Fat Monday in O-linda

Oxe! We’re in the home stretch of Carnival, and I’m not sure how fat this Tuesday will be for me. I’m recovering from a Fat Monday of partying, this time in the quaint colonial town of Olinda, famous for its giant puppet parades, traditional frevo dance troops, and artisan studios. In fact, last year the town was officially named the ‘Culture Capital of Brazil’ by Gilberto Gil (the country’s Minister of Culture). So buses and vans of Brazilians (and foreigners too) pour in from far and wide to participate in this cultural Carnival celebration. But after 5 minutes standing in a slice of shade at the BP station, watching the costumed throngs gather and prime themselves to enter the maze of action, I realized this was not going to be the cultural Wolf Trap-type experience I had in mind.

The feature seemed to be the cold cans of Antarctica beer for $1R (50 cents!) and stands of fresh fruit blender drinks lining the highway leading into the little village. It wasn’t quite noon, and already, the kids were getting tanked, and the temperature was approaching 100 degrees. And my little group of Joao Pessoa friends and I were waiting for something, as is customary on Planet Brazil, but I was unsure what. But I have learned it doesn’t help to ask, because the answer will only create more confusion. Better to grab a cerveka, buy a silly feathered frevo hat, and let events unfold. And eventually they did.

A guy named Jovan showed up at the BP with his silly Pernambuco hat on, and a big smile, and led us down the cobblestone streets and through the human maze, past rows of vendors selling everything imaginable - sequined hats and neon wigs, barbequed cheese on a stick, tapioca beijos, coozies with straps to keep your beer cool; and past rows of colorful colonial houses decorated with streamers and packed with people on the stairs and porches, drinking, laughing, dancing; and of course, past costumed revelers everywhere - a trio of young men wearing Pampers, another in believable FBI uniforms that made me instantly paranoid, a group of mini-mouse girls, some painted children doing acrobatic back flips on a corner; and unfortunately, past a man lying in the gutter amidst a sea of sewage and trash, trying to get cool.

This was about the time I stopped at one of the caiperinha stands for a fancy but strong goiaba-limon blender drink and downed it on the spot. This gave me the courage I needed to follow a feverish frevo band through a bottleneck of sweaty bodies, dancing to the beat as I went - the only way to get through. And soon, thankfully, we arrived at casa de Jovan, also packed with bodies, in the boiling back garden, with a boiling baby pool full of more bodies, and I headed straight for the toilet – the major amenity of that party, to be sure. The town of Olinda had not yet discovered the joys of the Port-o-Potty, so the quaint little side streets were becoming a urinal.

At the house party, I attempted to stay cool, put my feet in the pool, and have some intelligible Portuguese conversations with a few people. The men, as usual, were overly-friendly, and the women, as usual, overly-cold. And the conversations between drunken parties were even more difficult than usual. So when no one was looking, I slipped out of the house, and back onto the streets, to brave the urine smells and the sunburn, and find a band to follow. As luck would have it, I found a quiet little side street to wander up, and while gawking at the colonial architecture, and peering into some artisan shops, the party marched up to me. A sweet little troop appeared at the top of the street, decked out in their gold and black colors, and paraded by me – a full and boisterous frevo band with banners, and a colorful troop of energetic dancers, and even a float-full of waving princesses, plus a gigantic Snow White puppet her handsome prince. There energy drew me in and, mistakenly, I followed them into a feverish gay part of tow, trapped in a congestion of humanity, with no exit ramps. All I could do is go with the traffic flow, not resist it, let it push me along the parade route, around the curves and bends, and up the hill for about a half-mile. Until, gracas a deus, I found an opening onto a side ally, and I veered off.


Pretty soon, I found myself at the top of the town, in a quiet square, where there was a man selling coconuts, and a few tired musicians resting on a wall. And there, too, I discovered why they called the place Olinda. From this spot, you look out over the turquoise Atlantic, and across the skyline of Recife, a city of 3.5 million people. Olinda apparently gets its name from the Dutch colonists, who, when they first set foot on the hills of this town, exclaimed, ‘Oh, linda (beautiful)!’ Take a look for yourself at the view.

