Carnival in Rio

 

This time of year, in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil,  excitement builds in anticipation of the start of carnival. The annual event is huge, and world famous. Visitors from across the globe flock to witness parades in the sambadrome, the venue built especially for the samba parades. The samba groups prepare all year long for one night of show and an opportunity to be listed among the best. The events begin on a Thursday night with novice groups, culminating on Saturday and Sunday night with the best groups—winners from previous years. The samba schools that comprise the groups number in the thousands, so that in one evening, over fifty thousand costumed people, walking, singing, dancing or on fabulous decorated floats, will have paraded.

 

The Sunday night that I went, I took the subway from my hotel, and it was packed. When I arrived near the sambadrome, I walked with the stream of people through the street until I arrived at the gates and was directed to my section. I had paid a high sum to be seated close to the action. Inside, the crowd swelled until about 8:30 PM, when the first group began their long march down the avenue, under the floodlights, amidst blaring samba music. The march starts at one end of the sambadrome, and finishes about ¼ mile at the other end. I was near the end . . . a good vantage point.

All night, the groups flowed past and orgasmic throbbing never stopped. The happiness level was at a high pitch. In fact, the groups are judged partly for the enthusiasm they display, as well as for creativity, skill and artistry. I took hundreds of pictures until dawn, when my camera battery died. The parades were not done, but after ten hours of witnessing the spectacle to end all spectacles, I had my fill.



Enjoy this:  My Carnival show on YouTube

Home Is In My Heart

When I travel for extended periods I become homeless and a true wanderer. I begin by abandoning my home, selling off possessions, and then storing in my studio what little remains. When I eventually arrive back in Santa Fe, I only have my studio to go to. The studio is an open space with four concrete walls and a bathroom. It holds my paintings, art materials, easel, a desk with a computer and my large format printer. If I had to, I could sleep there, but it has no shower or kitchen.

I am not a fretful person, nor fearful, so the prospect of not having a place to live is simply part of the ever-unfolding DREAM, and I trust in it to give me what I need.

My former wife Jean opened her home to me when I arrived after my long drive from California. I only needed to stay one night. Going to the Internet site Craigslist, I found a furnished guesthouse, and after a short visit there, rented it and moved in the same day. It is on a property in an expensive district of Santa Fe, next to a large home that is used only part time by absent landlords. I have great quiet, and although my casita is a bit small, I am more or less content for the time being.

Yesterday evening, the Baha’i community around the world celebrated the advent of Naw-Ruz, the first day of the Bahá'í calendar occurring on the vernal equinox, March 21. The New Year also ends the Bahá'í month of fasting, so the celebration is often combined with a dinner. When I was at our local celebration, a friend turned to me and asked “Is it good to be home?” As I looked into her lovely eyes, full of inquisitiveness, I said, “I am always at home—home is in my heart. Looking into your beautiful eyes in this perfect moment is where I live and love. And this “home” for me, is everywhere.” In truth, I have had countless feelings of being “home” all around the world.

Snow fell the first night I spent in my casita—quite a shock after picking oranges in my parent’s backyard just a few days ago.

CHECK OUT MY NEW AND IMROVED VIDEO BRAZILIAN SAMBA PARADE

Mysterious Course

When at last I closed my eyes to sleep at 5AM, my last thoughts were not about the spectacular samba parade I had witnessed through the night. I could only think about the little boy I almost stumbled over while walking from the subway station to my hotel. He was alone, curled on his side, sleeping upon a piece of cardboard, with no shoes, belongings, or even a blanket. He looked about nine years old, and as dirty as his surroundings. The sight startled me and I almost stopped, but kept going without staring, ashamed that I had just come from an extravagant celebration among tens of thousands of revelers, and that I had spent lavishly for the privilege. When I arrived at my room I cried. There are many such abandoned children in Rio- they are children of the streets.

The samba parades have become such big events in Rio (see pictures), a special venue was created in their honor. The sambadrome is a glorified avenue, about quarter mile long with multi-tiered seating on both sides, holding perhaps 100,00 people. For four nights, various classes of samba groups parade through the sambadrome, starting at 9 PM and finishing at dawn. The lighting is very good, and music plays nonstop. Each group tries to outdo the others in extravagance, artistry and flamboyance, and comprises up to 5000 marchers and often, an accomanying float. The top groups are seen Sunday and Monday. I went Sunday and had a good view, which I paid handsomely for. When I left in the wee morning hours, I felt satisfied I had pictures I had come from the USA to get, and thought, okay, now if I am mugged, at least I have my carnival photos!

It rained a few days after carnival ended, and thankfully the smell of piss on the streets downtown finally washed away.

Many of the hillside neighborhoods have breathtaking views. For about 40 cents, a tram takes you on a winding course between downtown and a fun enclave above the city center, called Saint Theresa. I went there on a balmy evening, and briefly left the beaten track of galleries and bistros. A wall with exceptionally good grafitti caught my eye, so I chanced leaving the main street and began descending a broad flight stairs. A black woman with a flowing, gauzy dress cut high on one leg was climbing toward me. When she arrived beside me, I smiled and motioned to take her picture. She laughed and posed, waving her fan and dancing. Our tango lasted but a moment and then we gave each other thumbs up and turned to go. But she stopped and halted me, wagging a finger with a frown, pointing to the steps below. I motioned to the wall a few steps away, to satisfy her that I was not going into the dangerous favela.

I have thought of returning to Rio De Janeiro someday to do portraits. The people are colorful and I enjoy looking at them. Their features range from fair skinned and blonde to black- some with wavy hair and occasionally green or blue eyes. Many of the blacks have a fine blonde hair on their legs and arms. Everyone, black and white, have tan lines from being at the beaches.

The guys at the computer shop did not fix my laptop. This, after I waited an extra four days! "Because of carnival," they explained. So I will try to get it fixed in Buenos Aires where I arrive Sunday. I miss my computer! I have over 600 photos now, and want to work with them, among other projects. My frustration pales when I think of the children living on the streets. They are in THE DREAM and so am I . . . it has its own mysterious course it follows.

This is my 200th blog. They can all be found at My Fairy-Tale Life. They feed automatically to my facebook page.