I arrived back at my hostel, after covering a huge amount of Buenos Aires on foot, to find the street in front closed to traffic. It is a major street, Avenida de Mayo, which runs from the Plaza de Mayo, where Presidential offices are located, as well as Evita’s famed balcony, to Plaza de Congressa where the country’s Washington DC-inspired capitol dome sits. There was a parade of classic cars in the street in front of the hostel, lots of Model-T Fords and the like. The action gravitated towards the Plaza de Mayo end, so I strolled that way, and was soon within ear shot of a large marching band, in full military garb, playing away in front of a stage which had been set up just outside the Plaza. Apparently it was Immigrant Day, as many Uruguayan flags being waved attested to. The marching band played for well over an hour. I slipped out to a side street to grab some ham and cheese empanadas (ubiquitous South American hot pockets) and a couple cans of Quilmes, Argentina’s national beer. When I got back, the marching band was just about wrapping up. Pleased with taking in such a cultural speciality, I turned towards the hostel.
Suddenly, a cacophony of drums erupted at the other end of the street, five or six blocks down. Like a hippie moth drawn to the drum circle flame, I flew towards the joyful noise. As I neared I could see giant flags being waved. College football-SEC-conference-cheerleader-waving sized flags, which the carriers of seemed to constantly struggle with, to keep up and waving proudly. There were also numerous scantily clad women in feathered head dresses – this must be the legendary Carnivale! Behind this display was the heart of the group — the drum core — probably 40 people, from teenagers to middle aged men, banging on conga and kettle drums, with an amassing crowd of samba dancing spectators gathering behind them, which I quickly joined. The melee slowly danced its way down the street towards the stage. About a third of the way down the street, security tried to swing shut a crowd barrier behind the group. They were thwarted by the fact that the sambaing mob had partially blended with the drummers, and there was no easy way to delineate them, so 50-60 revellers slipped in with the Carnivale group, and I probably don’t need to tell you, I was one of them. We were very pleased with ourselves, and exchanging glances built camaraderie among us. Thirty minutes later we arrived at the stage, exhausted and elated.
I headed back up the street towards the hostel, and where the Carnivale had begun, only to hear another distant drum core. I hustled back and found this to be a Dominican group (the first having been Brazilian). I celebrated with them briefly, but had to visit a port-o-potty, which despite their limited numbers, had little to no lines throughout the evening. When I emerged, relieved, the Dominicans had just passed me.
I could hear another crew starting up further back. So I decided to check them out, and they were the group of the night! They were smaller in number, but higher in energy, with assorted percussive instruments, other than drums; a characteristic uniquely theirs. The rhythm makers were shirtless, or sports bra’d, with skeleton -voodoo type body and face paint on. The conductor had a whistle, which kept the sound tight and the crowd pumped. There were three dancers of note in this group. Two incredibly striking women —rap video caliber women — clothed in a square foot of spandex between the two of them, made no secret of their Brazilian-genetically-gifted booties, and truly “rocked their bodies”. The third dancer was a rotund, flamboyant man, with shocking agility and rhythm, what I imagine Chris Farley would have been like at Carnivale. He was the only one permitted to dance close to the two Brazilian beauties.
At this point security was no longer attempting to shut the barrier and stop the crowd. Many familiar faces of comrades, from the first charge past the gate kept popping up and we would smile and nod at each other, knowing we were the most dedicated, hard core Carnivalers there. The whole scene devolved into a semi foam party, as the local entrepreneurs were selling cans of foam spray on every corner. When this group reached the stage I did the whole thing one more time, although no group could possibly surpass the one just previously described. I dragged myself back to the hostel around 1AM, and set my alarm for three and a half hours later. Why did I schedule my flight to Mendoza so early?
