Carnival in Pernambuco

The festivities before the beginning

Carnival in Pernambuco isn’t just a date on the calendar—it’s a fever that grips the soul.

It moves through the cities and towns like a slow-building storm, growing louder, more colorful, more chaotic by the day.

The air in Olinda was thick with anticipation.

Though the official start was still days away, the streets already pulsed with life.

I arrived in the middle of it all.

Pre-Carnival is a time of spontaneous parades and gatherings, with communities from near and far converging. Their vibrant costumes and rhythms turn every corner into a stage. Early warm-ups, guest groups, and local blocos all add to the rising energy.

Eager to immerse myself, I found my way to where some of the performers were assembling. Frevo dancers and other brincantes—literally, people who play Carnival—were dressing, stretching, loosening their limbs, adjusting their small umbrellas.

The preparations often offer better photo opportunities than the actual events—a raw glimpse into the heart of the celebration before the chaos fully takes hold.

Then suddenly, without warning, the parade sprang to life.

I followed, camera in hand, weaving through the labyrinth of streets. The energy was immediate, raw. Some avenues overflowed with revelers, while others still remained empty and waiting, the crowds yet to fill them.

I moved quickly, hoping to capture a rare, unscripted moment, something beyond the postcards you see everywhere.

The parade didn’t last long—a teaser of what was to come—and as twilight painted the sky, it wound down, leaving only the promise of something bigger.

That night, I left Olinda and journeyed to Nazaré da Mata, the cradle of Maracatu Rural—a fierce, drum-driven Afro-Brazilian performance that blends history, ritual, and rebellion. It was the reason I had come to Pernambuco.

Last year, I had only seen the preparations. This time, I wanted to witness it in full. But that night, there was no Maracatu—instead, a contest for King and Queen of Carnival in Nazaré da Mata, with Frevo dancing.

By morning, one neighborhood began to stir.

The day's events started at the home of a Maracatu mestre, one of the revered leaders of this tradition. Today’s parade would be dedicated to Barachinha, a figure at the heart of this celebration.

Men emerged, their faces painted jet black with exaggerated red lips, dressed in bright floral dresses, some carrying dolls or baskets.

This was the Catita—a satirical, exaggerated caricature of a poor black woman, a character that had been part of Maracatu Rural for over a century.

Historically, the Catita was a trickster—sly, mischievous, darting through the streets with a basket in hand, gathering food or coins for the Maracatu troupe. She was both a provider and a fool, her humor biting and absurd. In the chaos of Carnival, men had always played the role, using the disguise to lean into the absurdity, to throw off social constraints.

After an announcement from the organizers, the parade unfurled, a river of color and sound flowing through the town’s veins. Residents and performers danced side by side, the line between spectator and participant blurred beyond recognition.

The atmosphere was electric, charged with laughter, drumming, and irreverence. In Carnival, every figure has its role, and the Catita’s was to keep the revelers laughing, playing along, and feeding the energy.

I moved through the crowd, photographing. For me, the real magic of photographing Carnival is in the moments of life—not the staged performances, but the split-second gestures, the unguarded interactions.

In Nazaré da Mata, the celebration felt personal, unhurried—something lived rather than observed. These early encounters were a prelude—a way to train my eye, to sharpen my senses to the rhythm of Carnival. A warm-up for what was to come.

And what lay ahead would be far more thrilling.