Ah! A-Ha! So de Jacarepagua!
Saturday, April 7th, 2007It’s the weekend before carnival. I am standing among thousands of Cariocas jam-packed into this no-name street in a no-name neighborhood. It is pouring rain. I am wearing nothing but a black negligee. I am having the time of my life.
“Oh man. I forgot to tell you. Tomorrow we have to dress up like women.” This is the news from Felipe the night before as we’re sitting enjoying the best black beans in Rio (”crack beans” he calls them, because they’re so addictive) after heading back from a street party in Ipanema.
I was a little bit surprised at that night’s party. It was in the most touristy neighborhood during (almost) the most touristy time of the year. Yet, while there were certainly some tourists (Cariocas are even better than New Yorkers at playing spot the tourist), the vast majority were Brazilians. The music was great, the atmosphere fantastic. My only complaint was the complete lack of bathrooms. The default men’s room turned out to be palm trees on the beach, but I have no idea where the default women’s room might have been - or even if there was one.
As fun as the Ipanema party was, it was just a warm up. The next day we woke up, and Felipe presented me with a piece of black lingerie that I somehow managed to make fit me. After donning a red bra and dress himself, and picking up a few friends, we were off.
Our destination was Felipe’s friend Pedro’s house in Jacarepagua (”alligator harbour” in Portuguese) - a middle-class neighborhood next to the “Cidade de Deus” or City of God. It’s well off the tourist path in the Western Zone of Rio. In true Carioca fashion, we showed up about 2 hours late. Pedro was none too happy at our lateness, but quickly changed into his outfit (as an old woman, complete with cane) and we hit the street.
Now, there is “drag”, and there is “guys wearing dresses.” This was definitely “guys wearing dresses.” No one was bothering to look good or anything. And, if anything, the guys were acting even more boyish and rambunctious than usual. A group of 6 guys dresses as Playboy Bunnies assaulted us with various gestures and chants as soon as we got out of the car, then pointed at my outfit, said something in Portuguese, and completely cracked up. I heard one of my companions say “no, no, Americano” to the guys as we passed.
“Now hey.” I thought. “Don’t be like that. I’m here, I’m cool, I’m going with the flow. Don’t tell them to take it easy on me just because I’m a Gringo.” When I brought the subject up later though, I found out he had a reason. The guys had been calling me “Tony Ramos” - a Brazilian actor somewhat famous for being extremely hairy. For those of you who don’t know me, while I’m not really on Tony Ramos’ level, I’m certainly much hairier than you average Brazilian. My friend had simply been letting the guys know, as an American, I wasn’t going to get the joke. He also informed me that upon learning I was American, they had simply started calling me “Tony Ramos Americano,” and cracking up. The whole thing was a blast. The energy was unbelievable. And I was about to find out how Brazilians really party.
It starts to rain. Everybody cheers. The light, tropical rain turns into a driving thunderstorm. Nobody leaves. We hear thunder, and huge winds threaten to blow down electrical wires. Everybody starts climbing on the roofs of the houses. Then, in unison, still wearing dresses, everybody starts to chant “A! A-Ha! So de Jacarepagua!” If you’re Portuguese isn’t up to snuff, that basically translates as “A! A-Ha! I’m from Jacarepagua!” I didn’t feel out of place chanting along - my friend Felipe said that he was pretty sure I was the only Gringo in attendance, and that was enough of an honorary membership for me for the afternoon. After all, I was standing on the street in the torrent in women’s underwear right along with everyone else.
By this time, the rain had completely soaked through my negligee. Now, I did have something else on. True to Brazilian form, I had slipped on a pair of Speedos underneath. The problem was that they were Felipe’s Speedos. Felipe’s got a good 30-40 pounds on me. I took off the negligee, and ended up in my pair of three-sizes-too-big Speedos, drenched, in the middle of Brazil. Who’d have thunk.
We finally made it home, where hot showers (and dry men’s clothes) were extremely welcome. I’d managed to make it without flashing half of Rio, but just barely. Of course, Rio is pretty much the only city in the world where I wouldn’t really even feel uncomfortable wearing nothing but a pair of falling-down Speedos just walking down the street. Got to love that town.