Maracatu – Brazil’s Electrifying Tradition

The reason I came all the way to Pernambuco, Brazil

I finally saw what I came here for—perhaps a little mad to have traveled all this way.

At last, I stood in the streets of Olinda, witnessing Maracatu Rural in all its raw, electrifying glory. Almost all its glory—this was a showcase parade, not yet the full spectacle.

I had journeyed from Argentina, from Patagonia in the deep south. Covering at least 4,000 kilometers over a couple of months, I traced a long, winding route north to arrive in Pernambuco before Carnival.

Maracatu had seized my imagination from the moment I first encountered it. Last year, in a cultural center, I spoke with a kind, knowledgeable woman about my interest in traditions. An elderly photographer—a local legend—walked in. She turned to him.

"What would you recommend this young man photograph?"

("Young man"—flattering.)

Without hesitation, he said: "Maracatu."

"Where?"

"Nazaré da Mata."

"When? How?"

"Every Saturday, something is happening."

That was enough. I took notes, made contacts, and went.

When I arrived, it was only a rehearsal—no elaborate costumes, no full procession.

But still, the energy was enough to pull me in, to make me return.

Enough to make me drive thousands of kilometers back from the south. Enough to bring me from Argentina to Pernambuco again.

And now, finally, I was here.

This wasn’t the main event—another warm-up, another preview—but visually, it was captivating enough for me.

Brazilian events rarely start on time, so I arrived late, knowing the schedule would stretch.

Nothing had begun yet, but the performers were already dressing, preparing against a backdrop I wished I had caught earlier.

Still, opportunities were everywhere—eager faces, brilliant colors, layers of movement and light.

This was Maracatu Rural (Maracatu de Baque Solto)—a wild, fast, improvisational tradition born from the sugarcane plantations of Pernambuco’s Zona da Mata. Unlike Maracatu Nação (Baque Virado) in Recife and Olinda—with its royal court, slow processions, and deep bass drums—this was untamed, high-energy, unpredictable.

Many performers had traveled from Pernambuco's interior, from villages where foreigners are rare. They looked at me, intrigued—a foreigner running around, taking what must have seemed like an absurd number of photos.

The costumes were dazzling, the faces striking. Men, women, boys, and girls—all with incredible presence. Some had model-like features, the kind of faces that, in a different world, might have been on magazine covers.

The Parade Begins

This time, there weren’t many photographers. It felt like the event wasn’t well-publicized. Only two or three serious photographers were around.

The music started, and the first group surged forward. I ran with them, camera in hand, chasing angles, experimenting with the flash—freezing motion, capturing movement in blurs.

At the front was a figure I had read about but had never seen in person:

The Burrinha (or Burrinha de Ouro).

A man, riding a small wooden donkey costume, cracking a leather whip with staggering force. The Burrinha is a trickster figure, drawn from Brazilian folk traditions. He led the charge, clearing the path for the Maracatu group. With each sharp crack of the whip, he signaled the crowd to step aside.

Behind him was Catita (whom I had written about earlier)—a comical, flamboyant character in a bright floral dress, face painted black with exaggerated red lips. He moved through the crowd, laughing, teasing, hyping up the spectacle.

And then, the warriors arrived.

These were the figures that had first drawn me in when I saw photos of Maracatu.

The Caboclos de Lança. The spear-bearing warriors of Maracatu Rural.

​Their glittering capes gleamed under the streetlights; their movements were sharp, rhythmic, and deliberate.​

Each Caboclo de Lança wore an ornate, embroidered tunic, an enormous tasseled headdress, and a leather surrão (belted pouch) at his waist. These warriors weren’t just performers; they embodied resistance.

Each carried a wooden lança (spear) wrapped in ribbons. They spun, flipped, and twirled their spears, moving like fighters preparing for battle.

The drums hit fast and hard—a pulse you don’t just hear—you feel it in your chest, in your bones.

The African roots of the music were unmistakable. The energy was primal, hypnotic.

And then the visuals—swirling skirts, peacock-like reflections from the sequins, flashes of color under the streetlights. The cool night breeze carried the sound of beating drums, the rhythm of Maracatu weaving through the streets.

I started recognizing faces.

Other photographers—Hugo, a specialist in capturing Maracatu, whose presence reassured me that I was in the right place. A French photographer I had met the night before.

We ran through the streets, the parade snaking through familiar areas, though starting from a different point than the night before.

By now, I knew the layout. I knew where the best-lit streets were, where I could maneuver ahead of the crowd, where to position myself. These details matter. They are the difference between a made shot and a missed shot.

The Maracatu Nações, nations of Maracatu as they are called, ended their parade at the Prefeitura—the town hall.

I felt an overwhelming sense of satisfaction.

Not often do you plan something, envision it for months, and have it unfold as you hoped.

I had missed the Iemanjá celebration—the sea goddess festival—though I had planned for it.

That one got away.

But not this.

This, I caught.

And it felt like a validation of the long road I had taken to get here.

And the best part?

This was still just a preview of what’s to come.

More Maracatu. More to photograph.

This time, the night ended earlier. But I was farther from my place, too exhausted to walk up all those hills again.

I managed to get an Uber.

My head was still buzzing with the sound of drums.

My mind filled with the images I wasn’t able to capture.

But there was still time.

The days ahead will bring more of this incredible Carnival in Pernambuco.