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Carnival helps to reconquer public spaces in Latin America
The pagan festival arrived in Latin America during European colonization. It ultimately merged with local and African traditions, giving rise to very diverse celebrations
Gisele Ribeiro and Karina Cruz are on a red float next to the São Paulo sambadrome — a 1,600-foot-wide avenue between two rows of concrete stands. It was designed by architect Oscar Niemeyer in the mid-1980s, to host samba school parades.
It’s Wednesday, February 7. There are just a few days left until the party officially begins. “We came straight from work to the last rehearsal,” the young women say tiredly. It’s eleven at night and they’ve been following the instructions of the coordinators from Acadêmicos de Tucuruvi for three hours. This is one of the 14 dance schools of the “Special Group” of São Paulo — the first division.
They wait patiently while a lift brings down those who are on the top of the float, two by two. It’s about 25 feet high. The 2,100 people who will parade this year from the school will have to sing and dance in coordination, with lots of energy. “It’s the first time I’m parading and I’m very excited, although I didn’t know it took so much effort to prepare,” sighs Bruna Badolato, who has come from the other side of the megalopolis for the final rehearsal. This year, the theme of the Tucuruvi Acadêmicos parade is Ifá, a religion of African origin. It’s the first time that the school is presenting an Afro-Brazilian theme. It’s becoming increasingly common in the parades in Rio de Janeiro and São Paulo.
“We asked for authorization from the [religious authorities] in Nigeria to do it respectfully,” explains Rodrigo del Duque, who supervises the performance. He’s vice-president and carnival director at Acadêmicos de Tucuruvi, the school in his district, located in the northern part of São Paulo. He’s been doing this since 1992, hence he’s well-acquainted with the famous Rio de Janeiro Carnival Parade, which he attends whenever he can.
“In Rio,” he affirms, “you experience more, they [champion this event] with more fervor. Of course, when it comes to technical quality, the São Paulo Carnival has nothing to envy. Many people also participate here, but being a huge and culturally diverse metropolis, the party is diluted,” he acknowledges. He believes that it should be extended more to the street: “In Rio, if you don’t go into the sambadrome, you’ll still have fun in the surrounding areas, because Carnival is something deeply rooted in the local culture.”
Rio de Janeiro was the capital of Brazil between 1763 and 1960. It was also one of the largest slave ports in the Americas. There, samba emerged and grew in popularity. It’s a musical style with African influences that immediately prevailed during the Carnival season, celebrated alongside music of European origin, such as polkas and waltzes. In Rio and São Paulo, some groups of people occupied the streets to celebrate Carnival and — at the beginning of the 20th century — these associations became the seeds of the samba schools that today parade their students between January and March.
“In Brazil, there are two parts of Carnival: the spectacle — in the sambadrome — and the participation, in the streets,” explains Guilherme Varella, a lawyer and cultural manager, in a phone call with EL PAÍS. He’s a professor at the Federal University of Bahia and has just published the book Direito a Folia (in English: The right to party), about the right to celebrate Carnival and the public policy regarding the festival in São Paulo.
“It tries to be an orderly, standardized city… there’s little room for spontaneity,” he says. But it wasn’t always like this. The first blocos (street troupes) in São Paulo date back to 1914, in the Barra Funda district. But in the mid-20th century, the street carnival became residual —until recently. “Starting in 2010 — with movements demanding the right to the city that emerged globally — culture was assimilated as an important element to vindicate the recreational use of the street. The city is a place for partying, joy, socializing, not just for working and sleeping,” he notes.
São Paulo is an example of this fight to take back public spaces during Carnival. “In 2013, there were about 40 blocos. Today, there are more than 600,” Varella points out. The São Paulo Carnival Parade is governed by rules that he believes can be improved. He takes issue with one that requires it to end at seven in the afternoon. “It would be necessary to study it by area. For example, at night, the downtown is deserted. Carnival could [give some energy to the area], improving coexistence and security,” he suggests.