Eventually I got back on my path, winding down again through the streets, watching for landmarks, avoiding the crowds as best I could, followed my instincts, and looping back to our house. There, my group of friends, Babeta and Junior and their teenage children, were waiting nervously for me, and yelled out a cheer as I appeared at the top of the street. Where did I go? I need to be careful. It’s dangerous at there. Desculpe, desculpe. I apologized. On Planet Brazil, it’s often difficult to escape by yourself. And when you do, it’s nice to come back to safety, and to some people that are watching out for you.

Ate proximo Carnival!

Carnival Commences on Planet Brazil with Frevo Fever!

Uau! I think I finally get Carnival. Up to now it’s been just a notion – a big party where people dress up like Carmen Miranda and dance in the streets with fruit on their heads. Yes, it is that, and more. After a night at Virgens de Tambau, atop the trio electrico, now I really feel what Carnival is about - this celebration of the flesh (carne) – this final chance to commit some sins before the commencement of 40 days of Lenten abstinence. Ok, I didn’t commit any sins, but some other people did.

Carnival ‘officially’ begins tonight, and proceeds through the weekend to Ash Wednesday. But in fact, the celebrations are well underway in Joao Pessoa, and have been for the past 2 weeks! I think I’ve been to 7 festas already - pre-parties, opening galas, pre-opening rehearsals, folies de rua (street dances), a couple parades, bailes, and more. I’m worn-out already, and the party has not really begun!

Here in Joao Pessoa they hold a kind of pre-‘Carnival de Gente’ (of the people), which has more of a hometown feel, as compared to the high-profile corporate-sponsored extravaganzas of Salvador and Rio. But it’s nothing to yawn at. They have over 30 ‘blocos’ (equivalent to ‘crewes’ in New Orleans Mardi Gras), each representing a different neighborhood or community group, and each carrying it’s own theme. There’s Banho de Cheiro (bath of smells), where the members all dress in bathrobes and towels and shower caps; there’s Bloco dos Atletas (athletes) and Picole de Manga (mango ice cream); there Boi Bumba, 25 Bichos, Bloco do Castelo, Agitada Gang. And then there are the three biggies: the Virgens de Tambau, where everyone dresses in drag, and the entire city becomes inhabited by women; the Muricocas (mosquitoes) do Mirimar, the biggest bloco, with over 200,000 participants; and my favorite, Cafucu (tacky people).

These big blocos each have their own parade and festa, characterized by revelers dressed in their theme fantasies (costumes), or in the signature t-shirt of the block, marching and dancing down the main Epitacio Pessoa, 5 km to the sea. But the key to Carnival here in JP, and in other cities like Salvador, is the trio electrico. Picture an 18-wheel tractor-trailer converted into a rolling sound stage. The body or container of the truck houses the gigantic system of speakers blasting 360 of music; and the top of the container, 20 feet off the ground, above the world of revelers, becomes an elaborate stage for the band and dance troop. Here's a shot of a trombonist tuning up on top of one truck, getting ready for a big parade night.

The music they play in Joao Pessoa Carnival is frevo, a frenetic samba-esque marching band sound characteristic of the Northeast of Brazil, particularly the city of Recife. It is a strange but wonderful mix of big horns, driving snare drums, electric guitar, and saudade accordion melodies. The locals dance a bouncing, high-energy criss-cross pattern down the street, burning-off 100 calories of beer per minute. And the frevo performers twirl colorful umbrellas as they dance. (See http://cliquemusic.uol.com.br/ for more info on frevo.) My namorada sang and danced a famous frevo number called “Frevo da Cueca” (dance of the underpants), written by his uncle, in the opening night gala. See him pictured here doing the frevo moves.

I had the good luck and connections to get a seat atop one of the 7 trios electros in the Virgens parade, so I had a birds-eye view as we navigated like a ship through a sea of humanity. I saw it all from up there, and maybe more than I wanted to. . . young muscle men, popping out of skimpy sundresses they obviously borrowed from their girlfriends; formations of boys in miniskirts and baseball caps, doing popular pagode line dances alongside thumping truck; transvestites prancing in elaborate drag costumes, like Wonder Woman and Bat Girl and Miss Brazil; and yet others just letting it all hang out, like the 300-pound man dressed in only his apron. I even go to take in the smells of Carnival, coming from hot-dog, espitinho (kebab), and caiperinha vendors on the street below me, taking advantage of the throngs to make a buck. (Uncensored photos of the Vigens are being processed.

