Carnival of the Soul
The Linger Loco!
Chapter 20: Carnival of the Soul
There’s a load knock at the door. I sit up in bed and rub my
tired face. The knocking continues and I hear the hostel
owner screaming at us from the corridor.
‘Vamos, vamos!’ he cries.
Confused and annoyed by his erratic behaviour I climb
out of bed and stumble across the room, and just as I’m
about to reach for the handle the door flies open and the
crazed Italian guy charges past me.
‘Hey!’ I shout, surprised by his sudden entrance. ‘Get out
of my friggin room!’
His face fills with rage. ‘It is nine thirty!’ he screams, tapping
his watch furiously. ‘You must be out of this room by
nine o’clock!’
‘Well, there’s no need to come barging into our room like
that, amigo. I could have been changing my boxer shorts.’
‘It is fucking Carnival!’ the guy shrieks. ‘We need your
room, you must leave immediately. I have people waiting!’
Chris peers over his bed sheets and blinks a few times
before turning over and burying his head under a pillow.
The guy loses it and grabs his feet.
‘Hey, get off my brother!’ I shout.
‘I need the room!’ he screams, dragging Chris off the bed.
I go to Chris’s rescue and slap the guy’s baldhead a few
times until he loosens his grip. Suddenly, a couple with
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glasses and rucksacks on their shoulders poke their heads
around the door.
‘Is the room ready?’ the young guy politely asks.
‘NO!’
‘YES!’ the hotel owner cries with a bright red face.
The backpacker with the glasses looks stunned, and clumsily
knocks into his girlfriend. She grits her teeth, and sighs.
They edge out of the room and there’s an uncomfortable
silence.
Out of breath the hostel owner looks at us sternly. ‘You
have five minutes!’
Without waiting for a response, he marches out of the
room and slams the door behind him.
‘What a psycho,’ Chris laughs, throwing a pillow at the
door. ‘I mean, how uncool was that?’
‘Big time!’
Chris drops his smile. ‘Shit, what if he calls the police?’
‘I hope he does,’ I reply, sitting down on the bed. ‘We can
get him locked up in a mental asylum. Anyway, he won’t.’
‘He might.’
‘He won’t.’
‘Si, this place sucks. I’ve never felt so unwelcome in all
my life. Come on, let’s get the fuck out of here.’
We quickly pack our bags and creep out of the room,
squeezing past the dozens of smiley backpackers standing
inline at reception waiting to check in. The owner screams
at the friendly young Brazilian guy working behind the
counter and we use the chaos to slip out of the hostel and
avoid any further confrontation. Out in the sunny street
we hi-five the professional begger in the yellow baseball
cap, who since last night has become our friend and quickly
hail a taxi. We speed towards the bus station as crowds of
people fill the streets of the city. For an entire week the
whole of Brazil grounds to a halt to celebrate Carnival, a
tradition that has been in place for over a hundred years,
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as people dance and drink, kiss and rack up some sins
before lent in honour of King Momo, the king of Carnival.
Screeching to a halt outside the bus station, we purchase
the last two tickets on a night bus to the city of Recife, in
the Northeast of Brazil. On a small TV above our heads,
images flick on the screen of the Sambodromo parade at
the Rio Carnival. It looks incredible, with astonishing
numbers of people dressed in incredible costumes. Each
Samba school has a different theme, as they dance wildly
to a crowd of over 30,000 people. There are many drummers
per school, whose pounding rhythms lead the
parade. Grabbing a few supplies for the eleven hour bus
ride to Recife and Olinda, we eventually board the bus and
settle down to the last stage of our journey.
We rock into Recife bus station around 6am. It’s been light
for hours and Chris reminds me that we’re now at the most
easterly point of South America, where the sun rises first
over this incredible continent. We’re geographically closer
in distance to Africa than Buenos Aires, and less than
4,000 kilometres away across the Atlantic Ocean is Sierra
Leone, a country that ten years ago was ravaged by a brutal
civil war.
‘This is insane, we made it!’ Chris laughs. ‘How far is
Olinda from here?’
‘It’s about six kilometres north of Recife. We can catch a
bus!’
‘What shall we do with our stuff?’
‘Dump our bags in storage.’
‘Good idea.’
