Return to the Avenida: Part 3

 

The countdown to Carnival is on, and the ensuing weeks are filled to the brim with daily training – whether it’s a popular Brazilian localizado class at the gym using heavy ankle weights to strengthen the bum bum, intensive Samba fitness sessions outdoors to get accustomed to the heat and humidity, or private technique classes with some of the industry’s best, I am literally living and breathing Samba all of my waking hours.

It’s not hard to do when you’re in the City of Samba, surrounded by vibrant music, dance and culture everywhere you go, and I find my love for Rio and my motivation to get back onto the avenue is starting to return.

Tonight is my first show as a Passista for Vila Isabel in the community where it all began.

Nowadays, Vila is one of Rio’s most prestigious Samba schools in the top division of Carnival, but its history and essence lie in the Morro do Macaco slum, where tonight’s show will take place.

To be honest, it’s been a long time since I have been in a favela (refer to my previous EBooks for the reasons why!) and I’m feeling a little nervous.

Recently, Morro do Macaco has had some issues with warring traficantes (drug dealers) from other nearby slums, resulting in gun fights that have poured into the surrounding areas and frightened the locals, who have enjoyed a relatively peaceful life since 2008  when most of Rio’s slums were pacified by the police.

In my 20s, going up into a favela was exciting and adventurous, but now in my 40s, my desire to enter this world is reluctant to say the least.

 

 

The school’s headquarters, where rehearsals and shows are held, are situated on the main street of the neighbourhood, but tonight the school wants to show respect to the community where it was created, and that means going up into the favela to bring the show to the people.

I have been assured by locals and my fellow passistas that it will be safe, calm and an incredible opportunity to immerse myself deeper into the school’s culture and history, so I put my reservations aside and set off up into the hills.

The first thing I notice as I enter the community is music blaring from big boom boxes on the side of the road and everyone sitting on plastic chairs on the curb, sharing a cold beer or caipirinha and chattering away about the fofoca (gossip) of the week. Men play cards, young children fly their kites and there’s a steady stream of delicious snacks being brought out by local aunties for everyone to share. There’s a buzz of excitement in the air as we, the passistas, make our way past everyone and up to the samba school.

As we arrive, we are shown to our ‘dressing room’ – a brick hut to the side of a small open-air stadium where we’ll be performing. As I enter, the intense heat of a 40-degree Rio summer hits me in the face, and I look around to see dirt floors, no ventilation (not a fan in sight) and only tiny windows allowing a little light in. With only one door to enter/exit and over 40 dancers squashed in, this is my idea of hell and I quickly find a small area as close to the door as possible to put down my things and get ready as quickly as I can.

 

 

Now don’t get me wrong – I am no diva and have had my fair share of uncomfortable places to get ready in for shows over the past 20 years – from toilets to staff rooms to backstages – but this is next level and it takes all of my strength of will not to quit this performance (for which I am not being paid) and run back to my lovely apartment in breezy Ipanema to spend the afternoon sipping cocktails on the beach.

What on earth am I doing here? I am 44 years old and do not need to put myself through situations like this anymore.

But I have committed to this position and to this school, and I do not like to let people down or go back on my word.

Once everyone is ready and assembled outside, our school director calls us in for a quick run through of what we’ll be doing. He speaks in rapid fire Portuguese, mentions a bunch of songs I have never heard of and choreographies I haven’t learnt (I thought we were just freestyling to the 2026 school song?!) and suddenly I hear the sound of the bateria and we are squeezing our way through the crowd and onto the stage to perform.

 

 

The first performance is a disaster.

I have no idea where to position myself, what moves to do to the choreographed sections of the song or what lyrics to sing. I scan the scene, try to mimic the Brazilian passistas’ moves and open/close my mouth pretending I know the words. I look up and straight into the eyes of an elderly woman from the community who is staring menacingly at me and pointing to her mouth saying “Canta!” (sing!), and once again I feel like just walking away and never coming back.

Luckily, the song is over as soon as it begins, and we head back into the crowd while the male passistas perform, but after a few minutes of reprieve we are back at it again, and continue this pattern for the next hour – heading on stage for 5 minutes to dance to a new song, then running back to the dressing room to change costumes, then back again for yet another song that I don’t know.

Talk about baptism by fire.

 

 

Just when I think I can’t possibly go on for another round in the intense heat and after over an hour of performing, the 2026 enredo (theme song) starts to play, and everyone inside the stadium begins to scream, jump up and down and shout out the lyrics at the top of their lungs. Many people are in tears and others are hugging each other and cheering.

Suddenly, fireworks go off and I get the fright of my life, thinking that a gun fight is erupting. I immediately duck, only to be grabbed by my fellow passistas and reassured that everything is ok. My heart is beating a million miles an hour and my fight/flight instincts have kicked in, but the crowd is so thick that there’s nowhere to go.

I have no choice but to breathe deeply, take in my surroundings and calm myself, and as I do, I start to sense the energy of a community coming together for the love of Samba. As the bateria continues to play, I feel the magic of the drum beats course through my body and I’m instantly covered in goosebumps. This is and has always been my WHY.

Samba is not just a dance performed at Carnival, but is lived and breathed daily here, offering hope, joy, connection and resistance. It has given all of these things and more to me over the past 23 years that I have been connected to this art form, and tonight is yet another reminder of why I’m still involved in this world.

As foreigners, it is an enormous privilege to be invited to represent any Samba school, but to be a part of this historic school, and this moment tonight, is something I’ll never forget.

I feel like a baby dancer starting all over again, surrounded by such incredibly raw and talented local dancers, but I accepted this challenge to grow, learn and absorb as much as I can so I can continue to represent Samba and Brazilian culture with passion and respect.

There’s no quitting now.