Sounds from the street

Delon Jessop

I was first introduced to the Carnival by my mother when I was ten. Not one to miss an opportunity to educate her children about their cultural exploits, she would rally my sister and I each Spring Bank holiday and we’d head for Luton Carnival. We’d tentatively grip her hands as she would lead us through the pulsating crowds, often pulling us down short-cuts she’d used in years gone by. She’d retell her own Carnival experiences from growing up, point out whenever she spotted a Vincentian flag, and take any opportunity to break into spontaneous dance if she heard one of her favourite songs. Along the way, we’d be joined by our extended family, each individual buoyant with the energy that the occasion gave. 

I have vivid memories of the colourful procession passing by. Some costumes would be laced with sparkling sequins, with colourful feathers made to look like extensions of the performer’s body. Others would be designed to scare, with instruments like the Steel Drum cleverly disguised to make the performer look fierce and other worldly. I recall feeling frightened at times due to the sheer scale and sound of the oncoming procession. However, I was fascinated by the liberty that carnival permitted. Limbs seemed more expansive, hair bigger and sounds sharper. The procession would shuffle forward at a measured rate, then appear to stop momentarily, as if forgetting itself, then serge forward in a collective exhale. This was the culture my parents knew and spoke of often, and it was now mine to enjoy too.

Two decades on, I find myself in Salvador, the capital of Brazil’s northeastern state of Bahia. As well as being the original capital of Brazil, it boasts beautiful beaches, stunning colonial architecture and its very own Carnival. Admittedly, when I initially thought of Carnival, my mind went to Rio De Janeiro, arguably the more well-documented of the two. However, with a bit of research and some well-informed recommendations, I decide to head North before travelling to Rio to experience what is said to be the real Brazil.

It’s the first day of Carnival and the streets of Bahia are electric. From the pavements lined with local vendors selling caipirinhas, to the restaurants that have transformed into makeshift sound systems, everyone has made the pivot to ensure the next six days are a celebration not to be forgotten. Despite my lack of Portuguese, I can still make out the same playful exchanges between punters and smiling volunteers, parents guiding their children through bulging crowds, just as my mother did, and the overall jubilant spirit that I first experienced all those years ago at Luton Carnival.

As I’m willingly swept along in the procession, it dawns on me that I can’t recall a time when there wasn’t music playing. The sound of Axé, the genre that originated in the late eighties in Bahia, can be heard from the moment I wake up. The sound is a blend of Reggae, Calypso and Marcha, with the word deriving from the Yoruba phrase ‘Àse’, meaning ‘good times’. The further I dance along the four kilometre procession route, the more apparent it becomes that this is more than just a good time. This is an expression of a way of life, a nod to the rich history of Bahia; one that doesn’t negate its colonial past but chooses to lift up the more vibrant aspects of it, all whilst welcoming those from far and wide to revel in its moment. 

The cobbled roads that the procession takes are narrow with high, colourful colonial buildings acting as a vibrant backdrop. The narrow roads create an intimate feel between the performers and the crowd, prompting strangers to link arms or lean against each other to ensure the path of the procession goes along uninterrupted. Each wave of the procession has a single conductor, shuffling a few feet in front of their assigned group. They aggressively gesticulate to the performers whilst looking over their shoulder so as to maintain an equal gap between their group and the previous one. It’s hard not to be impressed by the command that one individual can have over such a large group of performers and further exemplifies the hard work that has clearly been put into curating such a spectacle. 

 With a clear view of the oncoming performers and a stall selling caipirinhas within arms reach, my friends and I decide to make this our spot for the afternoon. I watch what seems like an endless stream of performers pass by. Each group manages to distinguish itself with apparent ease. Where one group is throwing their drum in the air in a routine befitting a circus act, another is squatting and pivoting, giving the skin of their drum their undivided attention. Some groups are made up exclusively of young boys, all sporting short, faded, bleach-blonde hair, a style made famous by the Brazilian footballing icon, Neymar Jr. 

The last float of the day is that of the Baianas (women of Bahia). The women can be seen in small groups dotted around the square of the old town, taking pictures with visitors. Ordinarily, they’d be dressed in traditional white lace trousers, large floating dresses and matching head wraps for good measure. However, with it being Carnival, they’ve swapped the traditional white cloth for a shimmering silver fabric, rainbow beads and flowers entwined with their head wrap. The sheer joy that can be seen on the faces of the Baianas is infectious, charming and has set the tone for what looks to be a special week ahead.

After a few days in Bahia, I catch a flight to Rio De Janeiro. With the Carnival already a few days in, I’m anxious not to waste any time. I check into my apartment, throw on a fresh shirt and head straight out. Unlike the procession in Bahia, the floats tend not to follow one another in a clear sequence. Instead, one float will take a specific route and visitors are encouraged to follow that float until it finishes up in a pre-organised, final  location. Here, the float will park up and the party will orbit it, all the while, drawing in people from the local area. Each ‘Bloco’ (street party) has its own theme, identity and sound. The first one I approach appears to be commemorating a community leader from the nearby Rua Gomez Carneiro area. Everyone on the float has a red t-shirt with her face on the front. They wave their flags and blow their whistles with a passion which, in turn, is met by the ever growing crowd around the float.

 My friends and I trail this Bloco for a few hours and end up on the long, coastal strip of Ipanema beach. As I look around the beach, I’m struck by the various nationalities that have all journeyed to experience the world’s biggest party. Unlike Bahia, the Rio Carnival feels more consumer-focused, accommodating the visitor more than the local.

That evening, I head for the Sambódrone, a purpose built stadium that hosts a four night long competition for the city’s hottest Samba schools. Each school parades down what is effectively a seven hundred metre long catwalk, whilst being judged on their floats and performances. The schools are permitted seventy five minutes to showcase the best of the year’s work, meaning there’s little room for error.

Part of the challenge of the Sambódrone is not to miss the intricacies of each float, a task that feels doomed from the start. My eyes are drawn towards a pair of dancers atop an elevated platform, only to look back a second later and realise that platform is being supported by another group of dancers below them. It is simply impossible for the eye to take in every bit of detail that has been so carefully constructed for the judges’ consideration. All that is left to do is to sit back and hope that I can take in as much as possible.

 As I marvel at what I can only describe as a giant multicoloured tortoise, a red flag is thrust into my hand by the gentleman next to me and I’m encouraged to wave it. In that moment the whole stadium is awash with fluttering red flags. The floodlights change to a cool blue tone which bounces perfectly off the fluttering flags. As if by magic, the float that is occupying the strip turns the same shade of red as our flags. This moment evokes a cheer so loud that it’s hard to hear my friends beside me. We look at each other in awe, each person checking one another, elated that we shared such a special moment. This moment is emblematic of my whole Carnival experience; snatched moments of collective unity, scored by irresistible drum beats and fuelled by an unquenchable desire to move, and to be moved.