Sun, sea & samba

WEST of Ireland, deep in the north Atlantic, there is said to be a phantom island named Brasil. Try as I may to traverse the wicked seas and mists to this rock, the idea remains mythical.

So further across the Atlantic seas I stretch, until I hit the real deal, a place not so tiny or ghostly, but one absolutely as enchanted and enchanting.

Brazil, unlike its shadow sister, is one of the largest land masses in the world, containing most of the world’s rainforest in the form of the Amazon. It has 214 million inhabitants, who represent a culture known for its dance, spirit, food and, occasionally, its sports stars.

Seven million of those inhabitants are cariocas, the term fondly attributed to and proudly worn by Rio dwellers. Sheer hype shatters through every person, every group I lay eyes on, with a charge befitting of a World Cup or an Olympics.

I land just as Carnival 2024 is kicking off, sweaty and thrilled, and moreover combusting at the sights, smells and sounds from the instant I reach Copacabana.

With some of the most wild and exclusive invitations under my belt, and outfits and an appetite to match, I check into the beachfront Hilton and marvel at the golden stretch of sand from Leme to Ipanema with awe. Dotted on the sand are prismatic brollies shading bronzing bodies of all shapes and sizes.

Body positivity and an active approach means cariocas can as likely be found running 5km half-naked down the promenade at dawn or dancing deep in a block party in a thong as they will be slurping caipirinhas and wolfing fried snacks on the sand. People here love to live, I think.

After the long flight, I’m weirdly invigorated by Rio’s pulse.

Following coffee and eggs (shout out to Ramon) in the hotel’s Clarice Restaurant — named after the spellbinding Brazilian writer Clarice Lispector, who resided in the Leme area and who has a bronze statue on the beach in her honour — and a lap in the small but perfectly formed rooftop pool, I set out on a tourist’s day, binoculars and all.

Must-do highlights for any first-time Rio visitor include a 700m hike up to Christ The Redeemer for a holy moment in the clouds. The vertiginous needn’t worry, there is a tram and a bar, and His Holiness’s sheer size is mesmerising.

Standing at 30m tall, with an arm span of 28m, I shiver under his gaze as shadow and clouds waft and blue skies break through his body in a casually dramatic fashion. Helicopters patter around, but standing beneath Him after the pilgrimage up felt more holy.

After black coffee at the opulent and cavernous art nouveau stalwart Confeitaria Colombo, fit for any pastry or caffeine lover, I explore the parakeets and toucans, stingless bees and towering palm trees at the botanical gardens.

Lunch next door at Casa Camolese is decidedly glamorous, all rattan, fans, cushions, salads, grilled fish and on-site craft beer overlooking the old racecourse.

Afterwards, I take the cable car up to Sugar Loaf mountain for sundowners at orange dusk, but should more heights not be your jam, head to the Fairmont Hotel for boujie poolside cocktails and views of the coastline, or check out some of the unfussy ‘pe sujos’ (dirty feet) bars, with cheap, ice-cold beers, potent caipirinhas, pao do queso, pastel salty snacks and characters who will likely befriend you.

For shade, there’s the CRAB art museum with its Mangueira exhibit and wide array of national handicrafts in a stunning old building. Dazzled by their pink and green flag, songs and history, my excitement builds for a night at the Sambadrome.

Life here isn’t all fun and games. With a dark history of colonialism, slave trade and political unrest, particularly in the favelas, Brazil and Rio has had to carefully navigate its reparation journey, and this is where samba and Carnival feel so much a part of the people.

While there is room for revelry and hair-down hedonism, Carnival is political.

While it began as early as the 1500s, it wasn’t until the early 1900s that samba musically entered the mix, courtesy of those arriving from Africa and Europe blending different styles.

The samba schools were established to distract from police oppression. In their millions, Brazilians would — and still do — make peaceful protest with bodies, song and costume.

The neighbourhoods of Saude, Gamboa and Santo Criso make up ‘Little Africa’, so-called by samba legend Heitor dos Prazeres as it was the portside place where many arrived enslaved by Brazil. Its beating heart is Pedra do Sal, a former quilombo village and modern-day plaza hotspot for samba parties on its massive, sloping steps.

The next day, the alarm

sounds at 5am. Ever more curious about how Carnival will unfold and feel, and before I get to see the parade floats from the top schools strut their stuff, we get to road-test our stamina. It’s baby’s first bloco.