Tonight, hopefully, I am recovered enough from the Virgens and ready for Bloco Cafucu. I have my tacky tourist outfit picked out, mini-mouse glasses and all. And I’ve made friends with the queen of Cafucu, Cohenha, pictured with me here on the left, at the ‘pre-party’ costume contest and crowning last week. Now that’s a party girl if I ever saw one. And here's me with the runner-up, also a grand party diva of JP, Enda May. ----> Boas festas!

Cabedelo & Ilha Vermelha - Final Beach Entry

Oi, Amigos. This is the last of my travel-log beach entries -- for now. It's time to get real about life here on Planet Brazil - it's not only a beach. Plus, we're gearing up for Carnival, the grand festival of the FLESH, which commences this weekend in Joao Pessoa. And I figure it's my duty to provide you some insider accounts of the good, the bad, AND the ugly. So get prepared.

But in the meantime, let me give you a final taste of the bright, easy side of Brazil - the beaches of Cabadelo and Ilha Vermehla - and lots of pretty pictures too. Cabadelo is a small fishing town just north of Joao Pessoa – a 15-minute drive by car, or 50 minutes by horse cart. Because of it's expansive beaches and calm, warm waters, this poor villiage gets invaded in the summer by rich vacationing Brazilians from other parts of the state and country. They come in their mini-vans packed with beach paraphernalia, and blast their radios onto the streets, and drink all day long, leaving piles of beer bottles decorating the beach. (Hmm, sound a little like Dewey beach to you?) I try to avoid the place on weekends. But during the week, it’s low-key and inviting - and you can hang-out and watch the local kids play and enjoy at lunch at Sume Bar with the regulars.

The other day I took a drive there, bumping and bobbing on the dirt and sand backroads, and was greeted by Sume himself, the owner/chef. As usual, he was in his long white cook's coat, moving from table to table, breeting his customers and grilling them for compliments. I ordered the speciality of the house, risotto com peixe, and watched while two boys carried dripping slimy octopus fresh from the sea into the kitchen. I figured I'd be eating them soon, smothered in rice with tomatoes and plenty of garlic. Gostoso! I also sampled Sume’s “sopa de lagosta”, lobster soup, full of creamy coconut milk and tomato, and briming with chunks of lobster. Yum. I looked up from my soup for a second, to catch a glimpse of the sea before me, and watch some kids playing on a raft. Later, as the sun began to set, and I lounged under evening shade of a palm tree letting my lunch digest, I spotted a sailboat race drifting by - swatches of red and green sail, the color of peppers, against the blue sea and sky – as simple and beautiful as a child’s crayon drawing.

About a mile off the shore from Cabedelo and the beaches just north of Joao Pessoa, sits an island that only appears each day during low-tide. It’s called Ilha Vermelha (red island), because the sand, when it rises out of the green sea, is an orangy-red color. And when land appears, the recreation boats race out there, loaded with people and snorkeling equipment and coolers of beer - and the festa commences. Sometimes you find a band of musicians who have setup shop right in the water, next to their boats, like Luis and his group in the photo here, with their shakers and panderas and obligatory cans of beer. You can join in singing and samba-ing in the sand, sipping your cacasa drink from a pineapple cup. (That's me and my namorado, Cristovam, with our caiperinha smiles.) Or you take a seat in the warm coral pools that surround the island, and enjoy the scene from afar. Maravilhosa!

Praia Tabatinga - Wet-n-Wild

Sorry I’m late with this next beach-week entry. I guess I’ve been spending too much time on the beach instead of on my computer. (But Palm trees are IN, Palm Treos OUT, ta?) And while lounging this past weekend on Praia Cabadelo, yet another lovely local beach (and the hometown of the infamous Gigi), I decided I needed to extend this sun and sand feature so I can share a few more hot spots with you. But in case some of you are feeling oppressed (like me) by the constant bright sunshine, I’m taking you today to Praia Tabatinga, where it seems to rain every time I visit. These little rain spells give the place that brooding gray beach feel we get fairly often on the US East Coast. Aside from the occasional cloudy day or hour, what I love about this beach is that it's like a Wet-n-Wild water park, save the artificial wave pool and funnel cake stands.

