Ben Burford: June 2008 Archives

The Rio Holiday information had said that Niterói had several good restaurants, and that they were right down the hill from Mirante de São Francisco. It was not only correct, it was CORRECT.

We had asked Marcelo that day where we should eat before Carnaval. He indicated several good choices, briefly describing each. We decided on Paludo because it was deemed as a family restaurant with a good variety, but not too fancy, and it would not be as time-consuming as some of the more elegant choices. We told Marcelo what we had decided, and he replied with "the look" and another expression of his that I particularly loved, "Ees very good." We believed him, of course, because he wasn't just some guy trying to find us a restaurant. He was our pal, and knew what for. Besides, I had already transferred Carol's proxy to him. He was duty bound.

Paludo fronts the beach, like all the other restaurants we tried on our stay. It was a very lively scene, with scores of friendly folks milling around everywhere. Were it not for the air thick with unfamiliar words, we could have been in any cool beach town in the US. But the similarity ended there.

The schtick at Paludo is very simple. You select your meal from an incredible array of foods buffet style, and then you are charged for the weight of your plate. Cool!  And when I say "buffet style," I don't mean a metal rail, your tray, and a lineup of hairnetted women named Pearline and Maudie asking, "Serve you please?"
 
Not at all. The food is presented in a maze of goodness. All the offerings are under sneeze glass, and the serving tables are arranged in a serpentine fashion that offered more and more interesting choices each time you turned a corner. I suppose a very smart, thrifty, fat person could really maximize his portion if he knew the average weight of the stuff there. I would think that shrimp would be lighter than, say, beef. Don't think for a minute that I didn't consider these things. "Matzoh ball? No thanks. I think I'll have this lobster mousse."

The place was really good, elegant design for a "family" restaurant, though I did see several kids. It was on two levels, with a glass front wall, so there were beach views from the top floor, which we chose. We asked Marcelo to eat with us, but he politely declined, saying he was going to sit in the bar. We told him not to get too drunk, and he promised to behave.

Our food was delicious, and the seating was nice. I had felt better during the day, but was still feeling kinda weeeennnh. Nevertheless, I managed to eat most everything I put on my plate, and had beer and coffee. I guess that doesn't really describe somebody that feels kinda weeeennnh, and in retrospect, it might have been slight anxiety about the hurdles required for a successful Carnaval experience. I had my camera, of course. We had all decided that at the price of tickets, there probably wouldn't be any camera snatchers running around. And in a packed bleacher, no neer-do-well was gonna go anywhere fast.

While we ate, the big-screen TV on the wall next to us was playing what we decided was a Carnaval-based soap opera. I'm not kidding. This Brazilian drama was replete with über-hot bodies and slick, tanned skin, flashy costumes, and intercut with what I assume was actual footage of a past Carnaval. I still didn't totally get the concept of Rio's Carnaval, having only the crazy Salvador experience under my belt.

I may be dreaming this, but I think Marcelo sent us over a dessert, or bought our dessert or something? Maybe not. I don't know. Maybe I'm getting it mixed up with the time we had to drag him drunk out of a bar and throw him in the back with the propane tank. Or did I dream that? I didn't know what was real anymore, with the Carnaval soap opera, the acidophilus and all.

We were off to O Sambódromo (the Sambadrome)!


Early intelligence had said that the Sambódromo was in a sketchy part of town, and to be very careful of everything. I guess the grab-and-dash gag would be the thing to watch out for most of all when you were outside going in. Marcelo let us off right by a gate, and told us to call him when we were 30 minutes from being ready at the same place. He had given Jean his cell phone number earlier, and all ducks were in a row. Our tickets included some kind of magnetic swipe card, and something we wore around our necks to get through the various check-points to Carnaval. I had my camera in duffel position 1 and clutched to my chest like a baby as we threaded our way over mud puddles spanned by boards, through crowds of people not only in plain dress, but an extremely sweaty contingent wearing elaborate costumes in various stages of removal. Here's where the photographer with the balls gets the great shots. Not Ben Burford. "Waaaaahhhh!!! Waaaahhhh!! Noooo! Don't touch my camera!!! Waaaaahhhh!!!" Robo, meanwhile, had the temerity to take his little bitty video camera out and get a little footage. It won't happen that way next time. I'm not having missed-shot malaise ever again.

Once inside, nothing looked threatening at all, and in retrospect, it wasn't really that way outside, either, if you were in a crowd. I released my death grip on the camera and even considered getting a couple of shots before we went up. But there was nothing really interesting enough (not) to make me take that gol-durned camera out of that gol-durned duffel bag and THEN go through the other shit. I need a camera welded onto my wrist some way.

