Why Rio is dangerous

On Saturday I raced off to Banga and got to play in the first Carnaval parade of the season. Well, not a parade exactly, sort of a stationary parade, in Lapa. We did the same thing last year - it's turning into an annual event - 5 of the best blocos playing one after another, from afternoon till deep into the night, in Lapa, ranging from new-style blocos (Banga) to distinct musical styles (Rio Maracatu) to the classic old marchinha blocos. They called it the 3rd Marchinha Congress, and they even had cleaned up and decorated the alley around the Fundicao. Everything was spotless! They were calling the street the "Marchodromo".

There were even 20 portapotties (!) and a lovely new bar set up just for the event, with tables to sit down at, even.

It occurred to me that this lovely little Marchodromo, and the assemblage of great blocos, and the huge crowd that turned up... this is how Carnaval first got started. A local parade in the street. Of all your favorite local groups.

And I played in Banga. It was all so colorful, this year. The sun was shining, the sky brilliant blue, all the colored streamers flying. The Fundicao was gleaming blue and green, the white Arches towering over head. All the street poles had been decorated with colored streamers. Every Banga player, 75 strong, was dressed in brilliant primary colors with huge silly hats on. It all looked so impossibly festive and bright-hearted, and everybody was so happy. The crowd was thousands strong. Olivia was beside me (also on third surdo, this year!) The music was perfect; strong and rowdy and beautiful. Perfect.

I was so lucky that Banga had a parade today; that they wanted me to play; that Banga was playing first, before my plane left Rio later tonight; that there was an extra third-surdo for me. My whole Rio trip opened and closed with Banga.

Afterwards I just had time to dash to a fabulously ritzy bar to have some fantastic sparkling wine and tiny, elegant shrimp skewers with Chris and Helene and some delightful friends of theirs. I was still wearing my tiara from the Banga show. I adjusted my tiara and posed for them, and there was a little pause and Chris said, "Every time you come to Brazil, you become more beautiful."

People tell you that Rio is dangerous. It IS dangerous. You can get hurt, get stuff stolen, end up bloodied and broken. It happens all the time. It happened on this trip, again. I came to Rio perfectly fine, and left with:

Both knees scraped raw and bloody from surfing
A huge torn-open bloody blister on the same finger from third-surdo at Banga
Another blister from playing repique at Sao Clemente
A bruise on my lower lip from where a choro musician bit me
Both feet terribly sore from dancing all night at Sao Clemente in my new strappy gold sandals
A set of rusty scars on my new skirt from the rusty drums at Sao Clemente
A really bad cold that I probably picked up from kissing one of those random Brazilians
A truly bizarre sunburn stripe across my back and on the sides of both arms, from surfing
A sunburned left foot from where it was sticking out from under the beach umbrella
A serious case of sleep deprivation from 14 nights in a row up till 4am
A really nasty credit card bill (but worth every penny)
My heart stolen, my heart broken, from having to leave.

Rio is definitely dangerous.

I played in Banga, I hugged Olivia and Dudu and Chris goodbye, I jumped on the plane. My fifth trip to Brazil. A dizzyingly short time later I landed in Portland, Oregon. I waited all day for the sun to rise today, but it never did; the sky is the dark grey of early dawn, and it stayed that way all day, but dawn never came. Now white snowflakes are whirling down. But the glow of Rio is with me still and I have a wide smile on my face. I am certain I will wake up out of this dream and open my eyes to see the Rio sky above my beach umbrella. This life in Portland is the dream life, and the Rio life is what is real.