Running through the Terminal Integrado de Passageiros,
we board a bus marked ‘Rio Duce’. We pass through rough
suburbs that are definitely no-go areas for anyone with a
little common sense. The bus speeds through the outskirts
and I can see huge skyscrapers and glass buildings in the
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distance. Approximately 2.9 million people live in this
city compared with only 2.4 million in Salvador, and I’m
surprised how developed it is considering until recently I
didn’t even know it existed. We jump off the bus and follow
a group of excited girls with flashing devil horns on their
heads across a busy two-lane highway, and greet the locals
setting up stalls either side of the road. Passing beneath
banners confirming that we have indeed arrived at the
‘Olinda Carnival!’ we approach the beautiful historic town
that’s situated on top of a hill. I’m amazed by the colourful
old buildings and stunning churches in various states of
decay. According to Chris, Olinda is one of the best-preserved
colonial cities in Brazil and standing at the side of
the cobbled street for a second to catch our breath, we
observe our surroundings and make the decision to purchase
our first beer of the day. Sitting at the side of the
pavement beneath an incredible blue sky, we people
watch for a while as the happy revellers march by in the
street. Everyone is in costume or covered in luminous
paint, and I glance at Chris and then back at myself and
realise we look about as exciting as a couple of insurance
salesmen at a retirement plan convention.
‘Hey, we need a costume!’ I cry, leaping to my feet. ‘A
really fun costume, that’ll get the girls smiling.’
Chris frowns. ‘What kind of costume?’
‘One that’s cheap. How about we strip down to our boxer
shorts and cover ourselves in paint?’
‘Piss off! I only do that kind of shit behind closed doors.’
‘You’re such a killjoy.’
‘And you’re a freak.’
‘You’re not drunk, that’s what your problem is. Let’s wait
until we’re plastered and feeling less self-conscious.’
‘Si, listen to me, it’s not going to happen. I admire your
keenness, but I’m quite happy with sticking a florescent
Afro-wig on my head and dancing the samba until sunrise.’
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‘Good idea! I’ll buy a couple of Afro-wigs. They’ll be
cheap!’
Marching through the crowd, I spy an attractive girl
stood outside a costume shop. I smile and she invites me
inside. I look around the empty shelves and re-appear
moments later with two pink Afro-wigs and a pair of huge
flashing glasses.
Chris nearly spits out his beer when he sees me
approaching.
‘Pretty cool, hey?’ I laugh, striking a pose.
‘You look hilarious!’
‘Try yours on.’
Chris peeks inside the carrier bag and examines the pink
Afro. He hesitates for a second before slipping it on his
head.
‘Wow, you look so cool.’
Chris shifts uncomfortably and straightens his posture.
‘Do I?’
‘Yeah, I can’t believe how cool you look. The wig really
suits you. Put the flashing glasses on.’
‘Later!’ he snaps.
Following the crowds up a steep cobbled street, we hang
a right and find ourselves outside a beautiful old church.
A drum troop led by a stunning Brazilian girl with a magical
smile performs in the street outside, and we stand and
observe the life of the Carnival unfolding in front of our
very eyes. Groups of indigenous people stripped down to
grass skirts and wearing colourful head-dresses march by,
and a guy completely caked in mud rolls across the floor.
Girls in skimpy bikini tops and pink glasses giggle in the
sunshine and families with small children join in the fun.
We stumble across a plaza filled with Gigantes de Olinda,
giant papier mâché puppets of people dancing capoeira,
and others dressed in elaborate Carnival costumes. They
tower above our heads, some twenty-feet high and hang
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surreally out of windows. Following the hundreds of people
dancing frevo down a long narrow street, we quickly forget
about the Afro-wigs on our heads and the huge flashing
glasses. We leap to the side and stand in a doorway
beneath multi-coloured bunting, and watch more drum
troops in colourful costumes march by and brass bands
that play non-stop in the heat. Their instruments sparkle
in the bright sunshine and the men playing the drums are
covered in sweat. We continue to dance through the streets
before arriving at the large Praca do Carmo. Chris falls into
conversation with a friendly old guy stood at an outside
bar. He offers to buy us both a drink and we join him in
front of a coconut stand on a main junction with hundreds
of revellers in costume passing by. Drinking Red Label
with agua de coco (water of the coconut), the old guy
impresses us with his English. We discover he used to be
a regular at the English Club in São Paulo, and had since
retired and moved back to his hometown of Recife. He’s a
funny, randy old boy and he keeps us both amused with
his dry commentary of the activities of the people and, in
particular the girls, as they pass by. Two girls dressed in
1920′s costume with feathers in their hair and fake pearls
around their neck, approach us and demand a kiss. Happy
to oblige, I feel like a teenager when the shorter of the two
forces her tongue down my throat and transforms my
mouth into a washing machine. To the sound of the music
and trumpets, the girl suddenly grabs my hand and we
dance together in the street. I desperately try to find my
rhythm while the pink Afro-wig on my head bobs from
side-to-side.