We began the trip up all the stairs to Sector 7. It was like being at Legion Field back in the day. Vendors everywhere, people milling around everywhere, concrete, steel, and stairs, stairs, and more stairs. When we reached our spot and emerged out in the open, Tijuca had just begun their show. It was a strange, yet totally familiar sight.

Good googly GOOT! The place was packed! And everything was wet from a recent shower. At least we weren't there for that. We surveyed the situation, and finally found a spot, of course halfway down an aisle. Pettus led, followed by Robo, Jean and then me. I was the caboose powered by a poor rendition of liçensa, a shortening of the expression for "excuse me."  Nobody seemed particularly bothered by us, and many returned my expectant smile immediately.

Somebody asked us if we wanted Tijuca flags, and of course we accepted them eagerly. All righty! We were here! There was no danger of any kind except possibly dying from overstimulation! Nothing but smiles and excited people. We had a few minutes to get acclimated before the parade got to us. Being in Sector 7, we were dead center, and right across from the judges!!! Yepper! They were going to be doing the maximum show when they were in front of US! Not that anybody behind us would get less, because everybody in every parade was so pumped they were about to explode. You could feel it physically, I swear.

Unidos da Tijuca (referred to as Tijuca) was coming slowly from our right. The first thing we saw, besides the blue and yellow flags that we were frantically waving, was a gigantic blue and gold peacock who would furl and unfurl its wings in time to the music that I hadn't caught onto yet, blaring tastefully and pleasingly from the speakers that lined the runway. Nice, we all thought. What kind of motor would that take, Robo and I wondered. And then we discovered that the peacock's epidermis was homo sapiens, and its feathers were controlled by same. Meu Deus!

Once we had gotten over the shock of the peacock, we were able to settle in and really look at the stuff coming next. But first, you need a primer on Rio Carnaval.

This is the Carnaval that you've seen on TV with the near-naked, feather clad women dancing in impossibly high boots. It's also so much more. There are 12 Samba Schools. Their sole existence relies on their performance at Carnaval every year. Samba Carnaval in Rio, unlike the other side parties, citywide blocos and parades, etc., takes place over two days, with an extra "parade of champions" day featuring the finalists. The first six schools parade the first day, and the other six the next day.

Each school has a music director, a costume director, and everything else to put on an eye-popping show. They are all housed in what Marcelo told us were the "shacks," big old buildings downtown that have been repurposed for fun. Every year, the schools have a theme for the parade, in addition to theme music written especially for the performance, I think. The theme song is sung by the whole school, peppered with live percussion, and repeated for the entire time the school is on the street. There is an MC who also serves as main vocalist, driving the whole song to a fever pitch for almost an hour. All the MCs I saw were gigantic, lusty black Brazilian baritones who would put Luther Vandross to a serious test.

There are various levels of participation. You can go to your samba school all year long to perfect intricate choreography, you can take a lighter schedule and do some basic moves, you can pay for your costume, know the samba step, and promise to be in the "best-of" performance should your school get there, or you can be a hot Brazilian star. If you're there strictly to samba without any preparation, you buy your costume at one of several outlets representing the schools, show up at the Sambódromo when you're supposed to, and hit the street alongside several thousand other rabid folks with the same theme song stuck in their heads. And please don't forget the 300+ costumed percussionists that are interspersed throughout each performance for maximum force of samba beat.

I don't know how much of your costume you actually get to keep, but I suspect it's only the headgear, as evidenced by the two feather-clad guys in the last section. Or maybe the school takes them up for cleaning and safekeeping should they make it to the finals.

Meanwhile, Tijuca was bringin' it on, with an instantly memorable theme song, and the subject of "things collected." Here is a cool penguin float followed by a closeup of some of the major players in Tijuca's show.

Notice the people hanging out of the camarotes. They're the private boxes that you can buy a regular old ticket for, or come to party with one of the several companies, etc. that rent them for the event. Also notice the furry blue bears and the closeup that follows: cutout belly and vents galore.
 

Tijuca continued their assault on the Sambódromo, and the floats just got wilder and wilder.
This little number here was a real eye-popper. The first half was a giant psychedelic mushroom with little elves rising from the top in rhythm.

This was followed by two 25 foot tall, bald, topless fairies. Fantastic bodies, but glitter for hair, and slightly menacing expressions. Compare their size to the operator on the ground and the people gawking from the camarotes. On the heels of the dollhouse, this was also visually thrilling and unsettling. The giant multicolored pixies were moving up and down in time to the music as well, due to the people on the float producing sympathetic vibrations, but in other cases from a hidden operator inside. I was beginning to feel the vibe of the Rio designers, and how it compared with Carnival that I'm familiar with in Mobile and New Orleans: gaudy, wild, scary, funny, mysterious, otherworldly. But Rio had them beat, hands down. This was serious, fun and fantastic entertainment.

