My Tech How-To

Rio is red-hot year-round, but during Carnaval the city downright sizzles. The streets are filled with throngs of revelers (some masked, many half-naked, and most drunk) joining in with the many bandas everywhere (traveling samba bands that gather dancers as they travel through the streets). Most people also look forward to the countless parades that pass through the streets, featuring women wearing feathered headdresses and little else.

Carnaval in Rio has nothing to do with pre-Lenten debauchery, even though the country adopted the festival from the devoutly Catholic Portuguese explorers who colonized the country. Here, Carnaval is a four-day-long dance contest (running this year from March 4th to the 7th) that pits all the escolas de samba (samba clubs) in Brazil against each other. Every escola in the country trains for months in preparation, and with good reason: Carnaval is literally a ninety-six hour dance party (the samba drums never stop). Ground zero for the samba fun is the Sambodramo, a street specially designed for Samba parades, complete with expensive (US$200) box seats from where people can watch all the action. Those who’d rather look with their hips rather than their eyes can head to the Terreirao do Samba (a fringe samba festival area where you can join in with the escolas de samba) or to the many clubs and beachfront parties that bump ‘n’ grind until dawn most nights of Carnaval.

In the late afternoon the storm intensified greatly, and sheet after sheet of rain poured down from the fogged-in sky, while wind-lashed waves broke tirelessly over the bow, sending spray over the front deck and drenching me, my pack, and my stalwart companion the chicken.

Shortly there was not an inch of me that was dry, though it was hard to tell whether the seawater or rain was doing the most damage. It became difficult to open my eyes because of the spray, and I was forced to time my few glances with the impact of the waves. But somehow, just as I was beginning to think that even the chicken might not live to see dry land again, I spotted the tiny bump of Big Corn Island. Within the hour we were easing into the shelter of its leeward side, where the mighty swells of the open ocean shrunk to mere ripples. Even the rain seemed to respect our triumph, and slackened off as we approached the dock. Rain-soaked and nauseous, I hoisted my ten-pounds-heavier-from-rainwater pack, bid my fowl friend a fond farewell, navigated through the sanitation nightmare that was the rest of the ship, and stepped off onto the damp, slick dock. Only eight hours at sea, but, land-lubber that I am, I was glad to feel solid earth under my feet.