Carnaval in Rio

The elephant in The Cultured Traveler’s living room

I’ve never been to Carnaval in Rio, so I’ll be damned if I’m even going to try to fake saying anything relevant about it.

The best I can do is say why I’d like to go, or what I’d do if I ever get there. Each person who goes to Rio has his own reasons for doing so, although Carnaval’s fleshpots probably would overwhelm even the most sincere resolutions to visit museums and sample nearby rain forests.

So, along with indulging my prurient sugarplum visions of buff, shimmying, sexy, gaudily semi-clad bodies, the prim anthropologist in me would love to have a look-see at a people who can combine Apollonian orderliness with Dionysian abandon and make it look like a walk in the park.

Consider: Almost the whole town (the comatose excepted) wobbles its way into a whooping, hollering four-day-long samba trance, shedding inhibitions, clothes and all sense of time. Yet even as Rio’s population is twitching rhythmically everywhere the urge strikes, members of the city’s famous escolas de samba (samba clubs) are frantically practicing like British beefeater cadets to perfect the routines they hope will win them honors at Rio’s great Sambódromo competition venue.

Who are these people who pursue their last splurge before Lent with a German efficiency that they seamlessly meld with Italian-like insouciance and African musicality? I’m certain I could take good notes despite the. . .uh. . .did you see that?!. . . distractions.

Another part of me wonders what daily life is like in a city that’s a dream to so many people worldwide. Rio has a downtown, with high-rise buildings and a rush hour, department stores and schools, as well as a heavily trafficked harbor. During the 361 other days of the year when Cariocas have to wear their normal business suits and thongs, what does the city feel like? Are the cabbies as hard-bitten as New York’s? Are the bus drivers surly mumblers like the ones in San Francisco?

There’d always be the possibility of winding up in jail during Carnaval. In a moment of exuberance or ignorance I could insult the wrong person or make some goofy auslander move that ticks off the locals and puts me in a cell. So, at the height of earth’s biggest party, how do they treat prisoners in Rio stir? Do they pipe in samba music? Do the guards look the other way if somebody passes around some unconfiscated moonshine? Can you get a conjugal visit even if you’re only in on a misdemeanor?

Finally, I wonder about Rio’s smell. Aside from salt air and tropical vegetation, the city must have other scents that belong to only it. Most travel stories touch only lightly on smell, since it’s the hardest of the senses to discuss. If you’ve never smelled vanilla, how the heck does somebody describe it to you?

— Patrick Totty