Vila Isabel had exploded in the east with the traditional fireworks, but in tech savvy Rio of the 21st century, every parade was accompanied by the garish flashing of sponsorships on a huge digital screen. For some (smart) reason, they went for maximum overdrive on the flashing, and it blended almost comfortably with the pyrotechnics and the lineup to follow.

We also noticed a giant television camera on a track that ran the length of the parade route. During the performances the camera would zip back and forth at lightning speed. Just another cool thing to watch.

Flávia and I had become real buddies by this time (translated "several beers each"), and she began to tell me about good bars for us to visit in Rio.
"Carioca bar," she said several times. Why of course! Karaoke! I LOVE karaoke. If we got a decent buzz, maybe Marcelo could escort us to our humiliation. "Yes!" she said excitedly, seeing my enthusiasm. "Ees very good Carioca bar!"
"Karakoe? Where you sing along, right?" I asked, beginning to wonder.
"Yes! Lots of singing! Great music!" Flávia enthused. "Ees great Carioca bar. Not tourists so much!"
"?" I stared at her trying to figure this all out.
"Oh!!" she finally realized. "Not karaoke! Carioca! Locals are called Cariocas," she told me in a sentence punctuated by "uhhh." So wonderful to have a new partner to climb the Tower of Babel with.

And here they were! Vila Isabel with their show, Ossos do Oficio, a salute to the workers of Brazil, whatever kind of worker they may have been or may be. They were also intent on helping to dispel the myth of the lazy Brazilian.

If that was the case, they did it right out of the chute with two whirling dervishes that eventually slowed down enough to reveal that they were the flag couple for Vila Isabel. Being as these two can garner a lot of points, I would have to say that they were magnetic, funny and sexy in addition to being great dancers. The guy and girl had a whole Louis Prima/Keely Smith vibe about them that was very entertaining, and managed to compete easily with all the flash around them..

The first big float was a couple of winged horses with fish tails bearing psychedelic compasses. Beautiful, stately and trippy all at the same time, I erroneously dub them "Pegasus." The glow underneath was like some people put under their cars in blue or purple. I personally love it, though Jean would probably not support an expenditure for such an accessory on my Honda.

Aha! My first sighting of "the great and powerful Oz" in the belly of Pegasus 1 (or is it 2). And for a flying horse, this nag sure needs a lot of guys to push.

Being that I have no inkling what the dual Pegasi had to do with workers in Brazil, I'll now proceed with a great and valid account of what was to follow from Vila Isabel's bag of tricks.

The next float was devoted to the Amazons, the mythical female warriors of the jungle, and for whom the real Amazon is named. Amazons were purported to be women with no breasts, I think due to the fact that they would get caught in a bowstring, and no Amazon wanted her tit lopped off by a faulty shot at a male interloper. In essence, the Amazons were the first working women of Brazil. Enjoy them in all their glory, but be warned: these are just make-believe Amazons. They all have breasts. All of them.


Once again, I will remind you, these girls are play acting.

How do you reckon these girls got this cushy gig? Being delightfully half naked in a shower of cool water for the good of your samba school? For mankind? Carámba! Does that look like Hillary Swank or WHAT? Surely these girls were not warriors, but, like, fashion coordinators or enablers for the Amazons themselves. There is no other explanation.

And here's Robo and Pettus posing in front of all this pageantry. Notice how Robo's eyes are still about 30 yards in the back of his head.

This next little blast of samba-steppers represented the Amazon once the women decided to let the men in. Coordination of colors. Orderliness. Hidden agendas.

The next float represented the slaves of Brazil, exploited by the Portuguese when they first claimed the marvelous land mass for their own. These are warriors that have become ex-warriors, but still manage to persist.


He's a big one, isn't he? Notice the girls behind his arm.

The next float represented the graceful adoption of servitude to the Portuguese royalty by the Brazilians. It also represented a huge amount of enlightenment and education for the Brazilians, directly and indirectly. The direct association with royalty had an immediate effect. The cultural seeds planted by King John VI, especially when Rio was the capital of Portugal, had a major long-term impact. The fact that a whole float would be devoted to such a thing is further indication that the Brazilians are not immune to work in any fashion, and celebrate the work they have.

When Marcelo dropped us off at the Sambódromo, the deal was for us to call him on his cell phone when we were 30 minutes from ready to be picked up. He was gonna go home and sleep until we needed him. It was the only logistical stumbling block that could possibly mar our Carnaval experience, and it tried to loom in my psyche, but for some reason I wouldn't let it. The spectacle we were witnessing had driven pessimistic thoughts from my mind. There were two more schools left: Grande Rio and Beija-Flor. We decided to watch Grande Rio and call Marcelo when they were past us.

