescendo with little break for climax. Water runs down the street in heavy swathes, dirtied from the mass of trash, and piss, and sweat. Everything is wet, and dirty, full of elasticity and passion, a picturesque and undeniable portrayal of the Brazilian soul.

All night the kings and queens parade. People spin until their feet are full of pain, until their energy is utterly spent and they can dance no more. So much light, so much sensation, it saturates all. The morning slowly comes, and the streets begin to empty. Only in daylight hour are the revelers forced to desert, and many with regret that the dawn has already come.

You. Well you are unreservedly tired. You have climbed a mountain, wish for rest, wish to sit in your tent at the base camp of Everest and never see a mountain again.

For the brasileiros, there are still six days of Carnival yet to rise.

Ayda and me pre madness. Yes, somehow I was convinced to

go as Popeye (the sailor man). Twas fun, aside from the fact that I

ended up being dragged to the gay bloco, and the costume

ended up being more of a liability than a asset. Oh, well.

Grrrrrr. Sailor tattoos. Grrrrrr.

Despite my best efforts not to let this happen, happen it did.

Burning under the sun is rather unavoidable here, especially when

you are a white boy like me.

Go Gringo Go!