Brazilians love to party. Carnaval may have officially ended at dawn on Ash Wednesday last week, but you can be sure that many Brazilians are only now snuffing out their candles, scorched at both ends.

Brazil has a fascinating history of debauchery. Halfway up Brazil’s coastline stands the African-Brazilian city of Salvador. The city’s Bay of All Saints, where Portuguese colonisers landed, is named after the holy day on which they arrived in 1549. Within a few years, however, it had been mischievously nicknamed ‘The Bay of All Sins’.

A classic Jorge Amado novel, Dona Flor and her Two Husbands, wittily portrays Salvador’s ribald  sensuality. It tells the story of a woman whose first husband, a notorious womaniser and gambler, dies suddenly; she then re-marries. This time, her husband is a noble and handsome doctor, but Dona Flor spends sleepless nights of erotic fantasy, dreaming of her deceased rogue.

Further south in the hedonistic seaside town of Porto Seguro, residents fondly remember the year they cavorted naked through their streets observing the Carnaval theme: Adam & Eve in the Garden of Eden.

One suspects its participants knew a little more about temptation than their first ancestors. Not that most Carnaval-goers wear more than skimpy thongs and eyeliner.

This enticing display of flesh carries its own risks, as former President Itamar Franco found in 1994 when he was filmed hugging a model who was naked, save for a body-hugging t-shirt. Less is definitely more in the vibrant, heaving throngs that fill Brazilian cities.
 
For most tourists who flood Copacabana beach every February, the city of Rio de Janeiro is synonymous with Carnaval.

This year’s Carnaval was reckoned to be the most expensive yet: the top-ranking Rio samba schools spent around US$ 1.3 million on their floats and performances, with the Beija Flor school winning the prize for the third year running.

The supermodel Naomi Campbell was even persuaded to get out of bed to participate in the city’s grand finale. 

Such expenditure may seem inappropriate in a developing country where gross inequality and poverty persist, but the tourism brings in much-needed revenue. Besides, Carnaval offers a fleeting escape from daily drudgery and despair.

From the moment the mayor of Rio gives the keys of the city to King Momo, the Carnaval’s jester and “Lord of Misrule”, on the Friday evening before Lent each year, the city erupts in a tumult of samba drumming, gaudy songs and revelry.

This year’s Momo, the 37-year old journalist Marcelo de Jesus Reis, made an odd request of his (male) subjects even by Carnaval standards: they should, he decreed, all wear condoms.

The government, generously backing the King’s edict, provided 11 million free condoms in recognition of the heady mix of gyrating bodies, alcohol and permissiveness that characterise the festivities.

Such action demonstrates Brazil’s commitment to the fight against AIDS, which has been a model for other developing countries. It also points to other, more serious aspects of the celebrations.

In the lead up to this year’s Carnaval, the media concentrated on a worrying facet of Brazilian life: underage sex.

President Lula da Silva signalled his commitment to tackling child prostitution in a speech during his first cabinet meeting after taking office in 2003.

According to UNICEF, Brazil has around 500,000 child prostitutes, second only in the world to Thailand.

This year, the UN agency plastered banners in airports and tourist hotspots warning travellers they risk a four to 10 year prison sentence for sex with anyone aged under 18.

In practice, however, it is hard to keep track of tens of thousands of tourists, particularly when the tourist industry relies on prostitution for extra profits.

Despite these solemn reminders of Brazil’s social difficulties, Carnaval remains a riotous occasion that is predominantly about having fun.

As the last revellers finally rest their weary, caipirinha-filled heads, we should admire a nation that, for a week or two, dedicates itself to joyous abandon. But when at last the hangover has cleared, pressing social issues will remain. 

Dominic Elliott is a journalist from the New Statesman magazine in the UK. In 2003, he lived in Brazil for 5 months. He has previously published a short piece on his experiences living and working in the favelas of Maceió city.

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