At the top of a steep cobblestone street that goes winding down into a lofty valley, people cautiously chose there foot holds as they made their way down into a thick fog. From across the valley on an adjacent hilltop, golden lights winked through the darkness of a moonless night, peeking through the rolling mist at the steady procession of chattering people. Other crowds of people sat slurping soup on shaky stools by terraced counter service restaurants or stood, speaking loudly with a kabob in one hand and a steaming cup of spiced wine in the opposite. Despite frigid temperatures, the atmosphere was undeniably jovial and the brisk wind carried with it the echo of music in the distance.
It was, after all, the night of Winterfest, a celebration in the heart of the southern hemisphere’s coldest season. Along with a roommate and a couple Brazilian friends, we made our way to the festival’s host in Parana Picacaba, Santo Andre, by way of utilizing the thorough mass transit system. For such an event, the festival was ideally located in the cool highlands away from the metropolis of Sao Paulo. The trip there took, roughly, a little over one hour to get to the summit entrance of the valley. Our group joined the crowds of people snaking down into the vale, past the food stands and little hole in the wall restaurants, till we came to a bridge.
The wooden bridge was about 100 meters long, two meters in width and built over numerous interlinking freight train rails. Whilst people shuffled slowly onto the outstretched overpass, heavy laden trains clamored out from the black mouth of an old warehouse to disappear into the fog of the valley. People huddled tightly together to make room for others passing by and after they passed, expanded back out to cover the bridge, only to coil together once again a few moments later. The bridge ended at a gently sloping ramp alongside an old unused building with sloped roofs and cracked windows. Shadows of people danced on its red brick walls as they passed under tall hanging lamps that were swaying in the cool breeze.
We moved as one with the crowd towards the increasingly louder music and began to incline up the other side of the valley, moving in and out of darkness caused by lofty trees and flickering street lights. Along the way we started to pass food carts and craft stands. At first there were but a few but, as we trekked up the increasingly steeper hill we moved by more and more till we eventually came to the main area of Winterfest.
Popular music loudly blared out from the entrances of buildings, people swarmed in front of food stands propped up on cobblestone sidewalks and jewelry reflected amber light from craft booths manned by savvy looking salesmen. For the fun of it, I approached the stands and sauntered by while feigning interest in the wares. I just wanted to see what was authentic and well designed and what was made to look authentic and well designed. I have no interest in trinkets but, shiny things and handcrafts can be enjoyable to glance at time to time. I made sure to keep my pace fast enough to not draw attention from the salesmen but, still give me ample enough time criticize their merchandise. Some of it looked nice.
We meandered through the crowd and continued up the hill till the popular music often heard on radios was replaced by the distinguishable sounds of live instruments. Up ahead was a large pavilion, its white tarp stretched over a muddy soccer field densely packed with clapping and cheering fans. On the stage, strumming on his acoustic guitar, was the musician Milton Nascimento. Think Brazilian Bob Marley. His dark skin was turning shades of bright colors as lights passed over him, his shoulder length hair was unmoving despite the sway of his feet and his scratchy sounding voice poured out from speakers placed all over the field. The guy knew how to work a crowd and his followers knew what was expected of them.
When he raised his hands above his head and clapped the crowd followed in rhythm. When he held his microphone above their heads they sang with him. And when he vanished behind the curtains backstage they loudly screamed, “Repetir! Repetir!” After a few minutes he reemerged grinning knowingly and gave the crowd a one song, 20 minute encore that they stanchly proved they knew all the words to. When he took his final bow the crowd went wild and as they dispersed through the field, kicking up mud and tripping over puddles, they continued to sing in unison his best known tunes.
We rejoined the masses and moved our way back into the main Winterfest celebration to grab some grub and soak in the sounds. I devoured down some savory kabobs and sipped a beer before we began to make our way back down the hill, over the bridge and up towards the buses that would bring us back home. When we made it to the peak of the cobblestone road, I turned back towards the flickering lights masked behind the swirling fog; it was hard not to admire the unsullied beauty of the highlands. It is a pity they only hold Winterfest once a year, I would have liked to bring my camera…
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