The Carnival parades in São Paulo and Rio aren’t the only important ones in Latin America. For instance, there’s one in Barranquilla, Colombia, which floods the streets with music, partying and color. However, the Brazilian events are world-famous. Audiences in other Latin American countries follow the televised parades of the samba schools in Rio and São Paulo, emitting some of them. The Encarnación Carnival in Paraguay — where they built a big avenue in 2014 to host parades — is one event that has been inspired by Brazil. “Carnival has been celebrated here for 104 years, initially in the street, until the sambadrome was built,” explains Stella Ferreira, a Paraguayan doctor. She has lived in Encarnación for 25 years and has been following the local Carnival celebration since it began. She’s eagerly preparing for Saturday, when she’ll attend the last parade of 2024. “It’s the best Carnival [event] in the country,” she concludes. In Paraguay, there are few festive celebrations in public spaces, compared to some neighboring countries, such as Brazil or Argentina.
Natalia Tambutti was born in Buenos Aires 33 years ago. She’s a personal trainer and dancer. After work, she spends her Thursday afternoon preparing costumes to parade in the streets during Carnival, in the province of San Luis, Argentina. She and her companions dance candombe, a drum rhythm that emerged in the 18th century in the Río de la Plata region, as a means of expression for enslaved people who had been forcefully transported to the Americas from Africa. It’s also very popular in Uruguay and is recognized on UNESCO’s Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity list.
“What [goes along well with] candombe is parading in public spaces, in popular spaces. I think that type of street demonstration — like during Carnival — should have more support from [state] institutions. Everything that’s [related to] culture, preserving rituals and promoting tourism in Argentina is good,” she opines, over a video call with EL PAÍS. She explains that there are several types of Carnival events in the country. The one from Gualeguaychú stands out: “it’s close to Buenos Aires and looks like Rio’s,” she notes. Tambutti also mentions those in the north of the country, in the provinces of Salta and Jujuy, where Pachamama(Mother Earth), the Sun and the rain that fertilizes the seeds in the arid soil are honored. “It’s a significant tradition; it’s a completely different Carnival than what you see in Brazil, Buenos Aires or Uruguay,” she concludes.
Latin American diversity
The celebration of Carnival in Latin America is very diverse. In the Andean region, there are several popular expressions, some of which are internationally recognized, including the celebration in Oruro, Bolivia, declared to be intangible cultural heritage by UNESCO.
Otty Grima Breña Fernández is a Peruvian architect. She’s participated in some Carnival celebrations in her country, such as the one in Ayacucho, in southern Peru. In the case of Ayacucho, there are parades, but the crowds stay on the sidelines and observe the performers. This year, she’s been invited to spend her first Carnival in the city of Jauja, a few hours by car from the capital of Lima. “It’s more participatory: the men cut down a eucalyptus tree and it’s planted on the main day of Carnival in squares, parks, or vacant lots in the neighborhoods. There are orchestras and people are dressed in very beautiful clothes, all made in the area. [Some of the] residents dance around a tree and cut it down with an axe. Whoever knocks it down becomes the godfather the following year and people come to collect gifts from them,” she explains.
In Mexico, people are accustomed to large festivities that occupy public spaces and fill them with colors, such as Day of the Dead. The Carnival parade on the street is an established norm. “There are popular festivals that have been going on for many years. Normally, there’s a religious celebration, followed by a pagan one, where allegories and mockeries are made, even of the Spanish colonizers, as occurs in [the southern state of] Oaxaca,” explains Leonardo Escobar Heredia, an urban planner from Mexico City. “In the capital’s Carnival, very varied troupes participate. Everyone is dressed in costumes and masks made by artisans. In general, popular groups [perform satirical skits, mocking] powerful groups, such as politicians or landowners,” he highlights.
Carnival is a pagan festival in which people express themselves, have fun and criticize power in a playful way. When celebrated in the street, it transforms urban landscapes and can be a tool to reflect on our relationship with public spaces, mobility, green areas, tourism or security, which are urgent issues in many Latin American cities.
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