There is a basic scene: in the big avenue, on a rainy grey day in midwinter, a boy shoves his way through legs of grownups to watch the parade go by.
A kind of the Rio Carnival with parading soldiers, policemen, Bolivian diabladas, Corrientes masquerades, bodyguards, front men, frontier gendarmes.
Civilians dancing out of step.
A trio eletrico. A group of Sem Terra. Mariachis. The green and rose flags of Mangueira.
With lowered heads, two big groups of unemployed actors marching in silence.
Over the speakers the announcer declares: "Brothers, to receive you, the homeland wears its best..."
The music intermingles: tarantella, candombe, pasodoble, military fanfares.
As the day wears on people get drunk. There are disturbances and groups confront one another.
There are shots, dogs, runway horses.
The memory is of fear.
As always the celebration is dyed with bitterness.
Marcos López