In the late afternoon we find ourselves on top of the hill
and looking out over the blue ocean. Sitting on a wall
opposite a church, we get chatting to a group of travellers
from Israel and a couple of Colombian artisans. One of the
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guys has a bone through his ear, and seems pretty keen to
share his weed with us. Noa and Oran are both from Tel
Aviv. They worked illegally in Miami selling overpriced
magic nail buffers to gullible Americans, before heading to
South America to travel for a while. We learn they have
just completed their military service in the Israeli army,
two years for women and three years for men, and like
many of their fellow countrymen they had fled abroad to
experience freedom for a while. Noa tells me her parents
were originally from Syria and I’m mesmerized by her
Middle Eastern beauty. She’s dressed in a pair of white
Thai-fisherman’s trousers and has thick curly hair that
spills over her brown shoulders. Buying some kibes
(cracked wheat stuffed with spiced meat) and a few beers
to share with our new tribe, we’re slowly accepted into
their group as we exchange tales of our adventures across
South America and our ideas about the world. The more
stoned I become the more bohemian I begin to feel, and
seeing Chris stretched out on the wall with his new long
hair, I realise over the past few weeks on the road we have
been transformed into a couple of hippies. My worries of
commitment and fears for the future feel suddenly very far
away from high up here looking out over the Atlantic
Ocean. We will return home to England in a few days time,
travel the enormous distance by bus to Buenos Aires international
airport and jump aboard Lufthansa flight 513
bound for London Gatwick. No money, no job, no plans -
no commitment. A wry smile spreads across my face.
Excellent!
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* * *
As the sun disappears below the horizon and the day
becomes night – the mood of Olinda begins to change. The
coolness of night gives us new energy and the atmosphere
intensifies. We laugh and joke around with our new
friends. Guitar, the Colombian guy with the bone through
his ear, pours a handful of brown seeds into the palm of
my hand and pats me on the back. I see Noa pop a few of
the seeds into her mouth, so I decide to give it a try. Si eats
them too and we both look at each other and smile. They
taste like pine nuts and being the greedy bastard that I am,
I quickly work through the entire pile. Heading down the
main cobbled street, we look over the crowd of people
below as smoke spirals into the air. They move around and
jump up and down in time with the music, and a painting
of the Mona Lisa dances above their heads in a large wooden
frame. Following Oran down a steep narrow side street,
we travel further away from the crowds and I begin to hear
the sound of drumming in the distance. Guitar puts his
arm around my shoulders and laughs. Nothing could upset
my mood tonight, and I feel like I belong to a band of
merry hunters. As the drumming grows louder and louder
I begin to see shapes moving in the distance, and we eventually
arrive outside a tatty derelict building covered in
graffiti. A guy with his hair tied back in a ponytail runs
over and embraces Oran and they talk excitedly in
Hebrew. He kisses Noa and shakes our hands and welcomes
us inside. The club is quite small, and is lit with a
million flickering candles. Beanbags are scattered around
the edges and more colourful graffiti covers the walls -
there’s a strong smell of incense. Alternative looking people
move around in the soft candlelight and five guys with
their tops off group together and pound out a rhythm on
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their worn drums. The sound vibrates inside my chest and
Oran runs into the middle of the room and begins jumping
up and down. The club begins to fill with people drawn
off the street by the alluring music, and everyone crowds
around the drummers as they beat out a rhythm and work
the crowd into an uncontrollable frenzy. I’m not sure when
it happens, or why, but at some point I find myself pounding
my feet on the concrete floor. Everyone around me, including
Si, does the same and for a period of time we physically
and mentally lose ourselves in the drums. I catch snapshots
of reality during my trance, Noa jerking in flipbook
movements, Oran with his eyes closed lost in his mind
and Guitar sweating and beating out a rhythm on an old oil
drum. Noa leaps onto Si’s back and they spin around,
slowly at first and then faster and faster. Their hair intertwines
and they both fall over a chair and crash to the
ground in fits of laugher. A Rastafarian guy with long
dreadlocks appears beside me and passes me a joint. He
smiles exposing his black teeth in the flickering candlelight
and urges me to smoke. I take a puff and he shakes
his head and shouts something out in African. I pass the
joint back to him and before I’ve had time to thank him,
Noa grabs my hand. I’m surprised by her energy, but play
along and join hands with everyone standing in a large circle.
The Rastafarian jumps into the middle as everyone begins
to spin around. The colours of the walls gradually merge
into one, and I laugh at Si’s face as our world turns into a
surreal kaleidoscope of patterns. Faster and faster we go -
the momentum increasing with the speed of the drums.
With the joint in his mouth the guy in the middle dances
and shouts at the top of his voice, and I see flashing snapshots
of Noa with her head back and her eyes closed. The
circle falls apart and I crash over a low table full of beer
bottles. The music becomes louder and we all jump outside
and continue the Carnival on the humid cobbled
streets of Olinda. The drums and trumpets will be playing
for a long while yet – Carnival it seems has only just begun.
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