The sheer velocity and volume of crowds drawn to the hundreds of blocos — block parties — that infiltrate each and every neighbourhood during the holiday is gargantuan. Those from Rio, proud cariocas, are seemingly unphased by the drama of waking for 7am street dancing, complete with performers, trucks, vendors and the all-important samba drums, tunes and titanic sound systems.

Temperatures are soaring, and not just because I caved and bought a green and yellow Brazilian-flag bikini on the beach and have been baring my wintry-pale cheeks to the poor, unsuspecting masses. We’re stuck in traffic and no matter the time of day during Carnival, the bloco always wins. You have to walk before you can dance, right?

Seventeen hours later... I didn’t know I was such a festive person.

Clacking across the marbled lobby of the hotel, it’s very late and something spicy is afoot. Not yet succumbing to the 35C night heat of the beach air out front, ladies and gentlemen and everything in between are fluffing their gowns and brushing their tuxedos.

It is Saturday night and carriages await for the Copacabana Palace Ball, the height of glamour, the jewel of all invites during Carnival season across Rio, probably even Brazil. Politicians and supermodels alike show up to this delectably colourful event each February: expect feverish outfits and make-up of splendour, as well as frantic bulb-flashing at celebrities anyone and everyone in Brazil is clamouring to snap.

Towers of oysters are washed down with bottomless Chandon. My eyes pop at the decor dreamt up by Gustavo Barchilon and Daniel Cruz — the extravagant themed costumes, a live Van Gogh in a frame here, matching Andy Warhols there.

Bland tuxedos fade into insignificance against whitethonged tuxes with matching thigh-high boots. Nipple tassels complete some outfits. Augmented chests, lips and behinds pop and stun. I try not to gawp as I totter about, giddy and titillated in the asymmetrical feathered magenta jester leotard I never thought I’d wear outside my own apartment.

My feet take me to the back ballroom where, led by Pedro Ernesto, the 1918-founded block Cordão da Bola Preta band are sounding their signature marchinha beat with brass. I have no choice but to move until 4am, when I am dragged off the dancefloor.

Incredibly, that’s not even the big night. The following evening, beneath a starry sky and under the watchful eye of a large favela that had a prime view of the runway, I watch hundreds of thousands of cariocas and honorary cariocas celebrating with tears and laughter as four major schools parade down the avenue of the amphitheatre.

Governor Leonel Brizola commissioned the Sambadrome to reflect socialismo moreno, or multicultural socialism, and this collective for-the-people embodiment is felt that night.

My clan for the evening is the Camarote RioExxperience, one of a number of areas where, decked out in matching tees, fans congregate after paying a decentlypriced flat fee to access a ground spot down near the parade. All drinks, food and even a beauty salon are included. We rub shoulders with plenty of locals who just want to dance and worship their favourite schools — and even legendary Brazilian samba singer Alcione.

When I dance in the crowds at the blocos, ball and the Sambadrome, I’m filled with the overwhelming emotional ecstasy and empathy that infects the people.

I barely sleep when I get home, humming the songs about cashew nuts of water goddesses and waking again full of a lust for life.

When you’re rising at the crack, for the craic, you’re gonna need some fuelling beyond the token caipirinha cocktails and Brahma beers. Luckily, you can order tasty salty treats with pretty much any drink, pretty much anywhere, whether it’s a bar, bodega store or supermarket, outside of cafe hours.

There’s so much on offer, from traditional and easyto-find pastel de queijo (cheese pasties) and rib croquettes and juicy shrimp, to indulgent rodizio — at Fogo de Chao, all cuts of meat from chicken hearts to picanha steak are BBQ’d and cut off the skewer to your choosing at the table.

Brazilian dining is reflective of the rich agricultural and coastal abundance surrounding Rio.

The lushness of the lands provides high-quality dairy and meat so you might dine with less of a guilty conscience than in Europe.

Things quieten down one night towards the end of our week in Rio. We buck the curve of constant deep-fried things eaten on the go or al fresco. Scoring a table at Meso do Lado comes with a douse of mystery — its promised magic is a theatrical dinner in a dark room behind the kitchen of famed restaurant Chez Claude.

Surrounded by a projected cosmos, which truly reminds me of the stars above the Sambadrome, moreish Brazilian wines are poured, and a series of sensual and thoughtful dishes exploring land, mountain, river and sea appear — scallops and palm heart, slipper lobster, mashed manioc and deathly good chocolate mille feuille with Cupuacu jam.

Certain figures and poetry beam all around us on the walls in this tiny dining room, while we are plunged into near darkness.

Across a piece of paper in front of me reads: ‘what I really want is to dance on a fine line that separates my taste from yours’.