Carnival: The Party to End All Parties

  As I checked out of 021 hostel at 8:30am on Wednesday, I was momentarily frozen in a parallel universe. I was digging my pockets for some cash to pay for my bar tab, constructed by empty cans of local beer, and pulled out an assortment of items. The first thing I pulled out was a pirate's eye patch. The next was a strip of street-given unused sex protection covered with colourful warnings of AIDS. The third was a small tube of golden glitter. As I handed over a sparkly few notes to the hostel receptionist, a third-person realisation slapped me in the face. I'd just risen from the depths of the world famous Carnival in Rio de Janeiro, and it was un-bloody-believable.

Representing my country of birth...
Brazil.

  The Carnival dream started in a snoozy Portuguese class last year. Our teacher was showing us more 'culture' and I wanted to commit a self-crime. That was until an array of videos popped up and we were greeted to a montage of a colourful, vibrant party. Our teacher, a Brazilian, was visibly animated by the images of his homeland and his excitement transferred straight over to me. I was immensely impressed by the footage, and an instant need to transport myself into the physical experience of the party overcame me. It felt like a drug. When I got home that day I started looking online for jobs in Brazil, I got lucky to be hired by a translation firm in São Paulo and the rest is... to be told in the rest of this blog (you lucky devils).

  So there I was on Wednesday, on a 6 hour bus from the financial capital of Brazil to the party capital. Everything went smoothly and there was a nice buzz in the air. Even the 2 hour traffic jam didn't bring me down (no thanks to Football Manager after I was sacked by Eastleigh FC, the b******s) and, on arrival, the terminal was a buzzing honeypot of wide eyed tourists and experienced natives who were on a Serengeti-like migration from normal life to Carnival. I hopped in an Uber and ended up spending 40 minutes directing the driver who couldn't read the map on my phone (his died). Somehow he thought Google Maps was as useful as a scribble on a page, but you know what? I still gave him 5 stars. CARNIVAL.


  I met Jessie, my friend from university, at the hostel and we had a chilled night of catching-up before the true carnage commenced. We spent the next day with a German guy called Dominic, and ventured to the Diagon Alley of Carnival gear in the centre of the city. It was a narrow street chock-a-block full with crappy little shops that were useless for 360 days of the year but contained true gold-dust (literally) when this time of year came around. There were hundreds of people crammed into these tiny shops buying everything from flags to fancy dress to penis shaped straws and a mountain of glitter. I picked up some Brazil-themed stuff and a few pirate things in a bit of a 'useless gringo guy shopping-style'. But who cared, I was ready.

  As a party hostel, 021 was a buzzing hive of travellers up for a really good time. We had a huge group of Germans, English, Brazilians, Welsh, Dutch and more nationalities and identities. The beer fridge was never left shut for more than a minute and the first night was really getting going. My mate Charlie turned up to add to the Uni of Nottingham contingent, and we all headed into the middle of Rio de Janeiro to start partying. We had guys in kilts, red Indians and people who looked like Brazil had thrown up on them (me). 50,000 fellow people joined us on the streets that night.

Booze in the hammock -
A true love story...

  The issue with this blog post is that no-one really remembers the details of the Carnival nights. They contain a mixture of flashbacks of big crowds of people, colour, music, dancing, alcohol. The beers and the caipirinhas are masterful at wiping clean those extra details. One thing I do remember is the walk between two street-parties as we heard a racket of gunfire on the street we were walking on. Luckily we were far enough away and it was 'suggested' that it was an attempt to break into a house. Even so, it was a little warning that that the sleeping beast of Rio de Janeiro's criminals could burst out of the bridge full of partygoers at any time.

  The first night was accompanied by the first hangover. The second night by the second hangover. The third night by the third hangover. The fourth night by the fourth hangover. The fifth night by the fifth hangover (and a 6 hour bus to São Paulo). Every night got better and later and crazier which led to the worse, more draining, nauseous hangover. The true loves of my Carnival were the hammock area in the hostel and the Rio de Janeiro burger scene. A beautiful combination topped off with some nice football debate with some of the other guys in the hostel. By 3pm everyday I was ready to tie on my Brazil flag and SaltBae the s**t out of everyone with green and gold glitter with a beer in hand.

  It wouldn't have been a true Carnival experience without a visit to the Sambadrome. For anyone that doesn't know this is like the Olympic Games of Samba. Every school uses thousands of people to create a 50 minute parade down the holy turf of the Sambadrome. Each school has a theme and produces majestic, huge, fantastical floats that look like something out of a Lewis Carroll novel. If I was a pundit of samba dancing I would be somewhere between Garth Crooks and Michael Owen; I had no idea what was going on. But you'd be dull as a lamppost not to be impressed by the spectacle of the parade. As a whole, it lasts from 10pm till 7am every night and there was no way I was lasting that so we left at about 2am. It was no football, but it was one of the most aesthetically pleasing things I've ever seen, and gave me some banging Instagram content to match. Shame levels? Zero.

  I don't remember full nights but I remember individual moments. I remember ordering a shot of vodka and getting a whole cup of the stuff. I remember being taught how the samba in the middle of party central Lapa by a local. I remember watching some old blokes on a float performing music to a screaming, adoring crowd of all ages and beauties below. I remember parties by Ipanema and Copacabana beaches where the people partied in front of the crystal blue ocean and the white sands. Long discussions about life with new people from new places which created those bromances that last 5 minutes. Seeing every street and every metro station dominated by happy people chanting, dancing and drinking at every hour of the day. If England won the World Cup the celebrations would do well to graze the surface of this.

No love story lasts forever.

  What makes any experience like this is the people you're with, and I was lucky to be surrounded by a great group of people who were all up for it. Old university mates mixed with new international friends and a couple from Wales* who are two of the best people I've met on my travels so far. Even the people who worked at the hostel were up for a laugh and genuinely nice people. Having been to many hostels where workers have thrown around a mythical sense of entitlement from up their own arses, it was refreshing and made the whole of Carnival at their place a more enjoyable place to have a few beers (and to die on death's door the morning after).

Chicken heads that featured in the
Carnival Parade (kind of a big deal)

  The last day of the festivities was spent in a dream. We went to meet my language school friends on a rooftop apartment, that had a pool and a front-row view for Christ the Redeemer (haven't mentioned the big JC in a while). After some BBQ and beers, we headed to a street-party in a flat amphitheatre that lay under the grand attention-seeking statue himself, and the sun set on the madness. We then went to meet our Welsh friends and had a last supper which consisted of all-you-can-eat pizza for £7. Arguably the best part of the Carnival? The Nutella pizza with ice-cream probably tipped it.

  What now? Well, lovely people, I have returned to São Paulo and yesterday started my new internship at Global Translations.BR. Imagine going to a festival on a 5 day bender, moving to a new place in a massive city and then starting a job the next day. That's my life right now, but I've been excited to begin this opportunity. After Carnival it's safe to say that I don't need a party for a while and anyway you need to earn fun otherwise it gets boring (he says through gritted teeth). So after a week of dressing up like a tit, drinking like a tit and falling out of hammocks like a tit, it's time to be adult and I have a statement to signal the start of this period:

I f*****g hate glitter.

Cheers for reading.

*Check out my friend Zoe's own travel blog HERE (Sam I have nothing to promote for you soz mate)