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Cleone - CLEONE in Brazil - Part 2 Purnambuco



Recife: dirtiest Harbour and biggest Carnival in the World?
 
It was debatable; Mandy pushed hard for La Libertad in Ecuador.  But the rest of us agreed that Recife took the prize by a mile.  Rats scampered along the tottering wall to which our bows were moored, and the barely adequate buoys for our stern lines were by and large under brown, scummy water full of indescribable filth.  The voltage of the "shore power" varied between 180 and 220, and since it was supplied through a series of two-wire domestic fittings, it was surprising that no-one was electrocuted.  As it was, the skipper got a minor shock when plugging Cleone's cable in, and accessing the flaky Wifi in the clubhouse gave rise to some spectacular sparks.  The route into the marina led through the ugly high-rise blocks of one of Brazil's largest cities.  Just about adequately marked for day-light entry, the meandering entry channel was silted and many of the yachts stuck in the mud on the way in. 

But the Cabanga Yacht Club made us welcome, and it's two swimming pools, well-staffed bar and pleasant restaurant did much to make up for the awful state of the harbour and marina and the undrinkable water supply and poorly cleaned ablutions.  Sadly, it was carnival time, and our welcome did not stretch to keeping the bar and restaurant properly open during this most important festival and holiday.
 
Putting all this aside (with difficulty), Recife's 1.8 million residents did their best to prove that their's is indeed the biggest and noisiest carnival in the world.  The day after we arrived, our tour guide tried to describe what was in store as we made a liesurely coach journey down-town and on to the pretty World Heritage town of Olinda, just to the north of Recife.  Apart from visiting the main carnival sites, her task was to ensure that we visited as many tatty souvenier shops as possible.  However, most of us signed up to the expensive escorted visits to the Midnight Rooster day in Recife and the main carnival in Olinda a couple of days afterwards.  This gave us time to remind ourselves that outside its teeming cities, there are vast areas of empty  ut cultivated countryside, and hospitable, friendly people living quietly as they most probably have always done.  Our two days of driving down the coast and back  led us through vast acreages of sugar cane.  And practically anything else will grow easily here, too - we saw fields of exotic fruits and the occasional rice paddy-fields.  No doubt these fertile farms supported huge workforces in the past, but the descendants of the farm-owners, managers and slaves now crowd the tenament blocks of cities such as Salvador and Recife.  Here they manufacture cheaply goods formerly produced in UK and Europe, such as Clark's shoes, Scania engines and trucks and Volkswagen cars.  The less fortunate beg the streets or remove mobile phones, wallets, bags and credit cards from even suspecting tourists such as ourselves.
 
The Carnival was colourful, ear-splittingly noisy and chaotic.  On Midnight (a misnomer - the main parade was from 10am till 4pm) Rooster day, our guide brough along a friend and a burly but un-necessary Minder.  They shephearded us through the crowds to an unprepossessing shack in a narrow street.  Here we ate a breakfast of hamburgers (surprisingly tasty) and chips, and downed our first beer of the day - we were clearly going to need this to sustain us as well as to get us into the party mood.  Contrary to earlier promises, we could see nothing of the street outside.  Soon the place was full to bursting.  But we made increasingly hazardous forays outside to see the action.  And what action it was.  Huge articluated trucks inched their way through Recife's streets, and this time as promised they all passed down our street.  In the bowels of the semi trailers, generators poured out heat and electricity.  These powereed the mightiest of sound systems; a minimum of twelve woofers front and back meant that as these beasts approached and passed, the air bounced too and fro, and your chest resonated to the pounding bass of the band that sweated in the middle of the float.  The rest of their sound was similary amplified.  You could see the brass and sax players giving it their all, and the amplified wall of sound they made bounced off the houses, and was literally deafening.  The drummers drove the bands on, and kept the singers shouting and the house dancers kicking and swaying and smiling.  There was no protection from the blazing sun, and copious amounts of water, beer and goodness knows what else fuelled their efforts.  The streets by this time were lined with people, and each truck approached with an advance guard of impromptu dancers.  Bulry but dazed-looking minders then guarded the official supporting dancers with a rope looped betwen them.  This also helped to prevent intoxicated (just about all of them by half eleven) onlookers from falling under the wheels of the floats.  And after the float came another troup of supporters, dancing and singing and drinking along with the best of them.  But in the air-conditioned cabs of the Mercedes and Volvo tractors, the drivers with their earplugs were the picture of concentration and focus as they eased along the streets, stopping, starting and inching forward as necessary.
 
By four in the afternoon, most of us had had enough.  The floats had stopped coming by, and the crowds in the street were now even more inebriated and even more boisterous.  Having danced to the pounding beat of the live band in our shack (why did we need a band inside?  Coals to Newcastle if you ask me) for most of the day, our minder had sensibly disappeared, so it was left to our two tourist guides to shepherd us back to our coach.  Inevitably, our crocodile fragmented, but we eventually made it with only a couple of purses and telephones and cameras missing.  We all needed a quiet drink once we had made it back to the marina, but of course the bar was closed!
 
The Olinda Carnival was, by comparison, a quiet afair.  This time our guide had arranged (at a much more modest cost) for us to spend the day in a comfortable "pousada" (hotel cum restaurant) with a balcony overlooking a pretty street.  There were no amplified bands, and the "floats" were on foot not in trucks or articulated lorries.  Walking the streets to see the sights was easier, safer and pleasanter, and the smiling staff of the hotel
 
Meanwhile, all is well with us, and very best wishes to all of you.

James, Paul and Volker
Yacht Cleone

06o14'S 34o28'W



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