At Tabatinga, you can take a mud bath in the argila (soft clay) that forms the Tabatinga cliffs (see first photo above); you can lounge in the sweet waters of the Maceao River (see second photo), or play in its rapids at high-tide, when the river meets the sea; and of course, you can body surf in the emerald green ocean waves. You can also take romantic strolls along vast empty beach(see third photo below), from one bay to the next, Tabatinga to Cocarinho, and watch the sunlight move across the cliffs, bringing out a palate of pastels - yellow, salmon, and rose. Yes, this is the picture postcard Conde Naste Traveler side of Tabatinga. Then there's the other side...

Like all the beaches I’ve visited so far in the Northeast, Tabatinga is a bit rustic by American standards. Only 30 KM south of Joao Pessoa, this beach has no boardwalk or Holiday Inn or Rusty Rudder bar where you can sip a daiquiri on the deck. On the contrary, once you reach the coastal area, the roads turn to dirt, and the place becomes fairly deserted. There are just a few signs of civilization, like some colosal eyesore posadas that cater to Europeans, and the roadside galeterias (bbq chicken stands) that sprout-up on weekends. Your best bet for accomodations is to find a friend with a beach house, and spare keys under the doormat. The last weekend I was there with my boyfriend, we bunked down at Enrique’s place, along with about 5 other pop-in guests. And as the evening of drunken double-entendre Portuguese word play wore on, and the beer supply ran low, I began to wonder where in this small sparsely furnished house all of us would sleep. Not unlike the Dewey Beach house dilemma, I suppose, but they solution here was a little unusual. Everyone came prepared with his own hammock, and we strung them all across the room from hooks in the wall, making a complex maze of human cocoons. How romantic...and how painful! I awoke the next morning at sunrise, scratching at an plethora of mosquito bites, shielding my ears from the symphony of snorers, and feeling like I had been through an all-night battle. I carefully unfolded my body out of its sling and found it taken the shape of a banana.

I learned three things that night in Tabatinga: 1.There’s an art to sleeping in a hammock, and I desperately needed to develop it if I was going to survive in Brazil; 2. Wherever I go along the NE coast, I will go armed to fight the muricocas (mosquitoes), including in my arsenal a mosquito net, Off with super-strength Deet, and extra beer to ensure a restful, if not drunken-night's sleep.

Ahh…as I am sitting here typing in today’s entry, I’m happy to report that a five-minute shower has just washed over the city. I sensed the hushing sound of rain pounding the street 10 floors below. So I rushed to the window to catch a few sacred drops on my face and take-in the fresh smell of wet pavement. I down and noticed a women dash across her patio to rescue laundry from the line. But by the time she got to it off, the rain stopped and the sun was shining bright again. Oh well, so much for a rainy day in Joao Pessoa.

Stay tuned for tomorrow’s entry about Cabadelo and Ilha Vermelha. Bon dia!

Copyright 2006 Anne Pellicciotto

Beach Week Continues - Praia Cabo Branco

Beach week continues with Praia Cabo Branco, right in the city of Joao Pessoa, about a 10-minute drive from my apartment. I love it for it’s convenience and it’s 8-KM stretch of calcada (walkway) right along the beach, perfect for strolling, running, cycling, and above-all, people-watching. This is where the soccer and volleyball teams gather to practice, and the locals come out for their evening exercise, and the vendors push their carts of wares – from sunglasses and earrings and cheese on a stick, to cashews, picolo, and coco gelado (cold coconuts).

This place has become my Rock Creek Park running route substitute, though different in a few ways. For one, they wear fewer clothes here – the men bounce along in their Speedos (sungas), and the women strut in their bikini tops. (Clearly there's more being peddled here than cold coconuts.) Also, the music blares from the baracas (beach bars) in an exciting cocophany of competing sounds - mellow bossa nova, screaming axe, festive forro - something for everyone's taste. But of course you can hear none of it, because it's all such a fejouada (bean stew) of sound. So sometimes I pine for the serenity of Rock Creek, where I can run under the protection of the diciduous trees, my body covered in a comfy t-shirt and sweats.



I usually hit the trail in evening, at the magic hour between 4 and 5 pm, when the temperatures begin to cool, the palm tree shadows stretch across the beach, and the light turns the sand pink - perfect for taking photographs. Checkout a few of my favorite shots of dusk on Cabo Branco…the one above is from a series I call ‘Homens de Laranja’ (Orangemen). I caught these footballers in their drill formations one evening after my run, and thought they looked like colorful toy soldiers. I’ve also added one of me posing for the camera.

Enjoy! And stay tuned for Praoa Tabatinga tomorrow.