Our little spot with Flávia and Co. already felt like home. We were giddy with overstimulation, and the whole weirdness of it all. Two of her friends had left earlier to be samba-steppers in one of the parades prior, or the beginning of this one, but gol-durnit, I don't have a picture of their group, I don't think. Flávia may have told me when they came by, but I interpreted it as something else entirely. A lot of that goes on in the international party room, because you do a bunch of smiling and enthusiastic nodding, reading faces and intonations like a psychiatrist, but having no idea what is really being said.
 
Grande Rio (pronounced "Gron-jee Hee-oh") was presenting O gás do Brasil, celebrating the record-breaking natural gas deposit in Coari, part of the Amazon rainforest. They were also balancing this excitement about the energy source with environmental cautions. So we're talking energy with a conscience. It seems that the majority of Brazilians in the Samba line of work are very eco-aware. Portéla, another of the old, revered schools, dedicated their entire theme to nature and the dangers humans present to themselves through our negligence and greed.

Right out of the chute they were scientific looking and primitive at the same time. The first display was an incredible spinning dance performed by Icarus-like characters in and out of geodesic dome frames. Inside, the winged men were whirling like motorcycle hell drivers at the fair. The fluid movement of the guys flying around inside coupled with the outside movement of the bird men was perfectly choreographed, yet as wild and random-looking as nature itself.

Anything on a curvy track has always mesmerized me, and this was like watching a kaleidoscope perform before your eyes without the annoyance of having to turn the tube.

I would imagine that these particular performers didn't do a lot of drinking beforehand.

The flag couple followed. With this shot, who would know there were people inside those fluffy green and black outfits? What happens to all these feathers when it rains? Or when some galoot steps on a hank of them in an exuberant off-sides? And, yes, the first thing I wondered about what how sweat resistant these suits were.

There was a couple sitting in front of us who weren't Brazilians, but weren't Americans, either. The wife had blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, and a California tennis-bracelet-wearing look about her. The husband was older, balder and goofier looking. The entire time we were enjoying the parades, this woman, wearing a translucent raincoat like a condom, would scowl and jerk her coat and body violently to herself when any slight movement or molecule dared to invade her space. Don't think we all weren't inadvertently guilty at one time or another during the night, and imagine her horror when we descended on the row at the beginning. Jean and I got a charge out of watching her refuse to be bowled over by the excess, and refuse to stand up much of the time. We finally got clued in to the fact that they were on a cruise ship when they pulled out big folders with a picture of a boat on them and left suddenly. But not before the woman flashed all of us the tiniest of smiles. That blew my mind more than anything. Not that she missed Grande Rio's first hottie coming on the scene.

I say "hottie," but Flávia told me she was an older star in Brazil. I'm kind of picturing Ann Miller or Carol Channing here, maybe. She obviously had an inflated sense of self importance, because on our way out, we saw her with bodyguards holding hands in a ring around her, but not an iota of interest from anybody in the vicinity.

In the picture, she almost looks like she's imploring the crowd to love her. Bless her heart.

The gyroscopic orgy was not over yet. The first float was led by a flock of silver Icarus-men and featured more twirling people and enough blinding color and glow to get the point across. With the feathered riders thrown in, it became a fascinating clash of primitive, scientific, and mythical. 


Look at old silver boy above, and imagine all of these gyroscopes filled with crazily rotating doppelgängers. Woo! And look who they brought along to keep the science nerds from going completely off the deep end!

After all the primitive natural glory of the dinosaurs, Grande Rio shifted gears abruptly as if to say, "Shit! We forgot that this was the anniversary of the Japanese migration of 1908! Better put something in. Quick!"

Don't think they just whipped something up. This was a grand thing, complete with hot feathered woman and big-bellied scary whitefaced actor guy. Bonsai!


Grande Rio also seemed to be flush with feathery soloists--more any any of the other three groups we saw. This next little blonde number was energetic, sassy, and looked like the girl from next door. Provided you lived somewhere in Heaven.

And just as a fine restaurant serves a small dish of sherbet as a palate cleanser between courses (and really, what the hell is THAT all about?), G.R. erased the taste of Japan quickly with this young lady. And not by Occident, either.

Good thing, because hot on her heels was another incongruous, but necessary segment: the salute to the Portuguese Royal Family, due to the bicentennial status of their arrival and the love the Cariocas have for them and all.

The first two groups were incredibly adorned king and queen types, the women's headdresses culminating in a sizable ball that cantilevered over their heads. How they held these aloft I'll never know. Surely they worked out with neck weights during the year. This glamorous royalty did a fun little circle dance thing while the men toted torches, all under the glow of huge human street lamps. Could that be the energy tie-in? Did King John bring gas lamps to Rio? Anyone?   Anyone?   Marcelo?    Bueller?